The Girl with Pink Hair

The Girl with Pink Hair

I ’M COLLECTING MY

post from the basement. I don’t do this often because I’m forever losing the little key. But here I am and, what do you know? Beneath the bank statements and local election paraphernalia in my post box is a piece of junk mail for Thitima from number 515. Apparently, she is entitled to 20 per cent off her next pizza so long as she orders a medium with no extra toppings on a Tuesday in May between three thirty and four o’clock. I am almost at the point of letting the flyer drop into her post box when I realize that an opportunity for mischief has presented itself. And mischief is not to be ignored.

You see, it is not uncommon for me to find myself in the lift with the young folk of the building, and I have spotted, more than once, the way that Daniel from 518 looks at Thitima from 515. The way he holds his breath when she gets into the lift as though he might accidentally say something about his love out loud. He told me a few months ago that he’s homesick. I’m relatively certain the young ones think of me as the grandfather of the lift. Perhaps they think

I’m haunting it. But either way, they tell me things. So I know that Daniel is in the third year of his post-doc in engineering and Thitima is in the fourth and unfunded year of her doctorate in English.

Given how much I enjoyed her recommendation of Gilmore Girls

, I know that Thitima can be trusted. Given that she said she watches it every day, I know she’s lonely.

The flyer is shiny between my fingers, and the gooey, cheesy pizza slices on it do look tempting . Go for it, Eddie

, the flyer says to me. Maybe they can share a slice.

I’m smiling about it all morning, thinking about Daniel standing at Thitima’s door, checking and rechecking his hair, hoping and not hoping that she will open the door … her smile when she sees that it’s him. And all it took was a misdelivered pizza coupon and a little chicanery from an old elevator gremlin to make that happen.

‘No guinea pigs,’ Marjie says to me with a pointed finger as she pulls on her cardigan, leaving me in charge of the shop while she goes in search of something for lunch less disappointing than the Marmite-and-cheese sandwich she brought from home. It had a big blob of green mould along the crust. ‘Ugh, bread,’ she said to me as she threw the sandwich in the bin. ‘I never feel more alone than when I’m confronted with the fact that I can’t get through a loaf of bread before it goes mouldy. If my sons still lived with me, it would be gone in a day. They eat like horses.’

‘Do horses enjoy bread?’ I asked, but Marjie didn’t know.

I imagine Marjie will go to McDonald’s. She likes McDonald’s, but for some reason is rather embarrassed about it. Throws away the wrappers in the bin outside the

shop before she comes in and then pretends she went to Greggs. I bet she orders something beefy at McDonald’s, like a burger with extra beef dripping. (I’ve never been, but I imagine that’s the kind of thing they serve.)

Just after she leaves, a man comes in, browses the hats, tries one on, looks at himself in our wall of mirrors for sale, takes a photo of himself in the hat, puts the hat back on the shelf and then leaves.

And then nothing. Nothing for so long that I pick up Marjie’s Good Housekeeping

magazine and flick through to the March styles to put a spring in your step

. There’s a jumper I think I might look quite good in. It’s a pastel-blue fluffy number from Dorothy Perkins for the wholly unreasonable price of ￡59. I think it would bring out my eyes.

I don’t notice her standing there until I hear her sniff. I lower the magazine to see a young woman with candyfloss-pink hair, dressed all in black and holding a huge cardboard box.

‘Here, please, let me help.’ I move the magazine and my cold cup of tea out of the way and I help her lift the box up on to the counter. It’s such a big box that I can’t see her now.

‘I’d like to donate these,’ she says from behind the box. Her voice is a lot softer than I expected it to be.

‘Thank you very much for the donation.’ I take a donations card from the stack under the counter. ‘May I ask the name of the person donating?’

‘Um, it’s on behalf of … You can just put “Jake”.’ Her voice cracks when she says his name.

I write ‘Jake’ on the donations card.

‘And what’s in the box?’ I ask. ‘Just a general category

helps, for example, toys, shoes, homewares, et cetera.’

‘It’s, um, it’s mostly clothes,’ she says, her voice giving way at the end and making it sound like a question.

I lean around the box and look at her properly.

Her eyes are red raw, but she isn’t crying.

She looks small.

And scared.

And so incredibly sad.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

She nods, even though she is very clearly not okay. ‘He,’ she says, ‘he doesn’t need them any more, so …’

I come around the counter and, without thinking, I open my arms. For a moment, I regret it and fear she’s going to think I’m some sort of deplorable. But she steps into my hug.

I offer her some tea. I offer her some Foxo.

But she doesn’t stay.