stupid. I feel better just for having let it all out. I don’t think I’ve ever cried that much in my life, and I watched Titanic fourteen times when it came out on video. How can one set of sinuses hold so much snot?’ He does an exaggerated sniff as a demonstration.
It makes me smile. ‘When you get home, do me a favour and take care of yourself, okay? Apart from cold and wet, you must be drained. You’ve been through something traumatic tonight.’
‘Ah, I wouldn’t call talking to you traumatic.’
‘Make light of it all you want. Do whatever you need to cope. But you and I both know that trying to brush things under the carpet is how you ended up on that bridge in the first place.’
I think he’s going to say something else sarcastic, but he swallows. ‘I know.’
‘So take care of yourself. When you get in, have a long hot shower or bath. A long cry is draining, so drink a really big glass of water and get something to eat. I don’t care if it’s healthy or something made of chocolate, but make yourself a cup of tea and eat some biscuits, and snuggle up into bed with a book or a movie or something. Please? You deserve some TLC too.’
‘Waterfalls or No Scrubs?’
‘Oh, ha ha,’ I say, even though it does make me want to laugh. There’s never a bad time for a Nineties music reference.
‘Hot shower, warm pyjamas, drink of water, bed, book, tea and biscuits. The Great British cure for everything.’ I can hear that he’s smiling as he repeats my instructions. ‘I wish I knew your name so I could thank you properly, but at the same time, I kind of like not knowing it. So thank you, mysterious stranger, for saving my life. And for the interesting mental images of mannequins wrestling naked in chocolate. Or something. That is what you were doing when I called, right?’
I giggle. ‘Thank you for a night I’ll never forget.’
‘Even the rain’s stopping,’ he says. I can hear him walking now, the wet flop of something against his phone. Maybe his hair? ‘What a wonderful night.’
I smile because, in a weird way, it was.
I’ve never spoken to someone who understands me the way he seems to. It feels kind of magical to speak to someone who you can never speak to again; a connection with a stranger I’ll never meet, on a night I’ll always remember.
‘Thank you for everything,’ he whispers, his voice catching again. It makes me want to hug him even more than I wanted to hug him anyway which was already immeasurable on the wanting-to-hug-someone scale. ‘Goodnight, lovely.’
The phone clicks off and I sit back on my knees, staring at the handset in shock.
Lovely. That’s what Leo from It’s A Wonderful Latte up the road calls me. I mean, I’m sure it’s what he calls every customer but it still makes my heart beat faster every time he says it.
The thought that it could’ve been him flits across my mind but I dismiss it instantly. There must be millions of guys who use endearments like that…
It couldn’t be, could it?
No way.
No way could someone be suffering so much on the inside and hide it so well on the outside. Leo is the happiest person I know. He’s the one bright spot on a dull winter day. He’s the reason I buy a coffee every morning on the way to work. His smile makes every overpriced cup worthwhile. He’s the brightest, happiest, smiliest, most cheerful guy in town.
No way in a million years would he be considering taking his own life.
No way was the guy on the other end of that phone Leo.
‘Puss puss puss puss,’ I call, standing in the front garden and shaking a box of cat biscuits.
A black cat immediately appears on the gatepost and starts rubbing around my hand, a tabby cat peers cautiously out of the hedge, a ginger cat jumps onto the fence from the other side, and there’s a meow from up the street.
‘Good morning, kitties.’ I pour cat biscuits into a row of dishes and stroke the cats brave enough to come over. I put a handful of biscuits down in the hedgerow for the little tabby cat who’s too scared to come out.
‘Morning, George!’
My dad makes me jump, peering around the side of the house from the top of a ladder and giving me a wave. I thought he was still in bed. He deserved a lie in after he waited up for me to come home last night. When I eventually got in, he had dropped off in front of the TV with a blanket over him and a cold cup of tea beside him. A cold cup of tea is enough to ruin anyone’s night.
‘What are you doing up there? You’re nearly eighty!’ I try not to cringe at the sight of him up the ladder, merrily waving with one hand while stapling his Christmas lights up with the other. He’s not even holding on. ‘Please will you get down? I can do that after work!’
‘It’ll be dark by then and you won’t be able to see what you’re doing. Besides, I like doing it, and I’m being careful. Reminds me of being a young lad again and you wouldn’t deny an old man the pleasure of remembering his youth, would you?’
‘You’re not young anymore,’ I mumble to myself. I often feel like I’m the only one who notices my dad’s age. He’s had a couple of scares with his heart, and some nights his arthritis means he needs help getting out of his chair, and then other days, he’ll be outside washing the car, painting the shed, and stapling Christmas lights up from the top of a very high ladder. Possibly all three at the same time. You never know with my dad.
He’s retired now but he used to work for the council. He was solely responsible for the Oakbarrow Christmas tree that stood outside the churchyard every December. He’s fearless when it comes to decorating. The other workers used to stand back and let him get on with it. I remember many an enchanting walk to school with my mum when we’d stop for a few minutes and watch him putting the first decorations up, and then we’d be late so we’d have to rush, but it wouldn’t matter because everyone who walked to school down the high street would’ve stopped to watch too. And then, like magic, on the way home, we’d stop and admire the newly decorated tree. His retirement was the beginning of the end for the Oakbarrow Christmas tree. No one else on the council cared about it as much as he did. Now the only thing he decorates is our house, and he manages to put the same amount of magic into it as he always used to with the Christmas tree.
I give the ladder a wary glance, trying to assess it for rickety-ness, and Dad gives me another reassuring grin from the top of it, like he can tell exactly what I’m doing. I could try to argue with him about getting down, but I know that even if he gets down to appease me, he’ll be back up there as soon as I’ve turned the corner at the end of the street when I leave for work.
After the phone call last night, I tried to go back to doing our first Christmas window of the season –
showcasing our brightest, sparkliest eveningwear ready for Christmas party season – but I couldn’t concentrate on a thing, and it was about half past one when I finally gave up and went home, leaving the windows unfinished. If Head Office pop down for a surprise spot check today, I will be in serious trouble. Thankfully surprise spot checks are few and far between now. Things have been so quiet that there’s not much to spot check on.
I grab my bag from beside the door and tell Dad again to be careful as I go out the gate in the bright December sunshine. It’s a beautiful morning, surprising after the downpour of last night, and I’m earlier than usual because Head Office consider it unprofessional to dress windows when customers are around, so I need to get them finished before we open at nine.
There’s something niggling me about Leo from It’s A Wonderful Latte too. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him all night. All right,