Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (primary phonics .TXT) 📕

came here together. I pretend to be interested so that I can touch things. Feel the silver, the velour, the crushed silk. Things that remind me of her.

The lady on the clothes stall – an ageing hippy with a nose piercing and a leathery face – doesn’t seem to mind me lingering. She is eating what smells like a lentil curry from one of the hot-food places, stabbing at chunks of paneer and butternut squash with a fork, a bluebottle batting at the canvas behind her. I sift through her tunics and skirts, moving the hangers one by one with my fingertips. I imagine which ones Mummy might have chosen.

Once, she bought a blue velvet dress here. She held it up against herself, her head cocked to one side, looking in the chipped mirror in the lady’s makeshift changing room. That mirror is still here, with its rainbow rim. I have the dress at home, although I don’t like to look at it much. I keep it in a drawer, hidden away. I can’t understand, sometimes, how things like that are still the same. Things that she touched, things that she wore, that were once warm against her skin, mirrors that held her reflection. They are all still here, in the world, with me. But she is gone, and never coming back.

I head back into the main square, where the coffee place and the metal tables are. I think about getting an orange juice and sitting here for a bit. I could look at Serena’s Instagram for a while, see what she’s up to. She does her yoga class on a Wednesday and usually posts something afterwards, a picture of herself upside down, flexed like an acrobat on a pale pink mat, her trailing hair completing the perfect circle of her body. Or an inspiring quote from a book, which is usually easy enough to find and order online. I think about having a look at these other antenatal classes she’s found, the ones that meet in the bakery. But I’ve already paid hundreds of pounds for the NCT ones. Daniel would go mad.

And that’s when I see her. The girl from the antenatal class. Rachel. She is sitting at one of the metal tables, reading a newspaper, the free one they hand out at the Tube station. That rape case is on the front page again. There’s a hardness in her expression as she reads, her mouth clamped in a tight line.

I could say hello, obviously, but I don’t really have anything to say, and can’t think why I would want to initiate another round of awkward small talk. I’d been desperate to get away by the end of the class, but she had tried to strike up another conversation. I got the impression she was hoping to hang around, have another drink. I’d muttered an excuse and left as quickly as I could, marching home to scold Daniel over his non-appearance.

I can’t resist studying her a bit, though, seeing as I am here unobserved. She looks young to be having a baby, I think – much younger than most of the others in the group. She is quite pretty really, though she has made the mistake of over-plucking her eyebrows, and her long hair is dyed too dark, so that it makes her face look shockingly pale.

Rachel seems completely absorbed in her newspaper. The coffee on the table in front of her looks untouched, a speckle of chocolate powder sitting perfectly on the foam. She has left her phone and purse on the edge of the table, rather recklessly. Anyone could snatch her things from a table like that. I notice the purse is stuffed with notes – so many that she has only been able to zip it up halfway.

Rachel places the newspaper down, picks up her phone and starts tapping away. That chipped purple polish is still clinging to her fingernails. The garish gold backpack is at her feet again, plus a clutch of shopping bags. Her mobile is clad in a gold plastic case, the sort you see on teenagers’ phones, an outline of a Playboy bunny studded on the reverse in diamanté.

I have stared too long. She glances up, spots me immediately. I try to look away, fiddle with my bags, but it is too late.

‘Helen!’

When I glance back up, the serious expression has been replaced by a wide grin, her pointed teeth on show again. She tilts her head to the side and motions me to come over. As she does so, she shoves the bulging wallet into her bag, away from view.

‘So great to see you!’ she cries. I start a tentative wave, but instead she stands up and pulls me into a bear hug, as if we’re old friends who haven’t met in ages, rather than near-strangers who met just a few days before. The hand I’d raised in greeting is squashed, awkwardly, between our two chests.

‘They’ve signed me off work early, too! High blood pressure, same as you. What are the chances?’

What are the chances? I think to myself. I suppose blood pressure issues are hardly uncommon. Although I’d sort of assumed it was linked to my being a bit overweight. Whereas she is so skinny and slight, her small round bump incongruous against her matchstick-thin arms and legs.

‘Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that. Poor you,’ I say, tentatively. ‘Are you on the labetalol, then?’

She looks blank for a moment. ‘Yeah,’ she says vaguely, glancing off to the left. ‘Something like that.’ Her hands flap my question away, as if it’s not important. ‘Come on, let’s have a coffee. We can catch up properly.’

Catch up? On what? I open my mouth to object, then close it again, my brain having failed to supply me with an excuse. Rachel is looking over my shoulder, beckoning a waiter with a purple-painted fingernail.

‘Excuse me? Hello?’ The frown is back. ‘Fuck me,’ she mutters. ‘Service is slow around here.’

I place my bag and