The Cold - Section 1

A harsh wind swirled around the silent waiting room before shuffling alongside me, embracing me. Having arrived at the train station far too early - as ever - I had plenty of time to wait, and had busied myself with reading Jane Eyre. My first exposure to the book had been some eighteen months earlier, when I first met Jade; she had been studying it, and now, in an effort to fend off my loneliness, I thought it may make me feel closer to her.

Conjuring her image still came effortlessly, though it had been an eternity since I saw the reality of her form before me. I doubt I could ever forget her beauty, the way her black curls fall and frame the flawless porcelain of her face. The contrast suited her, as she was always – in the brief time we were acquainted – capable of being simultaneously grave and playful. As I leafed through my book, I hoped this was still true of her.

A voice over the speaker system disturbed me and alerted me to the imminent arrival of my train, so I placed my ticket inside my book to mark my page, and made my way across the platform. As it rolled in and slowly ground to a halt in front of me the temperature descended yet further. The opening of the doors allowed the warmth of the train to hit me, providing some temporary respite from the chill.

One crowd exited the train as another pushed and shoved in an effort to be the first aboard. I, with no genuine desire to win this race, took a step back and allowed both crowds to dissipate before climbing on. Just as I was doing so, I took a glance down the platform. Could it be?

Jade.

As it happened I was certain of it, but by the time I had taken my seat my mind was ravaged by doubt as to whether or not it had been her. The hair had been hers, for sure. I’d seen those red lips, too, that stood out from the rest of her face; a blood-stain on freshly laid snow. It was highly likely that I'd imagined it though, given that I'd just been thinking of her.

As a distraction, I returned to Jane Eyre. I found it hard to get back into it as my mind was racing with more pressing and personal matters. As I read of Grace Poole, it was a vision of Jade sewing that came to mind. Blanche Ingram? Jade. And so it went on – page after page of ineffective prose, usurped by my own fantasies. Memories of conversations past grabbed my attention, so much so that I gave up on my book entirely and placed it back into the pocket of my duffel coat. My thoughts turned to the present, and to the possible future. If that had been her, what should I do? I didn't have time to give this any real consideration, as she came bounding down the aisle, red lips smiling and blue eyes searching. Searching, as it turned out, for me.

“Tom!” she said, instantly recognising me. “I thought it was you! How've you been?”

“Hi Jade," I said, forcing my nervous lips – which threatened to betray my anxiety – to form a smile in return. “I’m good thanks, how are you?”

Ignoring my question she took the seat beside me, her warm arm grazing mine as she did so. I shuddered, but I hoped it was subtle enough as to be unnoticeable.  As I had slid across the seat to make room, my duffel coat had awkwardly made its way beneath me, and I could feel the copy of Jane Eyre, still in the pocket, now underneath my legs. The sensation forced an idea into my mind; one which, despite the lack of appropriate time for reflection, I acted upon. I would adopt Rochester's style, and see how that went.

“I’m glad I’ve bumped into you again, Jade,” I began. “Since the last time we spoke, I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and I’ve wanted – for some time now – to let you know the strength of my affection.”

She handled this comment exceptionally well. Evidently, she remembered me well enough to take this in the best possible way – which is to say, in no real way at all.

“Thanks,” she said, her red lips curling to suggest she knew not what to think of me, but her eyes shimmering in recognition of the compliment.
I pressed on. “I think you inspire something in me. I suspect you find this odd – and think me overly forward - but, having found an avenue which may lead me to happiness where elsewhere I see only dead-ends, I can’t just ignore it. You’re my only chance for becoming a better person, Jade.”
With that, I sighed with relief. Imitation enabled me to say what I wanted and how I felt without putting any of my true self forwards. What's more, I was quite enjoying talking like this; it was strange, and I knew it, but it was quite fun adopting a persona.

She sighed an awkward sigh.

“Thanks,” she said again, with lips repeating their earlier sentiment and eyes now sharing it. There was something else there, too. Confusion. Suspecting, as I did, that my sense of style had either not closely enough resembled its model, or that she had potentially forgotten all she once knew of that model, I took the book from my pocket and placed it – cover up – on my lap.

“Can you remember reading this?” I inquired. “You were, the first time I saw you. It’s how I picture you when remembering you. That is, in fact, why I am reading it now. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get the chance to see you again – I am very grateful to get that chance now – and I thought the book offered a way of reminding myself of you, and the promise of hope you instilled in me.”

Ignoring the strangeness of my address she inquired as to what the hope she had instilled was a hope of.

“Hope for me as a person. The hope of a man, growing and realising his potential, through association with a woman. The hope that, together, we could forge a path in this world; a path which leaves my faults and fallibilities behind me and leads us both to a greater destiny.” I suspected I may have over-played my part with this latest passage, purple as it was. As much as I wanted this to be a serious conversation, I couldn't resist the small part of me that wished simply to perform a role. This part of me had certainly won out, and had almost certainly sabotaged all other intentions.

