Page 56 of Little Miss Fortune

As I aimlessly walk from one end of the borough into the next, I stop off by the markets, free-to-enter galleries, bakeries, and coffee shops.

Does Toby know what happened?

Think about baby foxes. Baby foxes around the parks and green parakeets. How did green parakeets end up in London?

I have also realised how hard I am trying to not think about Toby, how harshly I interrupt my thoughts about him and substitute them with anything else.

Will he try to reach out?

Charger. I need to find a charger to make sure my phone works to contact Leon later. Is there a cafe around here?

The lights are taking forever to turn green. There is no traffic, but I don’t go, freezing at the memory of a freckled face next to mine.

Toby almost kissed me at work.

Think about that girl from the coffee shop. I hope she broke up with that man.

I come to the pub closest to Leon’s work about three hours before his finishing time. It is full of middle-aged men. There are two women in the corner that take puffs of their vapes and blow out bubble gum– and watermelon-scented air. I get myself an Asahi. The Japanese beer really is everywhere now.

Why was Toby in Japan?

Think about the prices of a pint in central London.

‘Sorry, miss, we seem to have run out. It will take me a minute or so to fix it.’

Of course the beer tap would run out on me. ‘Take your time. I’m in no rush,’ I say with a polite smile, but this minor inconvenience becomes the final nail in the coffin.

A thought slashes through, the one that has lain dormant for months.

I could reach out to John.

His last text asked me to come over at two in the morning three months ago, which was a week after I’d done exactly that.

God, I am pathetic. I am genuinely considering this.

John would want to take my mind off things, but he’d also apologise and try to get back together, and I’d only be on board with the first one.

There is something so disgusting in searching for arousal from your own degradation. And yet I cannot stop thinking about it. It would let me kill, what, two hours, depending how in shape he is?

Dirty slut.

Great. Mood killer.

I look around. The composition of the room would make for a great setting for a show or a film about a disgraced lawyer. There is a copy of the Articles of Union on the wall—maybe the 1st of May is the day this story begins, or maybe it is a hint about when it will end.

Or maybe I am thinking about it the wrong way. The main wall has William Morris wallpaper, but the reflection in the mirror from different angles shows the modern high rises. I could play with visuals. Father of textiles and socialism vs. conglomerates and capitalism. Maybe a bit derivative and tired, but such an easy thing to set up here.

‘Would you like another pint, love?’ the pub worker asks me politely.

‘Um, I think, I am all right for now, thank you,’ I say and swig the rest of my beer.

His face changes after he hears my voice. ‘Where are you from?’

The man means so well. I know he does, it is not his fault that an innocent comment brings out years of insecurity. Of course I know that I am different. But for some reason, my accent and face are the wrapper of a sweet that is always brought up to highlight that I don’t belong. Why would I want to belong fully if there is only half of me that is welcome, but the other half makes the whole different?

‘Japan,’ I say.

‘Oh really? Good beer.’ He laughs and points at my glass.