Viv gets off the bus in the city centre wearing her new dress and old boots, her tote bag containing her box-fresh heels slung over her shoulder. She passes the fancy shops and the homeless tents in front of the central library. It’s a bright day for April and the midday sun has clean-washed the busy streets, erasing the pigeon shit and litter, like an optical trick.
She sits at a bus stop and changes into her heels. She peels the cellophane off a nicotine patch and presses the patch into her bare shoulder. She’s going to be flawless today. She’s not even going to vape.
A round-faced young woman, as wholesome as a spaniel, walks towards Viv, smiling. If humans’ ears could bounce, hers would.
The blond man next to her too. He has the air of a cleancut boy-band member: the sexually unthreatening member put in by the Svengali to attract the mums.
Viv looks at the leaflets in the young people’s hands. Turn Your Face to Jesus.
She sniffs. She bins the nicotine wrapper.
‘Excuse me!’ The woman’s voice rings out. ‘Do you have time to…’
Viv walks away. It’s a kindness.
These people definitely don’t want her.
She arrives at the museum early and kills time in the ground floor gift shop, picking up and putting down souvenir tat. She pulls at the tiger-print jacket spread across her shoulders like a cape, self-conscious in her floaty dress and heels.
‘Now that’s cool.’ A half-height kid brushes past Viv, his puffy jacket designed for arctic conditions, not a warm day in April. He points at a Minecraft piggy bank. ‘I’ll ask Mum to get me this.’
Viv wants to say don’t get excited, kid – your mum’s not dropping a twenty on shite like that – but what does she know? Places like this make people unpredictable. It’s all the education, it sends parents nuts.
She idly picks up a packet of sandwich bags illustrated with Periodic Tables and puts them down. She isn’t good at being early: she hasn’t had much practice. She considers the array of books – Peppa in Space. A Cat’s Guide to the Night Sky – and reaches past the books to a black-and-starwrapped bar labelled Space Chocolate.
She turns the bar over. Contains popping candy.
When Harry used to bring her to this museum as a kid, he said pick anything you want from the gift shop, but he meant except chocolate. Harry needed Viv to want things with instructions: the man was a science teacher, even at weekends. He was diligent in his commitment to parent her. His enthusiasm was the worst thing about him.
‘You touch it, you buy it.’
Viv looks up.
‘Just me.’ Sean smiles, hands in pockets. ‘Being a twat.’
‘I’m not buying it,’ Viv says.
‘Not even for me?’ Sean doesn’t look like Sean today. He’s in a suit, and it’s not a cheap one. ‘You know I’m a stress eater.’ His trousers are the perfect length, settling on the lowest eyelets of his conker-shiny shoes. He could be auditioning for a TV talent show.
Viv’s not the only one who’s come in disguise today. ‘Not at two quid a bar.’ She drops the chocolate bar into the rack.
‘I didn’t know you were coming.’ Sean leaves a pause. ‘They do know you’re coming?’
Viv nods. The white speckles at Sean’s temples are a surprise. There’s only a one-year age gap, and Sean will still be Viv’s baby cousin in their eighties, though the chances of both making it are slim. Viv’s lifestyle isn’t exactly one recommended in colour supplements. Sean’s a gambler who’s sofa-surfed through adulthood and she’s pretty sure he doesn’t get his five-a-day either.
‘Star maps. Solar systems. Periodic tables.’ Viv indicates a shelf of jigsaws. ‘You’d think the merch would have moved on in two decades.’
‘Look.’ Sean indicates out of the shop, to the museum entrance. ‘We beat Chrissy.’
Chrissy walks towards the door of the building with her family, the feathers of her coral fascinator quivering. She stops just outside the entrance and gets a tissue out of her pocket, rubbing a mark off her daughter’s face.
Viv stares at the girl. Nope. ‘Do you remember the name of that kid?’
Sean looks amused. ‘You’re asking me?’
A security guard opens the door for Chrissy. Flustered, she thanks him with a curtsey, bobbing back up self-consciously. She’s overthought it.
Viv’s cheeks warm on Chrissy’s behalf. ‘Do we go over?’
Sean takes a moment. ‘I don’t think she’ll be in a rush to see us, do you?’
Viv sniffs. ‘It’s ironic.’ Idly, she picks up a flask illustrated with the solar system. ‘Usually, people want me at parties.’ She thinks of Francine, of the paddocks she won’t be seeing any time soon, and considers the picture on the flask. ‘One thing’s changed since your dad used to bring us here, at least.’ She taps the picture. ‘Pluto’s gone.’
‘If you’re not feeling welcome today, that makes two of us.’ Sean stretches up the toes of his conker-rich shoes. ‘I heard Dad’s death is the best thing that ever happened to me.’
Viv shakes her head. She assumes that’ll have come from Chrissy, though she could be wrong. She’s only met Chrissy on two occasions – antisocial keypad tones and dropped taramasalata.
‘I can’t believe we’re here.’ The humour has gone from Sean’s voice.
‘Isn’t this your gig?’
‘Chrissy’s gig. The rest of us just put cash behind the bar.’
Viv stands straighter. ‘Good for you.’
‘My Dad’s money. Obviously.’ Sean gives a tight smile. ‘As I’ll be reminded today at every opportunity.’
Viv places the Pluto-less flask back on the shelf. ‘How long do you think it takes for a nicotine patch to kick in?’
Sean smiles faintly. ‘Whatever happens,’ he touches her sleeve, ‘just know Dad would have wanted you here.’
Viv stares fiercely at her shoes. She hadn’t emotionally prepared for anyone to be nice to her today.
Viv and Sean step out of the gift shop, past the statue of Alan Turing, into the open atrium. Empty air stretches forty metres, surrounded by art deco balconies with black steel railings.
They get into the lift and out at the top floor.
Chrissy is standing in front of the ramp to the roof terrace, talking to a member of staff. She’s a similar age to Viv, but the way she has her hands linked primly in front of her lap makes Viv feel like they were born a century apart.
‘We can’t be first. We’ll ruin her day.’ Viv indicates an empty part of the museum floor, and walks under a sign – Time Exhibition. She heads past a collection of old grandfather clocks, Sean following.
She stops at the art deco balcony railing and leans over.
A long way down, adults move like exasperated shepherds. One man has an antenna draping a piece of turquoise ribbon, waving it in the air with the seriousness of a rhythmic gymnast. Viv can’t tell which kids he’s meant to be herding. None are looking.
