We’re four flights up on the roof. The floor looks dodgy, like it could cave in any second, but it’s cool and silent and he is standing at the fire escape, carefully jamming the empty Coke bottle back into the closing door—he’s not a complete idiot. Tick box. He rights himself and moves toward me, slow and cautious, as if any second I could leap off the roof and ride away on a broomstick. I guess I have run away from him twice already …
‘Hi,’ he says. His voice low and soft. A thick jersey sweater.
I don’t reply. My voice doesn’t seem to be located in this realm right now.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He’s dropped his macho-cheese pick-up routine. Maybe the moon-frozen night has set him free.
‘Not scared,’ I say, and yet I sound just that.
‘I’ll go if you want. I’m not a stalker.’ He is being too careful, like there is something fragile about me. It’s embarrassing. I’m not that girl.
I throw him a haughty look. ‘And yet you did follow me here.’
‘I did. But not to stalk you.’
‘Then to what?’ I raise one eyebrow. I’ve been practising this move for this exact purpose. It is as effective as I hoped. He looks suitably contrite. I’ve unsettled him. ‘You’re still looking at me,’ I note.
‘Sorry.’ He ducks his head.
I laugh. I’m feeling awfully powerful. ‘Do you like what you see?’ Suddenly it occurs to me he might not and the power instantly drains from me.
He looks confused. ‘Of course.’
‘Really?’ My voice drops off to a lower register.
‘Are you kidding? You’re spectacular.’
My face breaks into a grin. I’m a glowstick. One crack and I’m luminous.
‘Now that’s even spectacularala,’ he says.
‘Ha.’ I snort. ‘Are you illiterate?’
‘What can I say? There are no words to describe you.’ He grins back.
It’s a bit too perfect, that smile. Works all the time for him, I can tell. Annoyingly, it’s working on me too.
‘I can think of a fair few words to describe you.’ I hoist myself onto the wall and swing my legs vigorously to distract myself from him. There is too much riding on this. It’s too scary. ‘Not all complimentary, I have to say. But you may call me Sorcha, if you’re searching for a term.’
I love the name Sorcha. It’s Irish like my Ma’s and my Nan’s. It means bright, radiant light. Why my parents had to call me Olive, I don’t know. It’s a greasy little fruit! Sorcha is much more lyrical.
He takes long strides to my side and peers over the wall. It is a long drop. ‘Jesus, is that safe?’
‘Fear not, my brave knight, I’ve come up here aplenty.’ I fling one leg over the wall so I straddle it, riding the wall like a hobby horse.
‘Please be careful, Sorcha. I don’t want to have to scrape you off the pavement or something.’ With his Australian accent it sounds more like Sawsha. Not sounding as poetic as I’d like.
I toss my hair. ‘I’ve far too much class for such a pedestrian death.’
He rewards me with a wry smile. ‘Oh, so you’re funny, are you?’
‘No, just Sorcha. Nineteen. Scorpio. What about you? You seem a little slow. Mental issues at all?’
He frowns at me.
I smile in response, I like getting under his skin. ‘I don’t mind. Interesting people are usually insane.’
He is uneasy with me on the wall. I can see he wants to grab my arm or something. ‘You’re just Sorcha, I’m just Tom. No issues—that I’m aware of,’ he clarifies.
‘Tom?’ I can’t help wrinkling my nose. It’s an extraordinarily ordinary name.
‘What? You have a problem with Tom?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I like it.’ And when I look at him, I do.
‘Yeah, well so do I.’
‘Good.’
‘Well, good.’
I don’t know what to say so I swing one foot, then the other, up onto the wall and pull myself slowly to a stand.
‘Jesus,’ Tom mutters, his fists balling as if he is trying to stop himself from hauling me down.
‘Olive and Tom. It sounds nice,’ I decide.
‘Who’s Olive?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Me, stupid.’
‘Of course,’ he says, rolling his eyes back. ‘How silly of me.’ He folds his arms across his chest. It makes his biceps flex in a distracting way. ‘Olive is a nice name.’
‘It’s a symbol of peace,’ I say, deciding not to reveal that Olives are said to have a deep need for love and companionship. I’ve always thought that makes us Olives sound a bit desperate.
