Page 43 of Little Miss Fortune

‘I was published in a local newspaper once.’

‘Yeah?’ A dimple pops in on his cheek, and a curious eyebrow springs up.

‘Wrote about Tateyama. The mountain you were on. It was believed to be an entrance to hell back in the day. Also, women were banned from climbing it for the longest time. I don’t remember what I wrote, exactly, but something along the lines of maybe if someone wants to experience hell, they should give climbing this mountain a shot first.’ I made this awkward. Change the subject, Fuko. ‘By the way, why were you on that mountain?’

There is a moment of complete silence when neither of us breathes; the annoying flicker of the emergency light is the only thing making a sound. I wait for Toby to say something, anything. He looks around as if he is trying to find answers in the rapidly depleting air of this lift shaft.

‘I—’ His mouth opens at the same time as the lights come back on. The number 1 glides to G and reconnects us with the outside world.

‘Saved by the bell.’ I stand up and lead us out. ‘Keep your secrets. I will learn of them one day. But maybe as you said, fate is stopping it for now.’

The sky is turning clouds a beautiful shade of pink, the one that promises the safe passage of memories into the night. It reflects in the glass walls of the modern high-rise offices, offsetting my belief that we are still on Earth. Maybe a different planet or a different world, but surely not mid-July in London.

‘It’s so pretty,’ I whisper to myself.

I expect a chuckle or a quiet laugh through the nose, but Toby says nothing. He isn’t looking at the sky or the buildings or breathing fresh air that wasn’t promised a minute ago. He is staring at me, three steps behind. Silent.

There is softness in his shoulders—a collapsed sandcastle. His face is a stark contrast, nonplussed and tense. The look in his eyes tells me he wants to say something.

An ache grows in my chest. His knee bends slightly as if to walk towards me. His fingers open up as if to reach out.

‘Enjoy the opera.’ I smile and wave.

It’s quiet behind me; he doesn’t follow. Good, I think, fighting this weird and foreign urge to curl up on the street.

No one in the priority seating is letting a woman with a ‘Baby on Board’ badge sit, so I let her take mine. And then silently weep over her. She looks up, concerned, and offers me the seat back.

I lie and say, ‘Allergies.’

She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. I thought fainting at the interview was embarrassing. Fighting tears on the packed, boiling Tube all the way south on the Northern Line, over a boy—that is truly embarrassing.

The walk home from the Tube is usually fifteen minutes. I stop by a corner shop and get a tub of ice cream. Women in films always do it, why can’t I?

I look at the chocolate-and-caramel frozen treat. Fuko, get a grip. How many times can I remind you that he is your supervisor (even if just in name) and dating your friend? Best friend. Who has been through so much and deserves someone as funny and smart as Toby. You don’t need this right now. Just concentrate on your job. I put it back and leave the shop.

The postwar red-brick terraces on our street have turned the lights on for the evening. As I walk past another one, I notice that the fronts of the houses look a bit like frowny faces that follow me with their window eyes as I approach my house.

I unlock the door. Dad is already home, mugicha in hand. Eastenders is on.

‘Okaeri. Dinner is ready, working girl.’

‘Tadaima. Is Hanako home?’

‘Out with friends.’

That’s so upsetting. How does she have a life and I don’t? Maybe she is sneaking off with a boy and I am too unobservant.

After dinner and about half an hour of mindless scrolling in my room, a message pops up.

Sashka: Are you home?

I debate answering. She probably wants to announce how wonderful and magical and lovely—

Sashka: I am outside.

Oh. Um. Okay. Shit.

‘Dad, Sashka is here,’ I shout, running down the stairs.