Islands

Islands

B ELLA TOLD ME

that Thoreau said we ought to beware all enterprises that require new clothes, but as I stand in the River Island changing room bedecked in my new green jeans and the black striped shirt that the saleschild recommended, I conclude that the thing we really

ought to beware of is people who try to dissuade us from evolving our look.

‘How’s it going?’ the saleschild calls through the curtain. He can’t be more than twelve. He seems amused by me, keen to break the monotony of his day of labour with some styling advice.

‘Excellent,’ I call through the curtain. ‘I’ll take the lot!’

I emerge into the frantic Saturday crowd in the Bullring shopping centre with my River Island bag crinkling in my hand and, as I am swept by the tide of people towards the jewellers, I feel as though anything might be possible.

I pull out my phone. Ethel123 has not replied to my message, and neither has Olive_8. Phoebe is online now, but she hasn’t written back. Nobody has sent me any ‘roses’ and nobody has matched with me based on the photograph section.

Suddenly, fewer things seem possible.

Perhaps my photograph isn’t flattering. Perhaps my messages were dull. Perhaps I am too old to be looking for love. Perhaps I will disappoint Bella and prove to us both that some things just aren’t meant to be.

The swirling crowd feels momentarily overwhelming. I need some new words in my head besides my own. To the bookshop!

I embark the crammed escalator. Just beneath me, a group of young ladies in headscarves are squeezing together to take a selfie. Their laughter lifts me. The young couple behind me speak in gentle Italian to one another. All is not lost, Eddie

, these happy people whisper.

Yes, Eddie, you’ve got to keep going

, the escalator agrees, and not least because if you don’t keep moving, you’ll fall off the end.

I’m browsing on the top floor of the bookshop at the photography and travel books. This wasn’t where I intended to be, but the lift stopped here and I got out. I’ve found a heavy, glossy photographic book of the Greek islands. I’m turning past the foreword in search of Corfu when a hand presses firmly on my arm. There is a ring on every finger in gold and silver.

‘Would you mind if I took your photo?’ she asks.

‘Me?’

It is only us two on this quiet floor of the bookshop.

A fancy-looking camera is hanging around her neck, suspended by a floral camera strap. She’s wearing a pair of black corduroy dungarees over a white blouse and her grey

hair is pulled back in a pink velvet scrunchie. She can’t be younger than sixty, but Bella would definitely wear that entire outfit, no questions asked. I wonder if I could pull off dungarees …

‘Grace Toppin.’ She extends her hand. ‘I’m doing a street-style series on the people of Birmingham,’ she says.

‘Street style?’ I ask.

‘Yes, you know, people of the city who have unique style, good fashion sense, people who stand out for one reason or another. It started as a mini portfolio I was submitting for the Black Artists of Birmingham award, but then I won that’ – she smiles – ‘so I decided to keep going.’

‘I have street style?’ I ask.

She pulls a face like she wants me to stop being ridiculous. I look down at myself. I’m wearing my tropical floral bird shirt that I found in the women’s section of the charity shop and a pair of dark jeans. ‘I have been evolving my look lately,’ I say, more to myself than to Grace. She laughs. It is a very good laugh.

‘So …’

‘Eddie,’ I tell her. ‘Eddie Winston.’

‘So, Eddie,’ she says. ‘May I take your picture?’

‘You certainly may. Do you want me to pretend to continue browsing?’

‘No, thank you,’ she says as she raises the camera from her chest and turns it on without looking at the buttons. ‘All I need from you is for you to stand exactly as you are and look straight into my lens.’

‘What should I do with the book?’ I ask.

‘Just as you are,’ she says again, and her surety is oddly

comforting. I let the book hang loose in my left hand and I align myself, square my shoulders and look at her camera.

‘Perfect, Eddie, hold it,’ she says, and I hear the clicks. A run of them one two three four five

. You’re a model, Eddie

, they tell me.

‘Putting the flash on now,’ she says. ‘And just as you were, blink a few times, and then look back at me.’ There’s something so calming about being directed. I do my best to do as I’m told and while the flash temporarily blinds me, I wonder what it must be that she is seeing through the lens.

