So not Steven (A Short Story)

  So not Steven (A Short Story)

  So not Steven (A Short Story)

  Midpoint

  So not Steven

  A Searching for Steven short story by Jessica Redland

  Hi Steve, sorry it’s taken me a while to get back in touch. You asked what I do. I’m a florist. I own Flowers and Gifts on Castle Street; formerly Flowers. It was my auntie’s shop and she decided to retire early and hand it over to me. I’ve been frantically refurbishing and getting the new shop up and running. The first week or so of trading seems to have gone pretty well. You said you have your own business but didn’t say what it was either so you have me intrigued too. If you’ve done it for a decade, perhaps you can give me some hints and tips as this business-owner lark is all new to me! Hope to hear from you soon.

  It was half eleven. There was no way he’d be online so late. I needed to just relax, switch the computer off, and go to bed instead of staring at the screen for the next hour or so waiting for a reply. That’s what the new chilled Sarah would do. Oh! He’s replied! How exciting. Better see what he has to say; would be rude to ignore him, wouldn’t it?

  Sarah, good to hear from you. Are you sure you want to hear what I do? It may put you off. Are you on Facebook? Got 10 mins for a chat? If you search for Steve Marcus Berry, I’m the only one who comes up so send me a friend request. Steve

  Blimey, that was quick. I found him and sent a friend request. Within moments, a message popped up on my screen:

  Steve: Hi Sarah!

  Me: Speedy response! Now I’m even more intrigued. I promise not to be put off…

  Steve: You have been warned… Here goes... Like you, I’m in a family business. I’ll inherit it eventually from my dad and it was his dad’s before him, although my dad only works part-time now so I’m pretty much running it. If you’re a florist, we have similar business interests... I’m a funeral director. Go on, you can run away now!

  Me: Why would I run away?

  Steve: Most women are pretty squeamish about me handling dead bodies all day. They can’t bear the thought of me touching the dead then touching them

  Me: Oh. I can’t say it bothers me. I see it as a job and wouldn’t really connect that with a relationship. I don’t think I could do it myself as I’d probably cry all the time, but if it’s a family business, I guess you’ve always been around death. Which funeral directors do you run? Fancy passing on some of my business cards?

  Steve: Glad you’re not put off. It’s Golding & Son on Freemantle Road. Don’t be confused by the name. I go by the name Berry because my parents divorced when I was ten and my mum changed my name to her maiden name, as she hates my dad. I’ve never bothered changing it back - far too much hassle, even thought I think of myself as more of a Golding than a Berry. More than happy to pass on some business cards. We often get asked whom we’d recommend and I’m surprised none of the local florists have approached us to tout for business. If you’re going to give me some cards, that would mean we need to meet up

  Me: This is true. What do you suggest?

  Steve: I know it’s short notice but do you have any plans for tomorrow? It would need to be early evening, though, as I have a family thing at 8.00pm. Otherwise it would be late next week as I’m pretty tied up this week

  Me: I did have plans. I was seeing my friend Elise but she’s had to take a rain-check [lie – can’t look too available]. I’ve got quite a lot on at the moment too so tomorrow is probably the best bet [another little white lie – the only organised thing was the postponed Bay Trade thing on Thursday – but didn’t want to look friendless!] Where and what time?

  Steve: Straight from work, say 5.30/5.45? You pick the place

  Me: Entrance of The Purple Lobster at 5.45pm? Please be warned, I won’t look my best. I don’t close till 5.30pm so I’m not going to have time to get changed. I usually end up with foliage stains on my jeans and pollen stains on my T-Shirt!

  Steve: Bring it on! I’m likely to be a bit scruffy myself too. I have a double funeral in the morning but some tinkering to do on one of our hearses in the afternoon, so I’m likely to have oil under my fingernails and a grubby T-Shirt myself. We can reschedule for next week if you’d prefer, although I hope you don’t want to

  Me: Tomorrow’s fine. We can be scruffs together!

