Page 16 of The Pieces of Us

It’s my sixteenth birthday, so we go to Leone’s Cafe for ice cream after school.

I get a double cone with mint choc chip; everyone else gets a single.

Back home, I unwrap my gifts – the ABBA album and a brown checked shirt with a big pointy collar just like the one I saw Anni-Frid wearing in Look-in .

‘I’m going to put it on right away.’ I run upstairs before Mam can say anything.

‘It’s a shame you have to work on your birthday,’ she says when I come back down.

‘I don’t want to let Mr Dunlop down. Anyway, it’s only a bit of filing and typing. I’ll be back for tea.’ I touch the tips of my shirt’s pointy collar. ‘I’ve been thinking … maybe I’ll go to secretarial college when I leave school.’

‘It’s good to have ambition,’ she says carefully, ‘but don’t get carried away. Know your worth, but remember your limits , my mother used to tell me, and it’s served me well.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ I mutter, but my attention is on my reflection in the oval mirror on the kitchen wall.

I’ve always thought my eyes were too far apart, my nose slightly too round.

But today I don’t mind what I see. I don’t have a single spot, and even my curls don’t look too frizzy.

Maybe I’m getting prettier with age. I’ve heard Mam and her friends talk about a woman’s ‘peak’, and it seems to be a sliding scale with many variables, but one thing they know for certain is that once you’ve reached your peak, the only way is down.

I decide I’m happy to spend a few more years preparing for my peak.

I make sure my shirt is tucked neatly into my jeans before slipping out of the back door.

Mr Dunlop’s house is one of the biggest on a street of houses that are four times the size of ours.

It has a double front door, a large stained-glass window halfway up the stairs and a snooker table that takes up a whole room.

There are lots of doors that are always closed – I wonder what could possibly be behind them.

A swimming pool? A tennis court? I feel like Alice in Wonderland, minus the long blonde hair and pristine apron.

‘Mrs Dunlop is out today on church business,’ he tells me when he opens the door.

I’m disappointed – his wife is kind and friendly, with a kitchen that always smells of warm scones.

Our interactions over the last couple of months have been brief – Mr Dunlop always has plenty to keep me busy – but I can tell she’d be a good mother.

I’ve wondered why they don’t have children, although I can’t imagine noisy kids in this house, throwing toys down the stairs or leaving a sticky fingertip streak along the wall.

Today, in Mrs Dunlop’s absence, there’s no toasty, buttery smell.

Something different hits my nose – distinctly masculine.

‘Just a few letters for you today,’ Mr Dunlop says, leaving me to close the front door behind me.

I follow him across the tiled floor of a hallway the size of our sitting room, with shelves of books lining one wall, opposite a soft leather chair the colour of cherries. The perfect reading chair.

‘It’s my birthday today,’ I say.

He turns round. ‘Well, now I feel honoured. Imagine coming here to type my tedious letters on your birthday.’ Behind him, the sun shines through the stained-glass window.

I blush. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘You must be … seventeen?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘And what does a sixteen-year-old girl get for her birthday?’

I think about my ABBA album, my double mint choc chip treat. ‘I got this shirt,’ I say, although I’m wishing I hadn’t worn it because it’s a little tight under my arms and there seems to be a lot of heat coming through the stained glass suddenly.

His eyes dart down the length of my body. ‘It’s a very nice shirt, Beth.’

A feeling I can’t give a name to, one that seems to coast a fine line between trepidation and curiosity, makes me take a deep breath.

It’s easier to not look into his eyes, so I focus just left of his head, on the bright glass panes forming the blue sky, the golden wings, the pink halo behind the angel’s floating body.

‘I really should give you something for your birthday,’ he says. ‘Sixteen is quite the milestone.’ His eyes scan the hall. ‘Ah. Perfect. Would you like to choose a book? Take your pick. Anything at all.’

‘Oh … I couldn’t possibly …’ I stare at the shelves, wondering how many words are contained within the sum of those covers. Some of them are thick, encased in leather, while others look too fragile to touch, their spines too worn to be identified.

‘Please,’ he says. ‘It would mean a lot to me.’

‘I don’t want to take one of your favourites.’

‘Beth, books are made to be shared. I thought you said you wanted to work in a library, some day?’

I’m happy he remembered that detail from our conversation that day in our kitchen. ‘Why don’t you pick a book for me?’

He looks taken aback, and I wonder if I’ve crossed a line.

But he walks to the bookshelves and lifts his trousers at the knees to let him squat comfortably.

I notice that he’s wearing odd socks – one olive green, one dark blue with a fine stripe.

This makes me feel sorry for him, which surprises me.

My mother lays my father’s clothes for the day over his bedroom chair every day without fail, down to his underpants and socks.

Mr Dunlop doesn’t take long to decide and stands up with a hardback book in his hand. ‘Have you heard of Henry Miller?’

I shake my head.

‘He’s an American writer. Top class. I think you’re old enough to be introduced. Of course, your parents may feel differently. Perhaps this is another one to read when everybody is asleep.’ He winks at me as he hands it over. He’s remembered about Forever , too.

I look down at the bright blue paper sleeve, worn at the corners. Tropic of Cancer . ‘Thank you,’ I say, hugging it to my belly. ‘We only have a few books at home. If I ever see Mam sitting down to read, it’s the Bible.’

‘She’s a good Catholic woman, your mother. Anyway, you must let me know how Henry Miller compares to Judy Blume. Happy birthday, Beth.’

‘Thank you,’ I say again.

I don’t feel too hot any more; the panes on the stained-glass window are darker than they were a moment ago. I follow Mr Dunlop into his study, and he closes the door behind us.