“That sounds a sensible hope, Tom,” she said. “Though I fail to see my part in it! We barely know each other…”

She was right, of course. Rather than having any great cause to view us as a potentially great couple, or even as two people who might become a couple at all, it was more the case that she was the only person I’d met in the last two years who excited any sense of passion in me at all. This passion, once excited, had stewed and simmered for eighteen months, and, stirred as it had been by my own private aspirations and ideals, had now developed into this odd vision of a future which was in no way connected to things past or present. So engrossed, too, had I been in reading my book whilst sat waiting for the train that the decision to emulate it had been one which came rapidly to me. Regret for that decision approached just as rapidly.

Whilst I had sat thinking this, and recognising the possible error of judgement I had made, an awkward silence had grown between us, which somehow managed to turn the narrow gap between us into an impassable gulf. There was no further grazing of arms or sharing of warmth. Jade had  turned her head so as to signify the end of the conversation. I admired the side-profile before me - her ever-present dimple, unique in its lack of reliance on a smile to bring it into being. Upon realising that my staring was probably uncalled for, I glanced back down to my book.

I was not yet half the way through. My travels with Jane Eyre were undeveloped, and Mr Rochester had only recently made an appearance. He had proven himself enigmatic and verbose, and championed the potential that Jane held to be a restorative influence in his life. Unfortunately, though, he had made no specific or successful advances, and as such, I had no idea where to take this conversation with Jade. If only our chance meeting had occurred a week later, or my reading commenced a week earlier, perhaps this would have all turned out better.
As things were, it had turned out how it had turned out. Depressed, I shuffled past Jade without even saying goodbye, and made my way down the aisle. I exited the train, back into the cold.
 



Having left the train station some fifteen minutes ago, it – and the village to which it belonged - was now barely noticeable in the distance behind me. Nevertheless, the incident was still right there alongside me; the ghost of Jade taunted me and my inability to seriously discuss any matter with those with whom it ought to be discussed. My displeasure with myself had manifested itself in a heaviness of breath, which, in the cold autumn air, projected itself in front of me as a fog, vast and impenetrable. I was grateful for the visual reminder of my mortality.

Frost lined the path I walked slowly along, and each step I took was met with a crisp crunch. The hedge to my left, too, was coated in silvery white ice, and its leaves were brittle sheets which shattered in my grasp. At one point I stopped my journey and stood, for a good few moments, destroying them one by one, until the whiteness reminded me of her face, and I could destroy no more. Here again was evidence that the mere memory of her could curtail the worst of my tendencies. Perhaps I had been right, and her presence in my life would indeed be what it took to send me down a better path. Shaking this thought from my mind I continued down the path I had already chosen.

As I have already mentioned, autumn had touched much of what surrounded me and frozen it in time, halting its progress and growth and development. I felt the same, though owing much more to a lack of being touched than merely to which season it was. Onwards I walked for a further twenty minutes, by which time all remnants of civilisation had long since faded, if not over the horizon then at least behind the shroud of grey which filled the air. I came presently to a clearing in the hedge, and, without real reason or reflection, walked through it.

The field had clearly been set-aside, as it showed no evidence of having been put to any use - or perhaps even visited at all - by its owner for several harvests. Where one may have expected to see orderly rows of crops and a certain unenviable regularity of organisation, there was in fact, to put it as bluntly as possible, a mess. Organic, natural, living – yes. But a mess.

Metal of farm equipment long-since-left lay everywhere, the rust - testament to the length of its abandonment - scarcely managing to make itself seen through the thick foliage which threatened to suffocate it. Though green dominated the scene, there was no uniformity to it. Grasses blanched by the weather retained a nominal greenness, although they seemed to be plagued by a sense of ennui and as though they were almost ready to give up on life. In contrast, meadowsweet had braved the chill and still stood proud, its dark green leaves and creamy flowers bastions of summer and happier times. Flowers unknown to me had evidently struggled to bloom, and many buds remained, barely broken. Vines and creepers dominated the whole scene; when viewed from a certain angle it looked as if the field’s plant-life was trying to strangle itself; from another, as if it were all trying to escape. I stood for a while, enthralled with the vision before me. The section directly before me was as I just described it, though further in the distance the field more closely resembled a blanket of white. I surveyed it, marvelling at the purity of it all, until my eye hesitated upon spotting a cluster of red primroses, their scarlet petals exacerbated by the colourlessness of their surroundings. At first I saw the flowers as they truly were, gently swaying in the wind. It took next to no time before all I saw were lips, parting and closing. Frustrated, I turned around and walked on, back along the path.
The sun was low in the sky, almost ready to descend and leave the countryside in darkness. With no artificial lights to be seen, I feared having to navigate solely by the pale light of the moon and so quickened my pace. After an hour’s brisk walking, the next town’s lights made themselves seen, having successfully battled through the dreariness. Safe in the knowledge that civilization’s glow would suffice to guide me on the final leg of the journey, I allowed my pace to slow down once more and slowly ambled along, enjoying the cracks and shards of sunlight bouncing off the crystals of ice as the bottom of the red sun collapsed into the horizon. One such shaft illuminated a pool of water, and it was this which consumed my attention next.

