Staring out of the grubby window from the top deck of the 425 bus as I travelled home from the city of Becton to my house in Marbury, I watched the stopped cars below. It wasn’t even a Friday night and the traffic was already backed up for miles. I’d made this journey every weekday for the last six years, usually with my foster mum Irene, but at Christmas she’d retired and was enjoying every second of it.
As the traffic lights ahead changed to green, the cars below began to crawl forward again. Roadworks had reduced this busy route to a single lane last summer and every day I used it, I willed the road workers to hurry up.
Once the bus had filtered through the lights it began to pick up speed. Then the sound of the bell rang out and to my dismay the bus slowed down once more. I sighed. A gust of crisp January air blasted up the stairway as the doors opened and I pulled the lapels on my coat up around my neck to keep warm. At this time of year the bus was always chilly.
I watched the hordes of commuters spill out on to the street below and stride away from the bus, clutching their bags tightly and dipping their chins towards the ground, trying to avoid the cold sting of the air on their faces. I pulled back my coat sleeve and glanced at my watch. It was fast approaching 6 p.m. The light of the moon was already seeping through the dark blanket of sky, and I knew I’d be lucky to be home by 7 p.m. at this rate.
I rested my head against the windowpane. The bus carried on jolting slowly up the road and finally turned on to the dual carriageway to join an even longer line of traffic. I stared at the Victorian houses lined up on either side of the road. Some of them were in complete darkness, but others were lit up. I watched strangers wandering from room to room, televisions flickering, children already dressed in pyjamas and families huddled together eating their dinner. I clutched my bag on my lap and closed my eyes for two more stops; once the bus reached the petrol station after the dilapidated pub, I knew I was nearly home.
It had been two weeks now that I’d been travelling to work at the city library without Irene. She’d been my foster carer since I was fifteen. Before then I’d been passed from pillar to post, family to family. I’d moved around the country more than a travelling circus, it seemed. I’d long since lost count of the number of schools I’d attended, and I’d never stayed in one place long enough to have any stability or make any real friends. I’d never settled at any of the allocated foster homes and never felt like I belonged until I moved in with Irene.
I smiled to myself as I thought about her. Everyone loved Irene. Her manner was always gentle and patient, something I’d never experienced with previous foster carers. She’d welcomed me into her house with open arms, and it would always be a place I considered home. Just before my arrival seven years ago, Irene’s husband Neville had died unexpectedly of a coronary at the age of fifty-four. Irene often told me I’d arrived in her life just at the right time; she’d needed me as much as I’d needed her.
I’d come a long way since the age of fifteen. Now, at twenty-two, I owned my own home in Marbury and stood on my own two feet financially, and that was all down to Irene, who had guided me with love and respect.
Irene had discovered my secret after a year of living with me. I was illiterate. Over the years it had become easier and easier for me to hide it. I’d never stayed in one school long enough to be assessed or for anyone to care. Over time, and in my own way, I’d adapted and learnt to cope. Irene had secured me a Saturday job working alongside her in the local library when I was sixteen, and it was there that she’d discovered the truth. She’d taken me under her wing and, after that, she’d spent most Saturdays tutoring me. Within a couple of years I’d learnt to read, and five years later – thanks to all our hard work and dedication, and my commitment to the library – the Chartered Institute of Library and Information Professionals rewarded me for my in-job experience and offered me certification, and I was promoted to city librarian.
I owed such a debt of gratitude to Irene. She guided me to become an independent woman, and I can’t even begin to describe how I felt the day she told me that she thought of me as her own daughter. I certainly loved her like she was my own mother.
Ten minutes later I finally arrived home. My footsteps echoed as I ran up the stone steps towards the red front door of my two-bedroom terraced house. I was freezing cold and could barely feel the ends of my fingers as I rummaged in my bag for the keys.
I closed the front door behind me and switched on the hall light. I was relieved to hear the pipes clanging, and the house felt warm. The boiler had been playing up of late, and I prayed it wouldn’t break altogether because that was a cost I could do without.
I kicked off my shoes and sank my feet into my slippers – comfort at last. As I hung my coat up in the cloakroom, I heard my phone beep from the inside pocket – a message from my friend Clara, saying she had some hot gossip for me. Clara was the same age as me and lived round the corner with her parents. She’d moved back home recently after breaking up with her long-term boyfriend Nick.