  Steve: See you tomorrow, then

  Me: Will do 

  I smiled and gave a contented sigh as I fussed Kit who’d come in for some attention. He seemed nice. And he was called Steven. And he was on the list. I wondered briefly what he was doing for the next week or so. Maybe he had an Internet date lined up for every night. Fair play to him if he did. After all, I had a list and Steve Berry had simply been next on it. If it didn’t work out, maybe I’d be brave and contact the other three all at the same time, although, hopefully, that wouldn’t be the case as Steve Berry would be The Steven.

  The next day passed fairly quickly. As well as a steady trickle of customers, I had an appointment to discuss wedding flowers with a bride-to-be and her mother and, when they’d gone, I had a visit from a rep for another potential supplier who, disappointingly, wasn’t called Steven. Keeping so busy meant I didn’t have time to fret about my date with Steve Berry.

  I closed the shop at half five and cashed up. After a quick hair-spruce and very light make-up re-application, I wandered round the corner to The Purple Lobster. It wasn’t my favourite pub, but it seemed more suitable for a quick after-work drink in scruffy clothes than some of the chain pubs or wine bars.

  Steve had beaten me to it. Tall – bordering on lanky – he had short blond hair, dark eyes, hollow cheeks and a pale complexion. Make that a very pale complexion. He probably looked a lot like his customers. But then he smiled and his whole face lit up. Much better. Quite cute, actually. Although I was going to feel absolutely enormous next to him. I sucked my stomach in. I may have dropped a dress size since the comfort eating ceased, but I still wasn’t back to my pre-pig-out size and felt very aware of that fact.

  ‘Sarah? Thanks for coming.’ He leaned forward and kissed me softly on the cheek, a slightly unpleasant blend of Lynx and Swarfega wafting up my nostrils. ‘Shall we?’

  He held the door open for me and headed for the bar. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Can I just have a diet coke?’ I said.

  ‘Diet coke?’

  He sounded surprised, so I felt I should explain. ‘I’ve had a few big weekends and, with Christmas approaching, I’m trying to avoid alcohol mid-week.’

  Steve frowned, but said nothing. He caught the attention of a young lad behind the bar whose badge read ‘Kris’. ‘A diet coke and a coke please,’ he instructed.

  ‘Not drinking either?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘Oh. Any particular reason?’

  ‘My mum drinks. Too much. I never want to get like her.’ His eyes flashed angrily as he spoke.

  ‘Oh.’ An uncomfortable silence descended on us. I willed our drinks to appear and audibly breathed a sigh of relief when they did.

  ‘Where would you like to sit?’ Steve said, smiling again.

  ‘Over there?’ I pointed to an empty booth.

  ‘So,’ I said when we’d both settled into our seats and it was clear he wasn’t going to break the silence, ‘what was wrong with the hearse?’ I wasn’t particularly interested in it, but I was looking for a conversation hook and it was the first thing that popped into my head.

  ‘Do you know anything about cars?’ he asked enthusiastically, eyes lighting up.

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Then why did you ask?’ It wasn’t said nastily; it was just a curious question, but one that made me feel incredibly stupid.

&
nbsp; ‘Just making conversation.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. Well, it’s complicated if you don’t know cars so I won’t bore you with the details.’

  Silence. We both awkwardly sipped on our drinks, the only noise being the clink of ice against glass.

  ‘You said you had a double funeral this morning…?’

  He nodded. ‘It was that couple who had a car crash coming back from their golden wedding anniversary party. It was in the paper.’

  I felt a lump form in my throat instantly. I remembered reading about it. He’d had a fatal heart attack at the wheel and the car had veered into a lamppost at speed, killing her outright. They’d been absolutely devoted to each other and their children said it was a blessing they’d gone together as neither would have survived for long without the other. I’d cried for an hour even though I didn’t know them.

  ‘How awful,’ I said.

  ‘What is?’

  I felt slightly taken aback. The whole thing was awful; an absolute tragedy. ‘To die in a car crash after celebrating such a milestone in your marriage. And so close to Christmas.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it had been a celebration which ended in tragedy.’