The pool was an ordinary one, lined with broken rocks, and silt, and dark moss. The shallows were clear and colourless. As the water got deeper, my ability to see through it and perceive the pool’s bed diminished. It struck me that this was a depressing reflection of real life, and my tendency to revel in the success with which I perceived and understood shallow superficialities, whilst making no real effort to engage with the deep and the meaningful. I found myself stood in the shallows – my feet still clearly visible – with a stone in my hand. I tossed it into the centre, where it immediately disappeared. Ripples emanated from the centre of importance, and finally reached and crashed against me, stood as I was, ankle-deep in trivial thoughts.

Finally, I headed onwards, and completed the journey by the light of the moon, which smiled upon the wet foot-prints I left in the frost.
 




Having arrived at the town, I had quickly made my way to the hotel I had booked. I signed in, sorted myself out in my room, and headed downstairs and took a comfortable seat in the bar, where I ordered a drink and continued reading my book.

An attractive girl, around my age, came in once I had been settled for a while, and positioned herself across the room from me; as I tried to read I couldn’t help but catch the odd glimpse of her as she played with her drink and her hair impatiently. I also couldn’t help but notice that she shot regular glances in my direction, typically accompanied by a smile. The room was warm, on the edge of being stifling, and her cheeks were full of a flush which highlighted rather than dampened her freckles. Again she looked at me and smiled, and this time a lock of her red hair had fallen and touched her upturned mouth. As she brushed it away, our eyes caught one another’s and there was no avoiding it. I lowered my book and smiled in reply.

Evidently perceiving the smile as an invitation, she approached me, glass in hand. It landed on the table next to mine; she landed on the seat next to me.

“That’s my favourite book,” she announced, gesturing to my copy of Jane Eyre on the table-top. Despite myself, I found this strange girl’s smile and willingness to talk contagious, and I felt at ease.

“I’m not very far through it,” I began, “but I’m really enjoying it so far. My name’s Tom, by the way.”

“Hi Tom! Becky.” And with that, she stretched out a hand which I couldn’t resist shaking. She reclined further into the seat, and I got the distinct impression she had every intention of this being a long conversation. “What is your favourite book, then?” she asked.

Instinctively, I replied that it was ‘The Catcher in the Rye.’

“I’ve not read it,” she said. “Though I’ve heard it’s very good! Not very optimistic, though, is it?”

“I guess not…”

“I typically prefer reading books which cheer me up, but I suppose everyone reads for different reasons.”

“It does cheer me up. Anyway, I guess I mainly like it for what the book means to me than just for the book itself.”

With that, she shot me another radiant smile – somehow wider now than the previous efforts, as though she were only now sincerely pleased, having drawn something personal out of me. “What does it mean to you then?”

“Well, I think I must’ve read it twenty times when I was fourteen or fifteen. God that’s eight years ago, maybe I should grow up and get a new favourite book…” I said with a nervous laugh.

“Don’t be silly! It’s an important age; I can see why you still feel attached to it. Why did you keep re-reading it, though?”

“I just… got it. Know what I mean? And besides, I just loved the copy I had. I’d taken it out of the library and the library closed down before I was due to return it, so I just sort of kept it. I always had it with me, and the cover had fallen off and the pages were all battered and torn by the end because I read it so much.”

She stopped me there, and asked if I wanted another drink. I told her I’d get them, and made my way over to the bar and came back a few moments later with a gin & tonic for each of us.

“What did you mean by the end?” she asked. A look of confusion evidently spread across my face, because she explained what she meant. “Earlier, you said that the book was all battered and torn by the end. It just seemed a funny thing to say.”

“Oh right! Well, I do still have the book, but it’s just not the same copy. I’ve got a new one,” I said, intending to leave it there.

“Why? I thought the whole reason you liked it was because the copy was sentimental to you?” Her questioning could’ve seemed intrusive if it hadn’t come from her. As it was, I didn’t particularly feel pressed by her warm eyes. In fact, at this point I stopped and looked directly into them, and it was then I first realised how deep and attractive they were, and how strange it was that they should be emerald green. It jarred with the rest of her colouring, though the effect was, on the whole, pleasing. I felt like sharing this observation with her, though thought it best to stick to the line of conversation we were already on.