Since moving into my own home, I’d enjoyed the independence, but I was never really lonely as my house was within a stone’s throw of Irene’s. I had the best of both worlds – peace and quiet when I needed it, and yet I was always welcome to nip over for a chat and a home-cooked meal with Irene whenever I wanted.
I stirred milk into my coffee, then cupped my hands around the hot mug as I settled down on the settee. I smiled at the old Victorian fireplace in front of me. With its original floral embellishments, it was what I loved the most about this room. Even on the darkest days, it still looked so pretty. The rest of the décor was dated too, but less pleasant. The walls were covered with woodchip wallpaper and the patterned carpets didn’t do you any favours if you had a hangover. The kitchen was tiny and the bathroom was at the top of a very steep set of stairs alongside two bedrooms. The bathroom was in need of a major revamp – the taps dripped constantly, the shower had a mind of its own and the tiles were clinging on for dear life. But it was all mine, and I loved everything about it.
My fingers began to tingle as I sipped my hot drink, a sign that they were coming back to life, and I began typing a message back to Clara. Before I could finish, the doorbell rang, and I sat my coffee on the table as I moved towards the door.
When I opened it, Clara erupted into the hallway. I’d met her at work six months ago. She’d just completed her degree in librarianship and had secured a job alongside Irene and me.
When she’d first started working at the library, I’d invited her along to a book club, which for the past two years I’d attended every Thursday evening with Irene. The club is run by Mim, an avid reader who owns a beautiful café approximately fifteen minutes from my house. Mim, with her long blond hair and infectious smile, oozes warmth and made us feel welcome from the moment Irene and I ambled into her café over two years ago. The café is all things vintage with its china teacups, delicious home-made cakes and hot chocolate to die for. The ambience is perfect, with scented tea lights that flicker inside glass jam jars and floral bunting hanging from the ceiling.
I can still remember Clara’s first time at the book club. When we’d arrived at the café, Mim had welcomed us warmly. The front of the counter had been open, revealing an array of beautiful cakes on numerous glass-domed cake stands, and a group of women already sat huddled together at a pine table stacked with books, chatting happily amongst themselves.
I’d ordered us all coffees and we’d settled down in the plush velvet bucket chairs in front of the window, browsing through some of the books that had been set out for us. It was my idea of heaven, a book club – a place to share thoughts on books and authors with a group of people who also loved everything bookish.
Mim had brought our drinks across and introduced Clara to the group.
The whole evening had been enjoyable, and then Mim had asked the question, ‘Who is your all-time favourite author?’
‘Sam Stone,’ Clara and I had said at exactly the same time, and then both shrieked with laughter.
It was at that very moment we’d cemented our friendship, and I knew Clara and I were going to be friends for a long time.
And here she was now, standing in my hallway and grinning like a Cheshire cat.
‘Shut that door – it’s freezing out there!’ she said, shivering as she edged her way into the warmth.
‘Where’s your coat?’
‘I’ve only come from round the corner,’ she said, walking into the living room.
My eyes followed her. ‘Wow, and wearing a dress that looks like it’s come straight off the catwalk. Just the thing for nipping round the corner to your friend’s house in January!’
Clara beamed, posing proudly with one hand on her hip. ‘I love this dress – I can’t stop wearing it.’
I rolled my eyes and smiled at her. She did of course look beautiful, with her size-eight figure, legs like a giraffe and toned arms. Her blond bob bounced just above her shoulders and her big blue eyes were enhanced perfectly by her bronzer and nude lipgloss.
‘You should try sprucing up your wardrobe, Evie,’ she said. ‘Maybe then you’ll start attracting some interest from the opposite sex.’ She rummaged around in her bag, then touched up her lipgloss and pouted.
I ignored her suggestion. I didn’t want to encourage any such interest, except maybe from Noah Jones, who’d disappeared from my life the same afternoon he’d appeared. But he was my secret.
‘And anyway, you said if I wanted to get over Nick, I needed to stop moping around in my trackies and smarten myself up.’
‘I didn’t mean for you to wear next to nothing. You’ll catch your death in this weather. And what’s with the glasses? Since when have you worn glasses?’ I attempted to change the subject.