  ‘What’s Christmas got to do with it?’

  I frowned. Was he winding me up? ‘Because it should be a happy time of year and now their families will always remember it as a sad time.’

  Steve shrugged. ‘It happens. Babies are born every day so why shouldn’t people die every day?’

  I nodded, mainly because I couldn’t think of any other response. Maybe being an undertaker makes you more casual about death. Think. Need another subject.

  ‘You said your parents divorced when you were ten?’ Shit, shit, shit, why did I ask that? What if it’s a sensitive subject? What if the divorce was because of his mum’s drinking? What if she’s an alcoholic? Muppet!

  ‘Yes. Are yours divorced too?’

  I smiled as I always did when thinking of my parents together. ‘No. They’re still like newly-weds. It’s quite sweet actually.’ Sarah! Rub it in why don’t you?

  ‘You won’t know what it’s like then,’ Steve said.

  ‘My friend Elise’s parents are divorced. Her mum drinks too.’

  ‘Then your friend Elise might understand.’

  Silence again. Another conversation over before it had begun. I sipped on my drink cursing the ice cubes that were freezing my teeth. I usually fished a few out but I didn’t dare in case Steve disapproved.

  ‘How long have you worked with your dad?’ I asked in desperation. Surely that wasn’t a taboo subject.

  ‘As soon as I left school, but I’ve helped him out for as long as I can remember.’

  It had been the longest sentence so far that hadn’t been snappy, so that was something to be grateful for. I waited for more information, but it clearly wasn’t coming.

  ‘Will you change the business name to Berry when you take over?’

  ‘No. Why would I?’

  ‘I just wondered… with you saying it was too much hassle to change your name back to Golding and the business being Golding & Son, but you not being called Golding and …’ I tailed off, wishing I hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Golding & Son has a fifty-eight-year-old reputation. I’m hardly going to jeopardise that by changing the name.’

  ‘Probably just as well,’ I said. ‘Berry Funeral Director’s might sound like a bit of a joke.’

  Steve narrowed his eyes at me. ‘A joke? You think death’s a joke?’

  ‘Not death. I mean the name. Berry your surname, and bury as in bury the dead. They sound similar, especially with a Yorkshire accent. It’s a play on words and not really appropriate for a funeral parlour.’ Oh God, am I the one who’s dying here? Ground, eat me up now!

  Steve’s expression reminded me of the one Stephen the plasterer had given me; as if trying to assess whether I was a bit mad. Noticing he’d already finished his drink, I offered him another, thankful for the opportunity to escape before any more mindless gibberish escaped from my mouth.

  ‘Another coke, thanks.’ It was all very polite but very monotone.

  I leaned against the bar, head in my hands, wishing I’d had the foresight to arrange an escape route phone call from Elise or Clare. I looked towards the door, feeling my feet twitch, but I couldn’t just walk out on the poor guy.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  I looked up to see Kris who’d served us earlier. ‘A coke and a dry white wine please. Better make that a large dry white wine please. A very large one.’

  Kris laughed. ‘That bad eh? Why not have a whole bottle?’

  ‘Tempting,’ I said. ‘But I don’t intend on staying long enough to drink it.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. I see you’re with Berry the Bore.’

  ‘You know him?

  ‘My brother was at school with him. He’s a funeral director, isn’t he?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘It’s just as well his customers are already gone or he’d bore them to death.’

  ‘That’s wicked,’ I said, but I couldn’t help laughing. ‘I’m not sure whether he’s boring me as such. You have to actually speak in order to bore someone and I’m struggling to get any conversation out of him.’

  Kris smiled sympathetically. ‘Good luck. I’ll come and check your pulse in half an hour to make sure you’re still in the land of the living.’

  I picked up the drinks. ‘Thanks, Kris. It’s going to be a long evening. Fortunately he has something on later tonight so at least the torture will end prematurely.’