‘You’re not making me feel at peace,’ he says, indicating to the wall. ‘Tom and Olive sounds better, by the way.’
I begin to creep along the wall like a gymnast. Arms outstretched, I peer back over my shoulder at him. ‘You’re right.’
‘I’m right?’ He looks dubious.
‘I’m a writer—I can detect better cadence when I hear it, bucko.’
He grins at the word bucko.
I continue. ‘And I’m so perfect that I’m not always right.’
‘Does that even make sense?’
‘Sure it does. Think about it.’ I spin quickly and get the wobbles. ‘Whoa!’
‘Olive!’ he calls out. But I’ve regained my balance. ‘Please get down,’ he says after he’s caught his breath.
In the inky darkness I can see a man in the apartment block opposite smoking a cigarette out of the window. I inch with determination around Tom’s outstretched arms. He drops them by his side and steps back.
‘Come on. You’re giving me a heart attack here.’
I jump, landing lightly beside him. ‘Fine. I’ll save your life. You owe me one.’
‘Thank you.’ He moves his hand to stroke my cheek but I turn my face away.
‘Don’t.’
‘Sorry, it’s just that you’re …’ He stands there, his mouth open uselessly. It’s kind of frustrating.
‘I’m just what?’ I frown at him. ‘You can’t finish a thought, can you?’
‘You sure like hearing about yourself.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ I walk around him in a circle, keeping my distance. ‘So go on, tell me what you see.’
I can’t tell you how desperate I am to hear his verdict. I try to keep my cool, but I start wringing my hands. I’m Lady Macbeth, the blood won’t wash away.
‘Why don’t we just go downstairs and have a drink? I’ll introduce you to my mates.’
I stick out my tongue. ‘I think I’ll give that a miss.’
‘Charming.’
‘I’m sure they are.’
Again he frowns. ‘We could dance?’
As if I’m going to leave without hearing what he sees! ‘We can dance up here,’ I say, spinning around.
‘Why yes, you could.’ He is smirking again.
I give him the evil eye. ‘Young Thomas is too cool to spin.’
‘Tom.’
I stop spinning, put my hands on my hips. ‘Not Tommo? Tommy?’
‘I get a bit of that.’
Of course he does, he’s Australian. These people can’t bear to say someone’s full name unless it’s their wedding day or something. These people? I scold myself. You’re half Australian and you’ve lived here most of your life. These are your people. Strange how I feel more Irish than anything else.
‘What does your mother call you? Tommy—I bet.’
‘U-huh.’
‘Original.’
‘So what would you call me then?’
He stands still and watches me look at him. I take my time, letting my eyes roam over him. Puma trainers, dark jeans, grey T-shirt. The shattered opal colour of his eyes shakes me. Irish blue. Tinker blue. He screws up his face self-consciously as I settle on his hair. It is matted, unwashed, somehow perfect.
He ruffles it, embarrassed. ‘Still salty from this morning. Sorry.’ His hand moves to his chin. ‘And yeah, I know, I didn’t shave. I didn’t know I’d be …’
I can’t tell he didn’t shave. And I don’t care. ‘You didn’t know you’d be what? Fighting demons tonight? Taking your grandmother to the opera?’
‘Interrogated by a hot wicked girl.’
I open my mouth but I have nothing to say. It’s pretty much the best compliment I’ve ever been given.
He knows it. His grin is evil. ‘So, no witty name for me?’
I snort, shake off the compliment with an insult. ‘Well you’re a bit of a cliché, aren’t you?’ His brow furrows. ‘Come on, you know you’re cute. I’m not going to say it.’
‘You just did.’
Damn it. ‘Yeah, well I didn’t mean it,’ I snap. ‘If you’re desperate for a name I’ll call you Adonis okay? Does that work for your ego?’
He cracks his knuckles. ‘It’ll do.’
I can’t help laughing at his arrogance. He is taking me in his stride and I’m throwing all kinds of crazy at him. ‘But what about me? We were talking about me!’ I insist.
‘We’re back to you?’
‘We never started on me?’ I’m jumping around with frustration.
‘Well stop moving around and I might be able to tell you!’
I stand still, my fingers twitching. ‘Well?’
‘Beautiful—I see a completely gorgeous beautiful girl.’
