Chapter Text
She loathes this time of year. The crowds, the parties, the songs, the lights, the glitter, the overly-affectionate drunkards. People pretending to be close to one another, to be family, when they spend the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year apart. The mass commercialisation of the season makes her wonder how the original point got so easily lost but it’s simple really. Human beings are greedy and selfish. They need material things to feel whole. She sees this every day at her job in a backstreet London pub. And she has come to realise that humans can be rude, unforgiving, violent, nasty.
But most of all, she has come to realise that she is all alone in the world.
It’s two-thirty in the afternoon, and the pub is already half full, mostly of single people. People looking for the answer to all of their problems at the bottom of a bottle. The Pogues play unobtrusively in the background for the twelfth time today. The clink of glass on glass and the patter of grey raindrops can be heard every now and then, but otherwise, there is nothing but silent drinking. It’s the slowest shift in the world, she thinks as she pours herself a neat whisky while her boss isn’t looking. It’s just enough to get her through the day but not enough to make her lose her head.
She finishes some hours later and trudges through the slush on the streets, a mixture of snow and rain courtesy of the miserable English weather. She pulls her coat tighter and puts on her gloves as the vicious winter wind nips at her skin.
Her mind wanders back to last Christmas as she walks briskly. The pain and agony. The sorrowful looks of pity. The piercing sounds of ambulance sirens. All starkly contrasting the so-called festive cheer in the air. Yep, she hates Christmas.
She only takes her eyes off the road for a second, lost in her myriad of thoughts, but it all happens in a whirlwind. A red open-topped bus is speeding toward her. A strong hand is pulling her back. Her ankle twists as she clumsily stumbles from the road to the pavement. She narrowly misses being squished by the hard shell of the bus. The edge of her long winter coat takes the brunt of the impact instead, and an immense gust of wind beats her face. Someone is yelling at her but she cannot make sense of it yet.
Her mind is foggy but when some of it has cleared, she turns to face the stranger who has just saved her life and looks him in the eyes. His eyes are nice. More than nice. Brown like hers. Gentle and inviting. His hair is dark too, thick and curly, but kept out of his face with gel, and he has a small amount of stubble that is mostly covered by his tartan woollen scarf. He has several clusters of freckles and some wrinkles around the eyes, which give away his age.
He stares at her as if awaiting an answer, and it registers that she has been gawking at him for several seconds like an idiot. “Are you okay?” he asks her, probably for the tenth time already.
“Uh, yeah,” she mumbles and backs away from him slowly, only now noticing that his hands are still wrapped around her wrists as he is trying to keep her body steady. She just about manages to stand on her own two feet as he lets go.
“You don’t look okay,” he replies, and she notices his accent. American. Or Canadian, maybe, she’s not too sure.
“I’m fine. Really. Thanks for… er, not letting me die and everything.” She attempts to walk away, though in what direction she is uncertain, as she cannot remember how to get home from here, but her embarrassment is far too strong to stick around for much longer.
“It’s okay, but you look like you need some help. Let me at least buy you a coffee.” His warm smile seems genuine, but then she has never been a very good judge of character. Especially with men.
“I don’t know…” she hesitates.
“Just one coffee? Then I’ll leave you alone.” She notes that he has perfected the puppy dog eyes look, and it would be arrogant to assume that she is immune.
She sighs and stuffs her hands into her pockets as an endeavour to keep herself warmer as she shivers on the street. She can see her breath hanging in the air, and at this particular moment in time, she is struggling to think of a reason to say 'no' to a nice warm coffee with a handsome stranger. “Well, when you put it like that.”
She’s not entirely sure how she got here. One minute, she’s almost being hit by a bus in central London. Next, a stranger with whiskey eyes and a shy smile is buying her a caramel latte. And now she’s following him into a quiet, secluded garden that she walks past every day but never knew existed. It is circular in shape with tall hedges that reach up to the heavens, keeping it guarded from public view. A beautiful but withering oak tree stands sturdy and proud in the middle, with several ornate benches placed around it. Each of them has a name plaque on it, making the garden a wonderful yet morbid place to be.
