Maybe it was easier to be happy for other people when I felt my own soulmate might be just around the corner, but I keep turning corners, and no one is ever there.
* * *
*
Once we’ve wrapped filming, I walk through Soho on my way back to the office and pass the alleyway off Carnaby Street where Vera’s Vintage, a grotto of secondhand clothes and jewelry, is tucked away. I haven’t been inside a shop like this since Mum died, but today I find myself standing in front of the window, peering into the Aladdin’s cave within.
When I was a child, Mum and I spent every weekend driving around the country in her worn-out Morris Minor, following a trail of flea markets and vintage fairs. She could scour a car-boot sale for treasure better than anyone; she had a magpie’s eyes. Mum used to tell me that objects hold memories. That the more owners an object had had, the more meaning that object possessed. If what she said was true, her drawers and cupboards had been stuffed full of more meaning than anywhere else in the known universe.
She collected old jewelry to repurpose it, to give it new life. It started out as a hobby, but then she found people wanted to buy what she was making. Her jewelry was the one thing I didn’t know what to do with when I packed up her house. I’m still paying forty pounds a month to keep the boxes in a storage locker in Wapping; a tax on deferred decisions. I press my hand against the shop window. Just looking at the treasures on display sends a skewer of pain into the everyday ache of missing her.
At the front of the shop window, near my hand, a ruby brooch—a beautiful stone in a weathered silver setting, the trace of writing just visible. I feel a flutter of excitement; is there anything more romantic than an old engraving? I imagine those scratched letters to be a clue, waiting for me to unravel the story they hold, just like the coin I’ve worn around my neck since I was fifteen. My hand reaches up to the pendant, the place my hand always goes to when I’m thinking about Mum. As I’m inventing a romantic backstory for the ruby brooch in the window, a man in a long camel coat leaves the shop. He drops something, a piece of paper, so I pick it up and call after him.
“Excuse me, you dropped this.”
He turns around and looks me square in the eyes. He’s in his thirties with salt-and-pepper hair, deep-set eyes, and a regal nose. He’s attractive, in a Roman emperor sort of way. And for some reason, maybe it’s the emotional morning I’ve had, or the fact that I’m thinking about Mum, but I just get a feeling that maybe this could be the beginning of my “How did you meet?” Sexy Caesar drops a receipt, I pick it up, we get to talking about vintage jewelry, stare into each other’s eyes, and then kablammo, we just know: This is it; we’ve finally found each other.
“What?” he says.
“You dropped this.” I reach out my hand to give him the piece of paper, tucking a strand of blond hair behind my ear and furnishing him with my warmest smile.
“I don’t need it.” He waves a dismissive hand at me and turns to go.
“Hey, wait,” I call after him. “You can’t just drop paper in the street.”
The man stops, turns, and scowls at me, as though I’m a small dog that’s just peed on his gray suede loafers.
“Who are you, the street police?” he asks, shaking his head as he turns to leave.
“If everyone dropped their receipts, then where would we be? We’d be ankle-deep in old receipts, that’s where!” I call after him, still inexplicably waving the piece of paper in the air as though I’ve found one of Willy Wonka’s golden tickets.
“Piss off, litter witch,” he calls over his shoulder. I let out an indignant puff of air. OK, maybe that wasn’t my “How did you meet?” after all. I’ve probably dodged a bullet, anyway. He might have been good-looking, but I wouldn’t want the love of my life to be a litterbug.
Jersey Evening News—23 May 1991
FOUND: Half a ha’ penny, with “Jersey, ’37” just legible on the reverse. Inscribed on the face are the words: “the whole world is for me divided . . .” Seeking information about the origins of this coin. Are you or your family in possession of the other half? It may be inscribed with the words, “。 . . into two parts.” Any information, please contact Annie; Bristol PO BOX 1224.
Chapter 2
Pushing through the double doors on the third floor of the Beak Street building, I can see Suki already holding court in the glass-walled meeting room. A dozen of my colleagues sit in two neat rows listening with rapt attention. Editor in chief of Love Life, Suki Cavendish is a slim four foot eleven with a keen aversion to heels, yet she always manages to be the most prepossessing person in any room. Today she is dressed in a tailored cream jumpsuit with her black hair pulled into a taut chignon.