“No you’re right, I wish I still had that copy. I gave it to my girlfriend at the time. She asked why I always carried it around with me, I guess she thought it was a little weird. So I wrote her some notes all across the book, in the margins and between the paragraphs. You know, just times we’d spent together and stuff I thought she’d remember or find interesting? Anyway, I gave it to her so she could read it.”

“That’s really sweet,” she said. “Are you still together now?”

“Nope. We broke up not long after that actually. I asked her for my book back a few months after, and she gave me a brand new, store-bought copy. I guess she was trying to be nice, and thought I’d prefer that to my actual copy.”

“Shame…”

And that was that.

The warmness of the room had already worked away at the ice in our drinks, and I finished mine in two attempts. I’d always been a quick drinker, and whilst I was enjoying Becky’s company, there was a slight sense that awkwardness might join the two of us and intrude on the conversation. I told her I’d be right back, intending to go to the bar to get myself a drink, but she finished hers too and insisted that it was her turn.
I watched her as she snaked herself around the table and walked over to the bar. She was in a skirt, and it bounced freely as she did, and the whites of her thighs intrigued me. I entertained the thought that perhaps, as I had gone to the bar earlier, she had likewise watched me and suffered a similar sense of attraction, but I forced this to the back of my mind and resumed watching her. As she leaned forwards, trying to get the attention of the serving staff, her skirt revealed yet more flesh. She now had my whole attention. Her skin was smooth and flawless as a still lake. The contours of her body told a story of sensuality which those girls who make an effort to do so can only hint at. I desired her; there was little use in denying that. I fear to this day that my face made this evident as she turned around and saw me looking in her direction, though she made no reference to it once she had returned to our table. Emboldened by drink, and the knowledge that I would most likely never see her again, I shared with Becky my earlier observation about her attractive eyes. I had no further intention; no ulterior motive. I enjoyed her company and simply felt like paying her a compliment. It seemed to go down well.
For Becky, commenting on my book had clearly not just been an opening gambit; she persisted.

“What do you think of Jane Eyre, then?” she asked.

“Novel, or character?”

“The book!”

“Well, I really like it. It seems good, and even though I think you’re not supposed to fancy Jane I do quite.”

“Why do you think you’re not supposed to?” she asked, with a confused tone.

“Well it labours the point that she isn’t beautiful, doesn’t it? I mean I obviously know you’re meant to like her, but I thought the whole point was that she wasn’t the stereotypical attractive heroine.” I replied.

“I suppose. I always thought the book tried quite hard to make objectively unattractive figures attractive.”

“Oh, like Rochester I guess!”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, he’s described as being quite unattractive, and Jane even tells him to his face he isn’t handsome. I haven’t finished it yet but surely he’s the ‘romantic lead’ in it, as it were…” I suggested.

A look passed across Becky’s face that was hard for me to give a name. I guess, in hindsight, that she was trying to think what to say next without giving the novel’s ending away.

“I’m not so sure. Rochester isn’t the romantic hero he could have been… In fact, by the time you finish the book, I’m not so sure you’ll even like him all that much anymore.”

There was a pause after she said that. My mind raced all the way from the hotel lobby, back down the country path, across the train station’s platform and back to the seat next to Jade. Perhaps her unimpressed response to our conversation was not because she thought me strange, after all. Perhaps she fully understood I was trying to talk like Mr Rochester – in jest – and simply disliked this fact because I was wrong about him being a romantic character… I knew, privately, that this was not a likely explanation – that in fact her response had been a perfectly appropriate one, considering how little I knew her and how strongly I spoke of my feelings for her. Nevertheless, I took considerate solace in assuming that her objection lay more with Rochester than with me. Just like I had initially adopted his style (or attempted to) in order to avoid putting myself under too close an inspection, I could now shift all responsibility for my own failings onto him.

Despite Becky’s suggestion, my admiration and appreciation of Rochester was growing by the minute.

Remembering Jade did not do wonders for my conversation with Becky. It had gotten late, so I suggested we call it a night. I asked if she was planning on being around for much longer and explained that I should very much like to see her again, and I left the bar and went to bed armed with her number and the promise of dinner.
 





I spent the majority of the next day doing precisely what I had come here to do, and took in the many sights and sounds on offer. Freeing my mind of the ghosts of imagined love-lives which plagued me, I casually sauntered around the town, generally enjoying the atmosphere and thinking of nothing in particular.