“They’re never going to find my body here, are they?” she jokes to lighten the mood as the man leads her through the gates and towards the tree. In the meantime, she had learnt that his name is Kaidan and he is, in fact, from Canada. She pretends that she could guess from his accent and could easily point to the nation on a map. Why she’s being so trusting of him, she doesn’t really know. Normally, she is the opposite and perhaps overly cautious, but there is a certain aura about him. He just seems to put her at ease.
She picks a bench to sit on. ‘Richard L. Jenkin, s’ it reads.
“The archaeologists might eventually. There’s a plague pit over there,” he replies in a similar manner and points in the direction of where she is about to sit.
She stands up abruptly and picks another bench, which earns a laugh from him. “Oh. Lovely.”
Once she is settled, Kaidan takes the seat beside her. “I promise to give you fair warning before I murder you. Does that help?”
“Ah, Canadians, always so polite.” The corners of her mouth lift for a split second, and she is surprised at herself. Most of her smiles these days are fake ones for the benefit of the customers and her boss.
He chuckles again and takes a sip of his coffee. She tries very hard not to laugh as he burns his lips on the piping hot liquid and almost spills the whole lot over his jeans, but she fails. After a little time in silence, he switches his gaze from the oak tree to her. “So, what’s going on with you?” he questions, like he’s her therapist or something.
“What do you mean?” she asks, sipping her own tepid coffee now.
“You looked like you were in a whole other world back there.”
“I just…I’m not used to cities being this big.” It’s only a white lie, she thinks to herself.
“Overwhelming, huh? I get that.” He nods as he takes the lid off his hot drink and stirs it with a wooden spoon to remove the layer of skin that has formed on the top. She hates it when that happens.
“Yeah,” she replies in monotone, not wanting to divulge too much to a complete stranger. A stranger who had saved her life, bought her a hot beverage, and introduced her to a secret garden all in one day. But still a stranger, nevertheless.
“You just moved here then? I didn't think your accent was local either,” he says warmly.
“Yeah. Don’t really know my way around yet.”
“Can you ask a friend to show you?”
She almost laughs to herself. She hasn’t had friends in a very long time. And that suits her. It suits her just fine. “I don’t exactly know anyone either.”
“There is a sort of er…community Christmas-themed…uh, show thing I’m involved in. At the homeless shelter just down the road from here. You could join in if you like?” He smiles so genially again, and she almost agrees on the spot, but then she is pulled back into the harsh reality.
“Oh, I don't…I really don’t think that’s my kind of thing.” She appreciates the gesture and what appears to be a genuine act of kindness, but she doesn’t need charity. Not from anyone.
“You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with, but it is a good way to meet people. Maybe make some friends.”
“I don’t need friends.”
His gaze falters, and she prepares herself for a lecture, but he simply smiles again, albeit with more melancholic eyes this time. “Okay. Well, if you change your mind, here’s a leaflet. We’re pretty easy to find.”
He hands it to her, and she stuffs it in her pocket without looking. She smiles weakly to ease his mind, but they both know the piece of paper is going straight into the recycling bin. It’ll have a better life as something else, she’s sure. She stands up and spills the remainder of the latte over her coat; a shit end to an even shitter day. Kaidan attempts to help her wipe it off before it stains, but she steps back, almost out of the wrought-iron gate already. “I won’t but…thanks.”
“You need help getting home?” he offers.
She shakes her head, wanting nothing more than to leave now. She doesn’t need help. Or pity. Or patronising. She’s quite happy with how her life is. Or so she tells herself. “I’m good. Thanks. Bye.”
“Goodbye, Yasmin,” he calls after he,r but she is already gone.
David Anderson: Missed calls (17)
Voicemails (6)