  I breathed in deeply, braced my shoulders and walked confidently back to the table. ‘Here you go,’ I said brightly, putting his drink down on the table.

  ‘Wine?’ He stared at my glass. ‘I thought you were supposed to be abstaining.’

  ‘It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, isn’t it?’

  ‘You obviously feel you need it.’

  ‘I’m not an alcoholic or anything, you know. I just fancied a glass.’ Why was I justifying myself to him? It was none of his damn business.

  ‘Slippery slope,’ he said. ‘And they all deny it.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Alcoholics.’

  ‘Have I done something to upset you?’ I sloshed my wine as I slammed the glass onto the table.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘You don’t seem like the same friendly person I met online last night.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m just funny around drink. My mum had a problem.’

  ‘Well I’m not your mum and I don’t have a drinking problem.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I don’t,’ I insisted. Plus, he was off with me before I got the wine so that wasn’t it. ‘How about we change the subject? What’s your favourite film?’

  ‘I don’t really like films.’

  Don’t like films? How can anyone not like films? ‘What sort of music do you like, then?’

  ‘I’m not really into music either.’

  Pants! There was nothing for it. I was either going to have to sit in silence, which would kill me, walk out, which I couldn’t do because it was rude, or talk at him. Here goes …

  ‘I love films,’ I said. ‘I have stacks of DVDs, although I’m steadily replacing my favourites on Blu-ray. If I see a film at the cinema that I like, I always buy the DVD and watch it loads. My mum doesn’t like watching films more than once but I love the familiarity. I still get the same warm and fuzzy feeling with my favourite rom-coms and I still get the excitement with my favourite action films or thrillers, even though I know what’s going to happen. In fact, I sometimes think I get more excited because I know what’s going to happen.’ I paused for breath. Steve gave me that half-fearful look again. Yet still I continued. ‘Take Pretty Woman, for example. I know it’s really old now but it’s a classic. I first saw it when I was in my early teens and I love it. I must have seen it about thirty times but I still cry when Vivian, the Julia Roberts character, i
s sat in the back of the limo going home. I feel like I know her and I just want to give her a hug and tell her everything will be alright cos Richard Gere will rescue her soon.’

  ‘Never seen it,’ Steve said.

  ‘Oh, you should. You’d love it.’

  ‘How would you know? We’ve only just met. You don’t know me.’

  Well knock me down with a homegrown aubergine, how rude was that? ‘It’s just a turn of phrase,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t everyone love Pretty Woman?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  An awkward silence descended again. I looked beseechingly over to Kris who was putting beer towels on the bar. He winked and faked a huge yawn and stretch. I wished I’d asked him to invent an emergency phone call for me. Or a fake fire alarm. Bomb scare. Listeria outbreak. Anything to get me out of there.

  So, films and music had failed. What next? ‘The barman, Kris, said you were at school with his brother.’

  ‘Yeah. Tosser.’ Steve took a swig of his coke.

  Silence again.

  ‘So, tell me about yourself.’ I absolutely hated that question but couldn’t think of any alternative and my talking at him strategy had definitely not worked, not that I’d really expected it to. I felt like I was interviewing someone for a job they really didn’t want.

  ‘Did you read my profile?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s all on there.’

  ‘Oh.’ Silence again. ‘Maybe you could tell me it your own words? Kind of bring it to life?’ There wasn’t much conviction in my suggestion.

  ‘Those were my words. I typed them.’

  ‘Humour me?’ Please!

  Steve tutted and declared in a sarcastic, sing-song voice. ‘My name is Steve Berry. I’m twenty-nine years old. I live in Whitsborough Bay. I’ve lived here all my life. My parents divorced when I was ten. I live with my mum but am close to my dad. He owns a funeral directors on Freemantle Road called Golding & Son. His dad set it up. It will be passed down to me when my dad retires. I like working with my hands. I know a lot about cars and fix the hearses. I like making airfix models – particularly World War II bombers – when I’m not at work or working on a car.’ He paused then looked me square in the eyes as he added. ‘But you know all of this already.’