Jade had chosen well. The brasserie she’d picked was friendly and spacious, with several exits. She’d claimed a table near the counter, in full view of the bar staff, and gestured Mirko to the seat on its far side. Her backpack was stashed under her chair, ready to grab at a moment’s notice.
“What do you actually want from me?” Not that anyone had ever given her a straight answer, but she enjoyed her chance to poke the bear while they waited for her carbonara.
He toyed with the stem of his wine glass while he thought of something to say, watching how the rich liquid caught the light as it moved. Such a deep, deep red.
“You remind me of someone,” he replied eventually.
“Yeah. I get that a lot.” Her abrupt style clashed with the venue’s resolute Christmas vibe. Clearly, the landlord encouraged a ‘more is more’ attitude to holiday decorations.
“I am no threat to you.”
“So you keep saying.” Like all the others, she thought. But OK, there wasn’t a lot he could do in this very public place, and she wasn’t about to refuse a hot meal.
Pity she wouldn’t be able to return to her spot later on. That lovely length of cardboard would go to waste, but she wouldn’t allow him to know where to find her.
She tore into her food as soon as the waiter had placed the plate on the table and acknowledged her order of extra bread and a second soda. A welcome reminder that she wasn’t actually Milica, Mirko thought: their mother would have had a lot to say about elbows on tables and forks in right hands.
“It’s getting way too cold to sleep rough. If I found you a safe place to stay, would you consider it?”
In lieu of a reply, she smirked at him mid-chew. Under the blinking fairy lights, her hair was haloed in alternating shades of pink, mauve and blue.
“OK. Another idea. How about I buy you a meal every few days or so. We could meet up wherever you like. I’ll give you my mobile number, and you just text me.”
“You’re not getting my number.”
“We could just meet up here. Same time next week.”
“Tell you what,” she said. “Central station, on Monday. Meet me in the ticket hall at seven. Meanwhile, can I order a pudding?”
She chose tiramisu. And she left while he was paying at the counter. He stepped out on the pavement, leapt up and went bat. Circling the brasserie from above, he quickly spotted her as she made her way through the park to one of her other hide-outs. She seemed safe enough, he thought, as he settled on a branch to keep watch.
***
As Cara left the cabaret, the temperature caught her by surprise. Wearing a dress outdoors was still new to her – she hadn’t expected that swirl of cold night air around her legs. Usually, she turned back into Charles once she had finished her act, by force of long-established habit. Of late, that habit had begun to grate.
For a few weeks now, her after-show wind-down had simply meant toning down her glam, donning a less conspicuous wig and cultivating the quasi-invisibility that so readily afflicts women as they age. It was as much of a shift as the contrast between buttoned-up Charlie and the Cara the flamboyant performer. A whole new reality to discover, with a different set of rules.
She wondered what Charlie’s office would make of off-stage Cara. Could the day job conceivably cope with her turning up instead of Charlie? Could the clients? Was she keen to find out? Was he? Was it worth the energy? Instead of heading straight for the taxi stand, she stopped at a brasserie to toy with the idea.
As she walked in, she noticed a young woman giving her companion the slip while he had his back turned. A skinny little blonde thing, in a huge parka that had seen better days half a century ago. When he realised, he didn’t seem surprised.
Ignoring the little drama, Cara settled into a window seat, the better to stare at the city centre’s milling crowds. As the brasserie’s multicoloured Christmas lighting twinkled on and off, the outline of her reflection in the pane cycled through a succession of bright hues.
Same face. Different takes.