Two glorious hours were spent in the window seat of a coffee shop, people watching. The crowd of people milling past, oblivious to their observation, provided me with an almost endless source of entertainment. A favourite game of mine was to spot couples and then attempt to discern how well their days were going. Frowns on the faces of girlfriends betrayed resentment and frustration, whilst smiles on the faces of others suggested contentment and an enjoyment of the togetherness in which they found themselves. My efforts at the game on that particular morning, however, threw up a conundrum. Upon seeing one couple, my immediate inclination was to conclude that they were having a bad day; each of them walked solemnly, steely-eyed and grim-faced, and not a word passed either’s lips. You can agree with me that inferring a malaise had set upon the couple was not unreasonable.  Surprisingly, and with seemingly no provocation, the man and the woman turned to one another and shared so tender and passionate an embrace as to warm the hearts of all onlookers, even the most prudish amongst them. Having gotten my estimation of the couple’s feelings for one another so drastically wrong, I couldn’t help but doubt the prior guesses made that morning. It somewhat soured my enjoyment of the little game I had created for myself; I drank my coffee and set off to further explore the town.

The wind was bracing, and I had pulled the hood of my duffel coat as close to my face as possible in a vain effort to keep warm. Blood flushed to my extremities in response to the wind, and all was red and flush. After a while, when I was satisfied I had explored sufficiently, I gave in to Nature and sought shelter indoors. I found a nice bar, entered, and ordered myself a drink and some food. A few chapters of Jane Eyre, and perhaps more importantly, a few drinks down the line, I found myself calling Becky and enquiring if she still wanted to spend the evening together. Fortunately she still did; my coldness and brevity at the end of the evening prior had evidently not been too off-putting. Encouraged and optimistic, I hurried back to the hotel to ready myself.

We had arranged to meet at eight, so at quarter to I stole away from my room and waited downstairs in the bar. To steady my returning nerves, I ordered, and swiftly dispatched, a gin & tonic. I didn’t have long to wait, but had I, it would have been worth it; when Becky descended the stairs I was fortunate to be supporting myself at the bar, as I suspect I would’ve needed it. She was beauty in a green dress. The flames of her hair licked at her naked shoulder, and cast a glow which sparkled off the emeralds of her eyes. She greeted me with warmth undeserved, though welcomed.

“Hello,” she said, before adding, “You look great.”

I was unjustifiably frustrated that she had got a compliment in first, as it meant that I felt I could no longer offer my own celebration of beauty without it seeming simply as though I were acting out of an acquired sense of obligation. My frustration, though severe, did not, however, prevent me from taking great satisfaction in her words, and a smile found its way onto my face.

“Thanks Becky. You look… gorgeous! I love your dress.”

“I’ve had it a while but not really had occasion to wear it, so I guess I should be thanking you, really.”

After enquiring if she wanted a drink before we left, and finding myself answered with a no, I took her hand and led her from the hotel, and towards our destination. When we arrived at the restaurant I was treated to a fleeting sense of celebrity as all eyes were on my date and me; though I knew the truth about its source I relished the attention nonetheless. The conversation was as intoxicating as the wine, and I must admit that as our discussion meandered its way through a variety of topics her wit and intelligence made a markedly stronger opinion on me than it had during our first meeting. It was fair to say that by the time dinner was over I had very much warmed to her.

As we left the restaurant and found ourselves on a quaint, cobbled street, snowflakes began to fall.

“Ooh!” she squealed, with an attractive innocence. Her face lit up, and she reached into her bag and retrieved a black hat. She put it on, but it couldn’t contain the red curls; they struggled free and fell, in disarray, across her face still.

“I’ve had a really great time, Becky,” I said. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am you came and spoke to me yesterday.”

“Me too. We’ve got Jane Eyre to thank for that!”

As we began to walk aimlessly through the streets the snowfall thickened and the fallen snow deepened. Once or twice I almost lost my footing, though thankfully this went unnoticed. I love the way places look at night when snow has fallen. The whiteness reflects all sources of light, and the scene manages at once to maintain the mystery and majesty of darkest night, whilst its inhabitants enjoy the brilliance of day, and can see all clearly. In this ethereal, reflected light, Becky’s beauty struck me yet harder. I reeled.

The cold was getting to her; I had enjoyed too much wine and conversation to really notice. We stopped at the corner of a street, and as she began to shiver, I removed my scarf and placed it around her. My hands brushed her neck and cheek as I was doing so, and smooth and cold as they were, the sensation was truly like ice. Despite this, my hand lingered for what seemed an eternity. Just as it began its shy retreat, hers shot up to meet it, and our fingers interlocked. I found myself backing away from the street corner until I had come to rest against the brick wall of a long-closed record shop; to this day I can’t remember whether I had dragged her with me or whether she had pushed me with her. In either case, our lips met.

The rest of me locked in passion, my hands retained sense enough to caress Becky’s hair whilst we kissed. I played with her ear, and curled her locks around my fingers, and ran my hand right through it. That which had earlier reminded me of fire did not burn, though her hat had already generated some considerable warmth which was more than noticeable on that freezing night. Her mouth was warm, too. She tasted slightly sweet, and there was none of the awkwardness which can often accompany a first kiss; it was as though we had known each other intimately for an age. I pulled away and, with a hand on each of her cheeks, met her forehead with my own. Then we stood, smiling at each other but not saying a word, for countless moments. For all I knew, and know, it could have been seconds or an hour.

