Kieran.Stories

On the morning of the dinner party, June told Claire to stand by Greyfriars Bobby. They were playing tourists. June posted the photo to her story. Claire posted it to her story. Taking him home with me. They walked to the castle and joined the queue for tickets. Claire checked her notifications whenever they stopped. There was no way of knowing how many people had liked June’s story.

June told them where to sit. Claire was next to June’s downstairs neighbours. 

‘What is it you do?’ she tried. 

‘I work at Abracadabra,’ he said. ‘The studio on Canongate.’

June appeared. ‘Babe, a bit of help?’ 

Claire got up from the table and went to help June in the kitchen. She was getting the prawn cocktails ready. It was all a bit 80s. It was difficult to watch her trying so hard. 

The table hummed appreciatively. June nodded. She’d put a record on. She had bought the turntable last payday, as a treat for herself. It was mid-priced.  

As well as the neighbours, June had invited a colleague from the hospital. 

Claire listened as neighbour James talked about an exhibition he had visited recently in Glasgow. He was also trying to remember the name of a piece he’d read about online. It wasn’t part of the exhibition he’d been to, but Claire gathered that his monologue had evolved into being about things he liked. She knew his type. 

‘Break Down,’ colleague Siobhan said. ‘That’s its title. He shredded everything he owned.’ 

‘He didn’t drive, then?’ James said. 

‘He did, actually. But I don’t remember what they did with the car. Destroyed, then, not shredded. Whatever.’ 

It was fruit salad. Claire had been dreading it. When she saw the way June had cut the apple into segments, she pushed her bowl away. She swallowed down bitty reflux. She saw yellow when she briefly shut her eyes.

She was in the bedroom, getting some air. Colleague Siobhan came into the room. 

‘I love June, but a cook she ain’t.’

‘I helped her, so it’s my fault too.’

‘You met at uni?’ Siobhan asked. 

‘Yes. You’re at the hospital, aren’t you?’ 

‘Fancy a walk? We could say we were going to the shops?’

Siobhan either meant she was being quiet now, in the moment, or that she was quiet in general. Claire was quiet with a capital Q. ‘There are worse things I could do,’ she said. 

They had been to the Jolly Judge for two, and now they were at Siobhan’s place. 

‘She talks about Liverpool a lot. And you.’

‘She does?’ Claire said. ‘It feels like a long time ago.’ 

‘First time I met June, she was stealing a Twix from the vending machine.’ Siobhan opened her mouth to yawn.   There was a day during their first year in Liverpool, at the TATE on the Albert Dock. They were in the gift shop. June took a postcard without paying. It was a reproduction of Velázquez’s Las Meninas. June had pinned it to the corkboard in her room.

Siobhan asked if Claire wanted a coffee. She let Claire crank. She’d never had to crank for coffee. She went on until there was no resistance from the beans, or whatever. She remembered a school trip to Lancaster Prison. 

‘Here’s what we’re going to do.’ 

She handed Claire a small knife. She didn’t have any apples; a banana would do. She put it down, peeled, on the breadboard.

‘Wait,’ Claire said. 

She took a photo of the banana and posted it to her story. When life gives you apples. She felt much better about herself, she really did. 

She saw her mother peeling open her mouth to insert another bite of kiwi, as her eyes steamed, telling her she mustn’t talk to that girl again, in case she led her astray.