Page 19 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
London
and without hope, over. The lady with grey-streaked hair and a tote bag, who always stands there, or paces the area, only
with focused eyes, as if waiting for the rain to stop. Or something else. Now she’s surprisingly what comes to mind as she
pours herself a glass of juice and starts to find the ingredients to assemble a sandwich. Her girlfriend of eight months is
on the sofa watching a show. She didn’t acknowledge Eliza’s return to their shared flat, or the fact that Eliza might, at
eight thirty in the evening, not have eaten yet.
‘She’s there.’ Eliza says to Sam’s hoodie-clad back. ‘Consistent. I turn the corner at two ten and I know she’ll be there.
I walk into this flat and I never know if you’ll be here because you never text, never call, never do anything, really.’
The back turns now, her girlfriend’s face animated.
‘ She? Are you seeing someone? Oh my God , you are so not the cheating type.’
Eliza wonders what Sam, her girlfriend/ex-girlfriend knows about cheating types and whether she might actually be one herself.
‘No. She’s retirement age. I don’t even know her, but she’s there. Don’t you see? She’s there, and I don’t even know her.’
There are no tears because this isn’t sad, really. It’s a necessary evil. Eliza always thinks that when women have made their
mind up there’s no going back. She herself, can be pushed and shoved and moulded and influenced, but once she finally, amidst
all life’s shoving, finds her train of thought and holds it, ignoring all the outside noise, managing to make a decision,
then there’s no going back.
‘I’m going to bed, Sam, then I’ll leave early tomorrow morning for work but I think you should start looking for a place.
I’m too tired to discuss it now.’
She doesn’t feel relieved, just icky. The relief comes not when the decision is made but when it’s implemented, she’s always
found.
It takes five days of back-and-forth, tears (Sam’s), yelling (Sam’s), bribery (Eliza’s in the shape of a deposit for a new
place), drunken make-outs (both of them equally guilty), but then one Sunday afternoon Sam is out, finally. Off partying in
old warehouses turned galleries and rave venues with some crowd from East London, all of whom do much cooler things than sell
property whilst wearing smart casual clothes. The only sign of life a few late-night texts saying I miss you, babe , followed hours later, when Eliza’s silence has worn down her sweetness and the alcohol has made its way to her blood stream,
by Can’t believe you kicked me out, you’re such a fucking bitch!!!
Eliza doesn’t miss Sam. And definitely not her judgemental nature. Eliza wasn’t cool enough for Sam or her friends. Can you just tell them you do interior or some sort of art with houses? Photography? You do take pictures of the flats sometimes, don’t you? she’d ask. Another thing she won’t miss.
Eliza is many things. Good with numbers and tricky clients, she’s punctual and helpful, and she makes a great pea and parmesan
risotto, but she’s never been fun. And she’s never seen it as a problem. Apart from in East London warehouse parties, that
is.
By Thursday she has deleted Sam’s number and downloaded a LGBTQ+ dating app. Maybe there’s another not-fun twentysomething
out there who likes risotto?
Eliza speaks to Edith for the first time a week after Sam moves out.
‘Hello,’ she says, as always, when she spots her at the bus stop. But this time she doesn’t say it as she’s walking past in
a rush, but after she’s stopped in front of the woman. Her whole person is still and there in the moment, as if she’s about
to stretch out her arm and touch her shoulder.
I can’t believe I’ve walked past this person almost every day, someone that’s been a constant in my afternoon routine, without
ever saying hi , she thinks. What sort of a person am I?
‘My latte and you are the two staples of my day,’ she tells the woman. Her brown trousers are too big on her hips and her
lipstick sits outside of her upper lip, as if she’s applied it without a mirror. Eliza is not shy, not really, just unsure
what you say to someone you’ve walked past and smiled to for almost a year yet haven’t taken the time to get to know.
The woman struggles to hold her gaze; she seems agitated. Eliza puts her hand on her arm, hoping it’s not too cold through
the thin fabric of her top.
‘This place must mean a lot to you,’ she adds.
Eliza thinks about places, about the property she sells, and how in the city centre, houses have lost their human value.
They’re investments and opportunities and prime locations now.
They’re a landing place until the family moves away for more space, or someone gets a lucrative work contract and relocates to a new world capital.
Do places have meaning anymore? She’s not sure.
She’s suddenly desperate to hear what this place, the street where she works every day, means to this woman.
‘It meant something to me. And to Sven. It’s where we first met.’
‘Is he your husband?’
‘He would have been, if he had turned up.’
‘Oh.’ Eliza hates people who don’t turn up. Who arrange a viewing to which she treks through the neighbourhood to, making sure she arrives
early enough to open up the curtains, turn on the lights, make the property look awake. Then she waits and waits until she
gets a message saying Sorry, can’t make it. Or if not that, until she calls and gets a voicemail and is forced to accept she’s been stood up.
‘I’m Eliza,’ she offers.
‘Edith.’ Edith puts the cup on the ground, maybe it’s still too hot to drink, and twirls her hands, as if washing them with
soap.
‘I have to go to work now but I’ll see you around?’ She doesn’t reach out her hand to her because she has a feeling her touch
would stress Edith. ‘It’s nice to finally meet you,’ she says instead.