It was she who shattered the silence.

“I know I haven’t known you long,” she began, “But you’ve already made such an impression on me.”

As I didn’t say anything, she was forced to continue. “Do you know what I mean? I haven’t met anyone in a long time that has made me feel this way…”

Before she could tell me I was her only hope for becoming a better person, I stopped her. “That’s nice.” All I could think about was my conversation with Jade and how I’d said similar things to her, only to be here, now, with somebody else. It wasn’t that I suspected Jade would be annoyed or downhearted by the development; I was painfully aware of her indifference. I still could not shake the weight of hypocrisy that had fallen upon my shoulders. How could I, having determined that it was Jade who could make me realise my full potential, be enjoying myself in this cheap manner now? Yes, Becky was attractive – nobody could deny that – but did I really feel as though she could improve me or better me in any meaningful way? Acutely aware that the answer to this last question was a no, I began to resent her almost as much as I resented myself. This was a stupid thing to have spent the evening doing, and it was all Becky’s fault for approaching me yesterday. I had neither sought nor desired this; I had been swept up in somebody else’s game, and now it was time for me to take control of my own circumstance once more.

“Look,” I said awkwardly. “I’m going to head off. It’s getting kind of late.”

“But we’re going back to the same place?” she said, a smile still evident, though laced with confusion now.

“I’ve had a bit too much to drink and I need to walk around a bit and clear my head. It’s cold though, and we’re not far – you should just get back and get warm again.” That was certainly true; the cold was biting now, and I was more aware of it than I had been previously.

To Becky’s credit, I think she perceived that I was not solely interested in her welfare and warmth, and, when many people would have pressed matters, she nodded in polite agreement with me and began to head off towards the hotel. After just a few steps, she turned back around and planted a chilling kiss on my cheek, and wished me a good night. As she walked away she was surrounded by falling diamonds, and – though I hated myself for doing it – I couldn’t help but watch her with an eager eye and think how glorious she looked.

She was gone, yet I remained stood at the same corner for a further fifteen minutes at least. As wine and enjoyment wore off, the night’s chill took a firmer and firmer grip of me until I cursed the sky upon realising I had lost my scarf. I cursed Becky for beginning this foolish episode, and then I cursed Jade for reappearing in my thoughts and ruining it. I found myself questioning the use and purpose of an ideal, if it is unattainable. Surely the sole function it performs is to highlight the shortcomings of all else. I cursed Jade’s perfection yet stronger, realising now that she had flaunted herself and her merits, taunting me, before leaving my life as quickly as she had entered it. The chief consequence of my experiencing her and drinking in her beauty and her character was that I could not escape it. The ghost of a great and unattainable thing leered over my shoulder and prevented me from enjoying a good thing. I cursed this ghost strongest of all.

I found myself standing now in a dense covering of snow. It being night, and Becky and I having been the only people on the street since the arrival of the first cautious powder, it all lay undisturbed; perfect. The purity of it overwhelmed me, both in terms of the blinding whiteness and the perfect stillness. It was the very idea of tranquillity.

I took my boot and began forcing great, black marks into the snow. Furiously, my foot worked with a mind of its own, destroying the beauty it found beneath it. It worked quickly, but with a distinct sense of purpose. Where once had been perfect whiteness and joy, the word ‘Jade’ now lay there, black and malign.
 





A most unwelcome knock at the door woke me up early the next morning. As my resolution to ignore the knocking strengthened, it too seemed to increase in intensity. Just as it stopped, and I thought I was able to rest once more, the harsh, shrill voice of a woman entered the room.

“Hello?”

Not recognising it, I saw no harm in ignoring it.

“Hello?”

Louder this time. Begrudgingly, I got out of bed and pulled a plain green tee-shirt over my head, and groped my way across the room and to the noisy door. Wearily applying weight to the handle I grew frustrated as nothing happened. I swore at myself and instructed the voice to wait a minute, whilst I stumbled back across the room and grabbed the key-card to open the door from out of my wallet. At last I opened it, and my eyes were greeted with a middle-aged woman, cleaning equipment in hand, wearing a bored expression.

“Can I help?” I asked in a tone of voice which made clear that I was making no effort at all to disguise my annoyance.

“I was just checking if anybody was in…” came the timid reply.

“Why?”

“I am to clean the rooms, and I just find vacant rooms first to avoid waking people up.”

I struggled to figure out if she was being serious. Whilst the voice from inside the room had clearly not been enough to assure her the room was not vacant, now she had seen me she was clearly satisfied, and turned to go.

She said, “But as you’re in, I’ll go and find another room.”

