Angela was at the computer trying to find a self-catering holiday in Greece for a pair of very shy gay men. When she next looked up, she was shocked to see that the man who had taken a seat at the counter beside them was Christopher Moore. She stared at him for a moment, then excused herself to the young men and went into the back room, where she leaned her head against a shelf full of City Break brochures. She would have to wait in there until he had gone. She didn’t want him to see her like this: the size twenty-six uniform she wore. The light blue matching jacket and skirt had been especially made for her, at extra cost to the company. They didn’t flatter her. The last time he’d seen her she had been a size twelve, and he had constantly told her that she was beautiful.
He looked terrible himself; unshaven and pinched with cold, as though he had reached the end of an arduous polar journey without the benefit of food and warm clothing. His hair was wet, and hung on his collar. His clothes were laughably inadequate for the weather conditions. His hands, which poked out of the sodden sleeves of his jacket, resembled defrosting joints of beef. There were three deep vertical furrows which ran down to the bridge of his nose, these were new to her, and she had a vision of taking a steam iron and pressing them out and making his face young again. It was him who had stood opposite her house last night and now he’d appeared at her place of work. What did he want?
After five minutes, a colleague, Claire, came into the back room and asked what was wrong. Angela lied and said she felt faint. She would go to the staff-room and lie down until she recovered. She asked Claire to find the shy young men a holiday and hauled herself up the steep stairs to the staff-room. She spread herself over three vinyl chairs and watched Christopher on the security camera. This was trained on the Bureau de Change half of the shop, but frequently swivelled around to show the customers waiting in the holiday section. Christopher was watching the door to the back room. He was waiting for her to come out. There was something about the stillness of his body that signalled to Angela that he would stay there, waiting for her, until the shop closed, if necessary. She knew that if she slipped out of the back door to avoid him that he would turn up the following day, and the day after that, until she was eventually forced to acknowledge his presence.
She watched another of her girls, Lisa, ask him to take his dog outside. She saw him shake his head. She guessed that Lisa was not afraid of the dog. It was Christopher she wanted outside. She knew that she would have to go downstairs and confront him, find out what he wanted.
She pulled herself up and combed her fingers through her hair. There mustn’t be a scene. She would never get another job in the travel industry, not at her age and weight. Her long experience, her fluency in Spanish and German, and her expertise with international train and boat timetables meant nothing today. These skills were redundant now that holidays came tidily packaged, with one press of a computer key. As she walked back down the stairs, she recognised a tension within herself. A part of her was afraid of this disruption to her daily routine, another part of her was thrilled and excited by the prospect of a small personal drama. Before she reached the bottom of the stairs she knew that, whatever happened, she wouldn’t tell Gregory that Christopher Moore had visited her at work.
She went straight to where he sat at the counter.
“Christopher?”
“Hello Angie.”
“Are you looking for a holiday?”
“A holiday?” He laughed at the absurdity of the thought of going on holiday. “No, I want to ask you a question.”
“Go on then.”
“What happened to our baby?”