I’m so unimpressed. ‘Details,’ I demand. ‘I want details.’
‘I love your hair. It’s so long and … shiny?’
‘Boy description!’ I complain. ‘Come on. Be specific.’
‘I don’t know—it’s acres long—like I could mow it.’
Ha. I like it. But I need more. ‘What colour do you see, exactly?’
His eyebrows lift. ‘Well, usually I would go with black. But you’re obviously needing more than that …?’
I shake my head and swallow. This is kind of overwhelming. ‘It’s enough,’ I manage to say. ‘My eyes?’
He takes a step closer and my eyes soak into his like they’re absorbent paper. ‘Weird,’ he says. ‘They’re really blue. I could be looking in the mirror.’
‘I’m black Irish,’ I say softly. Just like my mother. Just like my grandmother. Or maybe it’s the tinker in me?
Then something in him changes. He shrugs away, like he’s seen something truly disturbing flailing around inside me. I feel cold for the first time that evening.
‘What is it?’
He holds out his hand. ‘Let’s go downstairs.’
‘Tell me,’ I insist.
His face contorts with a downtown parade of emotions. ‘Nothing,’ he says finally. ‘You’re too beautiful, I’m just an idiot with words. Let’s go down.’
‘Liar.’ I turn my back to him. He’s seen something in me. Something bad. It’s crushing that he sees it. It ruins me that he won’t tell me what it is. Silence hangs between us. There is nowhere to go with this. My adrenaline has evaporated and the cold night is beginning to goose-pimple my flesh. The man in the apartment stubs his butt out on the ledge and flicks it into the street below. The window shuts with a loud thump. I watch him pull the curtains, shutting out the world. There are hundreds of windows around us. Anyone could be watching. I wish I could shut some curtains around Tom and me.
Tom sighs then speaks. ‘Look Olive, I don’t know what the problem is, I’m just paying you a compliment. If you don’t like it, I can, you know, leave or something.’
There it is.
‘Fine,’ I say.
‘You want me to go?’
I turn around to face him. ‘If you can’t be honest with me, then yes, I do.’
He looks well and truly annoyed then. ‘Yeah, well sue me for not wanting to put a downer on the night, but I guess it’s too late for that.’
I feel bad for him, honestly I do, and I really don’t want him to go, but I cross my arms and pout like a spoilt child. I don’t know what else to do.
He turns to leave. ‘I’ll be downstairs if you want anything.’
‘I just want the truth, Adonis!’ I call out.
He turns back and flings it at me. ‘Loneliness, okay?’ I flinch. His words are like shrapnel. ‘I see goddamn loneliness!’
‘You can see that?’ I’m completely dumb-struck.
He blinks, doesn’t say a word. There is nothing to say. I’m a loner, a loser, a freak—and he can read it clear as sunshine in my eyes.
‘Wow.’ I stretch my neck to the stars, sighing. It really is hopeless.
‘Want to get that drink?’ he says gently.
‘No. You go ahead. I think I’ll head home.’
‘Can I walk you?’
‘No.’
‘No.’
‘Can I see you again?’
I want to. It would be amazing to explore this. But I’m feeling frail as a worn piece of lace.
‘Come on, we need to figure out a new name for you. Olive and Adonis, I’m not sure it works.’ He’s trying to be cute. It works for him—I find it hard not to smile.
‘I don’t know, Tom,’ I shake my head. There’s more to all this than he knows. Much, much more. Do I have the energy for it? Can I do it to him?
‘Look Olive, don’t stress out. It’s simple. I’d really like to see you again, so here’s my number.’ He jams his hand into his back pocket and pulls out a business card. He must be older than I thought. Who has a business card?
‘Just think about it, okay.’ He holds it out but I don’t reach for it. ‘Fine, whatever.’ He lets the card go and we both watch it flutter to the ground.
When I don’t reply he shrugs and walks away.
‘Tom?’ I manage to call out as he pushes the door open.
He turns back.
‘Are you for real?’ I ask quietly.
‘Am I for real?’ His laughter is more an eruption of disbelief, he shakes his head. ‘What a girl,’ he mutters, jamming the Coke bottle in the door as it closes.
And right there is my lick of hope—the boy didn’t lock me out. I reach down to pocket his business card then scuttle after him.