Clara glanced down at her watch. ‘For approximately twelve hours! I read in a magazine that men find women who wear glasses more attractive and, working in a library, I think it makes me look more intelligent and very bookish.’
I shot her my best withering look. But Clara was very much her own person and didn’t give a rat’s tail what anyone thought of her.
‘Anyway, what was it you wanted to tell me? Come on, spit it out!’
‘So you haven’t heard the latest then?’ Clara was about to burst.
‘Heard what?’
‘Rumour has it that Nick has split up with his new woman. That didn’t last long, did it?’
‘Hmmm, and you’re bothered because?’ I raised my eyebrows at Clara.
‘It’s all over Facebook. His relationship status has already been changed back to single.’
‘Well, it must be true then,’ I replied sarcastically.
Clara pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’m completely bonkers and I need to get over my obsession.’
‘You read my mind.’
Clara sighed. ‘I need to get over him, don’t I?’
‘You do! Honestly, I know he’s been a massive part of your life, but look at you! You are beautiful, young and sometimes intelligent – without the glasses – when you haven’t lost the plot,’ I joked.
Seeing such raw desperation for a bloke made me grateful I didn’t have that kind of complication in my life.
‘And thanks to him, I’m homeless.’
‘You’re not exactly homeless – you’re living back with your parents.’ Clara did like to exaggerate.
‘Same thing in my book,’ she answered gloomily.
‘But at least you aren’t living with the two-timing bastard. I know it’s difficult, but if you keep stalking him, and trying to find out what he’s up to every minute of the day, you’re never going to move on. It’ll drive you crazy. I promise, he’ll soon pale into insignificance if you stop torturing yourself, and then you’ll start to feel better about yourself too.’
‘You’re right.’
‘It’s just common sense,’ I replied diplomatically.
‘I know, I know. I wouldn’t have him back now anyway.’
‘So stop looking at what he’s doing! What about the guy from the garage? I thought he’d asked you out?’
‘Dave the rave? Have you seen the car he drives?’
I laughed. ‘It’s not all about the car – and at least he has a car. And what about what Nick drives? You could hear it coughing and spluttering a mile down the road with that dodgy exhaust. I feared for your life every time you went out in it.’
Clara laughed. ‘Me too.’
‘Well, I suppose what the bright blue Cortina lacked in working parts, it made up for with the cream leather seats, dangly dice and what the hell was that air freshener? Very stylish to say the least.’
Clara raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Vintage would be the kindest way to describe that ancient piece of junk.’
We both laughed.
‘Are there any other possible contenders?’
Clara screwed up her face.
‘What about Tyrone? The guy who comments on all your Facebook posts the minute you post?’
Clara shook her head frantically. ‘Dork city and, anyway, he’s ancient. His profile picture must have been through every filter possible. He’s over fifty, looks shifty and sleazes after every young woman out there. He’s not even a twenty-tequila type of guy.’
‘If you drank twenty tequilas you’d probably end up in a coma.’
Just then we were both startled by the rain battering against the windowpane.
‘Jeez, I don’t fancy venturing back out in that tonight,’ Clara said.
I stood up and walked over to the window.
‘Onesie night for me,’ I said, watching the rain bounce off the pavement.
‘It sounds like it’s lashing it down.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
‘What about book club?’ Clara asked.
I sighed. I didn’t like to let Mim down – she went to so much trouble to organise everything – but on nights like this, I’d rather curl up on the settee.
‘It doesn’t look like it’s going to stop anytime soon.’
‘Dress code for the evening will be bikini and flippers if we venture out in that. Heads would turn, especially if we nipped into the pub for a pint on the way,’ Clara said.
‘Good grief! I’m not sure any heads will turn if I turn up in the local wearing a fluorescent pink bikini. Is there an author booked in for tonight?’
‘No, I don’t think there is. Mim will understand if we miss one night, especially with the weather being so vile. I’m sure we won’t be the only ones who want to stay snuggled in the warmth tonight.’
‘Have you eaten?’ I asked, drawing the curtains and sitting back down.
Clara shook her head. ‘It’s one of those nights when I just want to eat stodge.’
