Strange Sally Diamond

‘Look, you fucking weirdo, in the beginning I felt sorry for you, even after what you did to your poor father, because you were on your own, but now everyone feels sorry for you because of what happened when you were a kiddie. How do we know you’re not exactly like your real father? You fucking psycho. Get out of this shop and don’t come back!’

She was shouting now, and the two other customers in the shop were staring at us. I left as quickly as I could, without taking or paying for my groceries. I did my breathing exercises and remained calm but it was most inconvenient. From now on, I would have to shop in the Gala supermarket and I would have to memorize their shelves.

As I walked home, a car pulled up alongside me and the driver rolled down the window.

‘Hey, are you okay? I saw what happened there in Texaco. What a cow. I gave her a piece of my mind after you left. You should report her to the manager.’

‘She is the manager.’

‘May I give you a lift? Sally, isn’t it? I’m Mark. I’ve just moved here. Lucky I’m white, eh?’

‘Is that a joke?’

‘What? Yes … of course it is!’

He had pushed the passenger door open beside me. His eyes seemed kind and his face was pleasant. His hair was receding. His car was old. I could see he was wearing jeans with a shirt and tie. I couldn’t see his shoes. But you can’t judge a book by its cover, or a kidnapping rapist by the smile on his face.

‘No thank you. I don’t take lifts from strangers.’

‘God. How stupid of me to even think … look, I’m sorry. I’m not … like … predatory.’

‘And that is what a predator would say.’ I walked on a little faster. The car stayed where it was for a long time. I got over the brow of the slight hill and down my lane and the car did not pass. Maybe he was not a kidnapper, but if there was one thing Dad was strict about when I was small, it was getting into cars with strangers. Now, obviously, I knew why. That’s what my birth mother had done, and while Conor Geary was still out there, he could come back for me. That man though, Mark, was not Conor Geary. He was perhaps in his mid-fifties.

Despite more breathing exercises, I was a little shaken by my experiences of the day when I got home. I wanted to tell somebody what had happened. I thought of ringing Stella but she was at work and I was in the act of ringing Martha when I remembered what Tina had said about empathy. Maybe it would be hurtful to Martha to hear that Caroline was racist. But I could tell her about the man. Or could I? How would I explain how he started the conversation with me without explaining what Caroline said? I stopped the call. I needed more friends.

That was the day I decided to move house. I didn’t like to feel unsettled on my own. For the first time in my life, I wanted to be around people.

I rang Geoff Barrington, the solicitor, who told me to ring an estate agent. He gave me a phone number for one and told me of a website where I could look at properties for sale. He also told me that I should start looking for a house, preferably before I put mine up for sale. He said that this was one of the big decisions and that I should seek guidance from someone. I thought I was seeking guidance from him. But he said he would handle the business end of things.

I guessed he meant that I should call Angela. I would wait until the weekend, when she was free. In the meantime, I logged on to the website and spent a happy few hours perusing houses in the county. I didn’t want an apartment, although there was one for sale in the village. I wanted to be in the middle of things but I didn’t want to share a corridor. Most of the houses available had three bedrooms but I only needed one, maybe two.

On Saturday afternoon, I called at Angela and Nadine’s house and discussed my options. Nadine immediately suggested the run-down, derelict cottage on Bracken Lane, opposite Martha’s yoga studio. ‘It’s been for sale for years.’

‘I can’t live in that,’ I said.

‘Use your imagination,’ she said. ‘Think of what it could look like.’

‘Don’t you ever watch home-makeover shows on TV?’ said Angela.

‘Yes, I love them, but I want a shower like yours. It would take up half that cottage.’

‘But you could build an extension, double or triple the footprint of the property? I bet you could get the place for half-nothing. You’d need a surveyor and an architect. Look at our kitchen. You think it was built with the rest of the house in 1904? Do you think our paradise shower is a Victorian fixture?’