“Well now you’ve woken me up you might as well clean the room, surely.”

“No it’s no problem sir, I’ll come back later.”

Raising my voice, I told her that if she was going to wake people up she might as well do it for a purpose, and I instructed her to clean the room. The bored look in her eye turned to quiet fury, but her attitude was subservient, and she sheepishly crept past me, and set to work cleaning the room.

I think she had expected me to leave her to it. Instead, I lay on the hotel’s surprisingly comfortable bed and silently supervised. The work was, I’m sure, uncomfortable in these circumstances, but she did not rush it – either for fear of my complaining, or so as to not grant me the satisfaction, I suppose. When the job was finally done, the woman gathered her equipment and made her way over to the door. Before leaving, she stopped and apologised once more for waking me, and hoped she hadn’t ruined my stay. Though she waited a significant time for some reply or reconciliation, none came, and she closed the door behind her, unsatisfied in that respect.

I turned onto my side, embraced my knees, and entertained private thoughts of gratitude for having met somebody onto whom I could project the disappointment I felt about the previous evening.
 




When I finally roused myself for the second time – having fallen asleep briefly after the maid abandoned me – I took myself to the hotel’s bar.

“Gin and tonic, please.”

“The bar opens at 4 in the afternoon sir, I’m afraid.”

“Oh of course,” I said, slightly embarrassed. “A large black coffee then please.”

“I’ll bring it over for you when it’s ready; take a seat.”

Despite having only been there a few times, I found myself relatively annoyed to see someone else sat in what I deemed my seat. I petulantly sat further into the warm room, at one of the numerous identical tables. To busy myself I toyed with the cutlery whilst I waited for my coffee; on its arrival I requested a newspaper and a pen, and I whiled away the next hour attempting to complete the crossword. I failed, though I got so engrossed that my coffee went cold, and when I resigned myself to leaving the puzzle unfinished I had to order a new drink.

Burying my head in the paper and reading it cover to cover, to anyone observing I would have seemed totally normal, at ease, and occupied. I was, however, merely playing the part; I had stationed myself here with the sole intent of waiting for a chance to see – and hopefully talk to – Becky. I periodically shot hopeful glances over the top of the paper to the stairwell, and found myself repeatedly disappointed. Undeterred, I remained at my post and maintained lookout through several cups of coffee, ever vigilant for the approach or passing of the red haired beauty.
When I thought of her hair I noticed that my hand, with a mind of its own once more, was caressing the air just above the table’s surface; evidently, they were remembering the kiss. Whilst my hands reminisced, I instead took to contemplating what the hair reminded me of. The connection I had forged between it and fire should now be established to the point of common-place, but there was something further it stirred in my mind which I was struggling to pin down.

Allie Caulfield!

That was it. I knew the other night when we first met and discussed ‘The Catcher In The Rye’ whilst I sat admiring her hair that some connection had formed in my sub-conscious, waiting to properly realise itself as a clear thought. And now here it was.

The description in the book of Allie and his red hair, which surfaced whenever Holden felt at his lowest, struck me as reminiscent of how Becky had entered my life at such a nadir. Whilst I had granted her it, she never really stood a chance; my mind was all over the place. Thinking about Allie, Becky, and their red hair led me, in turn, to thinking of my prized, battered old copy of my favourite book. I had been disinclined to tell Becky the whole truth about it when discussing it with her.

Once the girl who received the book from me broke up with me, I had wanted the book back immediately. It was all I would discuss with her for weeks on end, until finally she capitulated and agreed to meet me to return it. I wasn’t sure why I was so insistent to get it back; I felt hurt and, to be honest, think I sought refuge in its pages. When we met and she handed me the brand new copy, I had lost my temper. She was brought to tears, and it was the last time we ever met or even spoke. I was as upset as she was, though I was totally indifferent to the hostility between us; I was mourning my book.

I immediately went home and read it. It was only upon reading this modern edition that I discovered that the copy I had cherished for so long had been an abridged copy, printed in an earlier time, and that – through sensitivity to the reader - had omitted the section with the writing on the wall. When I read it in this new copy, I was disgusted. My favourite book did not contain any mention of swearing; this, therefore, was not a copy of my favourite book. I closed it and placed it on the windowsill where, to my knowledge, it remains.

Having comprehensively wound myself up about the consequences of giving things I knew I would continue to like to people of whom the same could not be said, I vowed to not leave this town without getting my scarf back from Becky. Willing to sit and wait no longer I took control of the situation and called her. She seemed cold on the phone, and I was informed that she was engaged for the entirety of the day. After some gentle persuasion it was agreed that we would meet the following morning for breakfast.

I went back upstairs, made a mess of the room, and went back to sleep.
 