The lift bell rings to announce its arrival on the top floor, and a young man in the bookshop uniform emerges from the lift and hovers nervously, clearly wanting to tell Grace that she can’t commandeer the travel section of the bookshop for an impromptu photoshoot but equally loath to interrupt her.

Grace keeps photographing, crouching down to get a better angle, seeming entirely unaware of his presence. I can see the anguish on his face out of the corner of my eye. In the end, he sneezes.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Grace jumps, and that somehow scares the young man, who lets out a squeak.

I burst out laughing. Seeing this, Grace quickly pulls the camera back up to her eye. I hear a final click, and Grace is beaming. ‘That’s the one,’ she says, getting to her feet with little trouble. ‘Not a doubt in my mind.’

‘You haven’t even seen it yet.’

‘Sometimes you just know,’ she says. Grace turns the camera off and smiles at me. ‘Right then, what’s your poison, Eddie?’

We settle into comfy seats in the corner of the bookshop café. Through the window we can see down to the crossroads where New Street meets the High Street, and just beyond where the huge bronze bull sits guarding the entrance to the Bullring shopping centre. It’s almost mathematical how the people move among one another, managing never to collide.

The waitress places a pot of tea between us, and a slice of carrot cake for Grace and Victoria sponge for me.

Grace is looking at the display on her camera again. ‘It’s so

good, Eddie,’ she says. ‘I can’t stop looking at it. There’s a portrait competition coming up in Oxford – I think this will be my submission.’ She turns the camera around and there I am, standing in the centre of the shelves listing travel

and adventure

, and I’ve got my head tilted back, eyes scrunched up with laughter. The colours are richer than they are in real life. My floral shirt looks bright and punchy. I look … Well, I look stylish.

‘I’m honoured,’ I tell her. And as she is still beaming at the photograph, I pour tea into each of our teacups. ‘Would you mind, actually,’ I ask, ‘if I got a copy?’

‘Of course!’ she says.

‘My online dating profile isn’t the roaring success I hoped it would be,’ I explain as I add milk and take a sup of my tea. ‘I’ve been wondering if my profile photo isn’t doing all that it could for me.’

‘Online dating?’ Grace asks. ‘You’re looking for love?’

‘For my sins. It’s not going very well, though. I don’t know how the young people do it. The ratio of rejection to success is so … dispiriting.’

‘May I have a look?’ she asks, stirring the contents of a paper packet of sugar into her tea.

I navigate to my dating profile and hand my phone over to her.

‘You’re not ninety?!’ she says, looking at me as though I’ve claimed to be a unicorn.

I shrug.

‘Ninety!’ she says. ‘You look very good for it, Eddie,’ she says. She scrolls down my profile. ‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong

with the picture, although mine is of course better. I think it’s your wording that’s the problem,’ she says.

‘You do?’

‘It’s far too sparse – it needs some colour,’ she says. ‘Hobbies, interests, books, television – give them a little more, Eddie, and I’m sure someone will bite.’

‘Someone did bite.’

‘Oh?’ She scoops some icing from her cake on to her finger.

‘Val,’ I tell her. ‘We had a somewhat disheartening date and it made me wonder, perhaps there just isn’t a fish out there for everyone.’

‘Don’t say that,’ she says. ‘God, that is delicious.’ She scoops more icing on to her finger. ‘I just got divorced, and I want to pretend that there is a soulmate out there for me, just waiting. Someone … surprising, someone fun. Someone’ – she glances up at me – ‘who wouldn’t hesitate to let a stranger photograph them in a bookshop.’

Grace’s business card has gold-foil writing on a photograph of a navy sky.

Grace Toppin – Photographer, BA, MfA, AOP, BIPP

street, weddings, family, commercial ( si pecunia sufficiat

)

[email protected]

Si pecunia sufficiat.

I google its meaning. If the money is sufficient

. I chuckle as I tuck the card into my pocket and make my mathematical way through the crowds, thinking of her.