‘How about a takeaway? Oh, and wait until you see what I grabbed from the library today! I’d almost forgotten,’ I said excitedly, leaning down and digging deep into my bag.
‘A takeaway sounds divine,’ Clara replied. ‘Come on – show me! What do you have?’
I tossed a book in her direction and the grin on Clara’s face as she caught sight of the cover said it all.
‘Cool! The new Sam Stone book! I’ve been waiting for this to be released,’ she marvelled, flicking through the pages.
‘It came into the library today. I thought we could read it before it gets borrowed out by the masses – perks of the job and all that.’
‘Absolutely!’ Clara said. ‘Right, I’ll text Mum to let her know I’m eating with you, and you text Mim to let her know we’ll see her next week.’
I disappeared into the kitchen while I tapped out a text to Mim and retrieved the battered takeaway menus from the dresser drawer.
‘Curry or Chinese?’ I asked, passing the menus to Clara.
‘Chicken balti for me,’ she piped up. I smiled. Every time we ordered a curry, Clara always had the same old same old, yet every time she swore blind she would try something different from the menu next time.
‘Not going to waste your money then?’ I teased.
Clara laughed. ‘I thought about it for a teeny second, but what if I didn’t like it? I’d be starving and I don’t like wasting food or money!’
It was 6.55 a.m. on a very blustery January morning. I was snuggled down deep inside my parka, my hands stuffed into the pockets. Already the bitter cold was stinging my cheeks. I leant against the glass panels of the bus shelter, shrugging my shoulders and shuffling my feet as I tried to stay warm. Clara was running late as always – the bus was due any minute. I glanced up the street and spotted her running towards the bus stop, waving her hand frantically above her head.
‘Morning. Cutting it fine as usual,’ I said, smiling at her.
‘Why is it at the weekends I wake up at the crack of dawn, and on weekdays I have to prise my eyes open and force myself to get up?’
‘Because that’s life.’
Five minutes later Clara and I were sitting in our usual seats, near the back of the top deck. We placed our bags at our feet and hunched our shoulders to try to keep warm.
Suddenly Clara slapped my leg.
‘Hey, what was that for?’
Clara’s eyes were wide and she was staring in the direction of the stairwell. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and beamed.
‘Look at that vision of loveliness,’ she marvelled.
I glanced up and straight away my gaze locked with a pair of handsome hazel eyes.
I immediately looked away.
‘He’s coming over,’ Clara said under her breath.
The man sat down on the other side of the aisle directly opposite us.
‘He smells gorgeous,’ Clara hissed.
We both inhaled at the same time, then giggled like a couple of schoolgirls.
‘There’s something about him. He’s mesmerising,’ Clara whispered.
‘Love at first sight,’ I murmured dreamily to her, giving her arm a squeeze. The hairs on the back of my neck started to stand on end and goosebumps prickled my skin, but it wasn’t the stranger on the bus I was thinking about. It was Noah Jones. Irene had booked him to host a one-day writing workshop at the library for the local students. That had been eight months ago, and I hadn’t seen him since.
‘Where do you think he’s going?’ Clara whispered.
‘How would I know? I don’t have a crystal ball.’
‘I wonder if he’s got a girlfriend?’
‘He’s bound to,’ I said wistfully.
‘But there’s no wedding ring, which means he’s still up for grabs.’
‘Maybe.’
For the next five minutes we sat trying to disguise the huge grins on our faces, and every time my gaze swept in his direction, I found he was looking straight back at us with an amused look on his face.
There were two stops to go before the bus would reach the library.
‘He’s getting off at this stop,’ I whispered, linking my arm through Clara’s. We must have looked like smitten kittens as our eyes synchronised to watch him disappear down the stairwell.
‘Mmm, now he’s a newbie. Have you noticed him on the bus before?’ I said, turning towards Clara.
‘I think we’d remember if we’d seen him before.’ Clara’s eyes were sparkling as she leant over me and wiped the condensation off the window with her coat sleeve.
‘There he goes, down that alleyway at the side of the women’s boutique.’
I blinked and strained my eyes, following his every move. He must have sensed someone was watching him, as he looked back over his shoulder towards the top deck of the bus. Clara quickly slumped back in her seat, leaving me to lock eyes with the handsome stranger. With a sheepish smile, he paused for a brief moment. Then he dug his hands into the pockets of his green bomber jacket before quickening his step and disappearing out of sight.