If it’d been up to me I’d have eaten an hour earlier, as my stomach had been growling at me in protestation for some time before I finally ventured downstairs. I had decided to wait until I was with Becky, as it seemed odd to meet for breakfast on a full stomach. We left the hotel together after an awkward greeting, and set off in search off somewhere suitable.
Nature was reluctant to throw up any surprises; the morning was frigid and the wind was pinching aggressively at my nose and cheeks. I could only assume my scarf was in Becky’s handbag but I thought better of asking for it so bluntly and forthrightly. For her part, Becky was dressed appropriately, and still managed to look sophisticated whilst wrapped up in countless layers. A thickly knit cream hat crowned her and covered her hair so that her eyes were finally given the chance to shine free from competition. They were piercing.

“I like your hat,” I said, hoping a compliment would cause the mood to thaw.

“Thanks.” The chill persisted and I was left hoping that things would improve once we actually found somewhere to be seated and to settle down.

Walking down the street with her made me feel uncomfortable, because I couldn’t fight the temptation to imagine what we would look like to someone sat in a coffee shop window. Surely if it were me observing this pair I would conclude that they despised one another? Not a word passed either of our lips, and we scarcely looked at each other; no gesture or expression served as evidence for any sentiment between us other than a quiet ambivalence. Just as Becky led the way into a small café she knew of, I was reminded of the couple I had seen the other day, and how they had surprised me with their unexpected display of affection. It left me with an unshakeable sense of optimism, though if I were honest with myself I knew this was unreasonable.

We were seated and each sipping a black coffee before anything was said.

“Why did you leave me the other night, Tom?” She was stirring her drink, and did not look up.

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask for an apology…”

I sighed. This was going to be harder even than I had anticipated, not least because I had been digesting exactly these questions myself and had, by this point, failed to come up with any satisfactory explanations.
“I know you didn’t, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I don’t know why I left you. It’s hard to explain, but I just couldn’t handle what you were saying. And, I guess, I couldn’t handle what I imagined you were about to say, though I know that’s unfair.”

“I was only saying I found it strange how much we’d get on in so short a time! Unless you’re in the habit of dating and kissing people within twenty-four hours of meeting them, I fail to see what’s wrong with that.”

She was right, of course. Had I not been in the middle of an episode regarding Jade I’d have thought nothing of her comments; in fact I’d have had to agree with her. It was strange. We had gotten on well. That made it all the more problematic for me.

Intuitive as ever, she asked me if there was somebody else.

“Yes and no,” I said, attempting to apologise with my eyes for the frustratingly cryptic response. “I’m not involved with anybody else, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“There is still somebody else, though. It’s complicated. It’s been so long since I’ve been with anybody, and I’ve spent so long fascinated by this girl that it’s become sort of a spectre for me. I’ve built it up and built it up and built it up, and even though I know it’s totally unreasonable and unrealistic, I can’t help but compare everyone and everything to this ideal I’ve built up.”

I paused and tilted my head as if to ask if she in any way understood me. Granted a nod of her head, I continued.

“That isn’t completely right though. I don’t want to say I walked away from you because you didn’t compare. That isn’t it at all – I think you’re stunning, and we’d had a genuinely nice night, right?” Again, she nodded, her emerald eyes fixed on the spoon she still stirred in the now-empty mug. “It was just what you said, about my having a big impact on you in so short a time, it just reminded me of something I’d said to her. I wanted to say something to her, but couldn’t put it into words properly, and the whole conversation was a bit of a nightmare really. I really wasn’t leaving you, I suppose – but trying to run away from that…”

“Don’t you dare give me some ‘it’s not you it’s me’ rubbish Tom.”

Before I could apologise again we were interrupted by the waitress bringing us some toast. I was fairly grateful for both the interruption and the food. Becky picked at hers, but I had waited long enough and I couldn’t stop myself from eating heartily. As I was eating, she seized the opportunity and made it her time to speak.

“Right. I was quite keen and quite enjoying your company, I think that much should be clear. You’ve freaked me out a bit though Tom. One minute we’re kissing, and I make a throw-away remark and you go off on one in your head about a girl you’re not even with, and leave me in the cold and the dark and the snow. What was I supposed to think?”

She paused to take a bite, but I felt as though her question was in no real way searching for an answer, so I gave none.

“I think you’re interesting. For fear of setting you off again, I’ll repeat myself. I enjoyed our date, and I can’t remember the last time I liked somebody so much after so little time. But now I see that you’re just in a really bad place and I just think you need to sort yourself out. If you do, then feel free to get back in touch. As things are though, I want to say goodbye.”

There was an unquestionable and undeniable sense of finality to her remarks, so I sat there in silence as she stood up from the table and walked away from me. She had made it to the door with my eyes locked on her before she turned around and walked back towards me. She reached into her bag and pulled out my scarf and offered it to me, her arm outstretched.

I pointed to the snow which had once again begun to fall and said, “You keep it.”