I’d had a few opportunities to go on dates in the last eight months, but I’d always shied away from the second date. There was no one who’d caught my eye – not like Noah had. Truth be told, it had always been difficult for me to feel completely at ease with people. My inner circle, as I called it, consisted of Irene and now Clara. But Clara had no idea that Irene wasn’t my birth mother. I’d only known her for six months, and I didn’t feel comfortable telling her just yet. Once Irene had taken me under her wing and I knew I would be settled with her for the rest of my life, she’d suggested that I changed my surname from Thomas to match hers – Cooper. I’d been absolutely delighted.
But as much as Irene was my family now, over the past few months I’d been thinking more and more about my birth mother. Had she ever tried to find me? Did she ever think about me? I didn’t even know whether she was alive or dead. I’d tried to remember her on numerous occasions, but that was just silly. I’d been a baby when I was first fostered – how could I possibly remember?
‘Well that’s that, the most excitement we’ve had in a long time! Come on, here’s our stop,’ I said, grasping the metal bar to steady myself as I stood up and glanced out of the window at the hive of activity below.
The city streets were already wide awake, except for the two homeless bodies curled up on cardboard next to the busy marketplace. The street vendors lined the edge of the pavement, and a long line of customers queued and tapped on their phones while waiting for their breakfast, forcing people to walk past them in single file. I could see the city square, and as usual the large, tattered wagons packed to the brim with fruit and vegetables were parked to the side of the imposing stone lions that adorned the steps up to the library.
Clara stood up beside me and stumbled into the aisle as the bus came to a halt, losing her balance and falling on to the seat opposite.
‘Steady on,’ I said and laughed, trying to grab the back of her coat.
‘It gets me every time!’ Clara tutted.
I hauled her up, still laughing, and she smoothed her skirt down.
‘Crikey, look,’ I said, noticing a black rucksack lying on the seat next to her.
Clara twirled around. ‘The handsome stranger has left his bag! What shall we do with it?’ she said, picking it up and passing it to me before we headed towards the steps.
‘We could drop it off at the police station?’ I suggested as she followed me down.
‘I don’t think we’ve got time to do it now,’ she replied, bending her head and flitting her eyes towards the cathedral clock through the bus’s windscreen. ‘We open up in less than fifteen minutes.’
‘Fair point,’ I said, as we waited for the doors to open. The queue of people in front of us soon shuffled along and we spilt out on to the street.
We began to weave through the early-morning shoppers in the market square, and I slung the rucksack over my shoulder.
‘Are we going to have a sneaky peep inside the bag?’ Clara asked with a wicked twinkle in her eye.
‘We can’t do that! It’s someone else’s property.’
‘Who’s going to know?’ Clara looked at me, tilting her head. ‘There could be something in there that leads us to the identification of our mystery man.’
I had to admit the thought had already crossed my mind.
I rattled the huge bunch of keys in my hand as we strolled up the stone steps towards the library. Wilson, the UPS delivery man, was already hovering on the top step by the glass doors. Behind him stood a line of four people queuing patiently and a group of students chatting excitedly about an upcoming excursion.
‘Morning,’ Wilson said cheerfully.
‘You’re ahead of time today,’ I replied, smiling as I placed the key in the lock and pushed the door open. Clara and Wilson followed me in and I locked the door behind them. There was still ten minutes until we officially opened. I paused in front of the control panel and punched in the alarm code.
Clara switched on the lights in the main foyer and we walked into the staffroom. I placed the mystery rucksack down on a flea-bitten black chair in the corner of the room that hadn’t been sat on in years.
‘Yes, the traffic on the back roads was unusually quiet for once,’ Wilson said, leaning against the wall and smiling at Clara and me.
Wilson had been our designated driver since Christmas and had a very handsome smile. I’d never met anyone as cheery as him before. Rain or shine, he was always beaming.
‘There’s something different about you this morning, Wilson,’ Clara said, eyeing him suspiciously before standing on her tiptoes and reaching for a couple of mugs from the cupboard.
I gave Wilson a quick glance before scrutinising today’s updates, which were pinned to a corkboard that had definitely seen better days. Wilson raked his fingers through. . .
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