November 1986
Mary MacDonald was a perfectly normal woman.
She lived in a flat in the heart of London; with a fire escape always coated in vines, no matter her gardening. Two bedrooms, though one was converted into an office several years back when her roommate moved away.
If asked, she wouldn’t be able to say a thing about her.
Living alone wasn’t lonely, despite what some think. She had her cameras and her plants and that was enough. She’d turned the ensuite of her office into a darkroom for her photographs. Her pots lined all windowsills, a small tree wedged on the fire escape. A lily in the kitchen that always made her heart ache. Some days, she’d sit and look at it for hours - trying to puzzle out some great mystery.
Guests would often remark that her greenery was always thriving. Flowers always in bloom, leaves flush and green. She’d joke about her green thumb, bashfully brush away the compliment and offer a cup of tea.
Her television was always on the fritz. It was a running joke that there had to be something interfering with it, but nothing she could figure out.
There were a couple of items of decor that she could never figure out why she’d bought them. Her design tastes leaned modern; with browns and furnished wood. Brass and gold accents - oranges and greens. The blue and silver Art Deco lamp in her living room was not to her taste. It was all glass and black metal. The T.Rex poster on her wall, the hand-sewn floral cushions, the well-loved books on her shelves that she’d never read. Things that were not her own, but she could never live without. Like the tingle of lips after a kiss on the cheek. A balm to hard days.
On winter nights, sometimes her bed would feel too wide. She would stretch the expanse - limbs searching for a shape that could never be found. A comfort that she could nearly feel, like words on the tip of her tongue.
There were little oddities to Mary MacDonald, if one inspected her closely.
She sometimes reached for something at her waist, an absent gesture she hardly seemed to notice. No one commented on it. After all, there was nothing there.
She was always startled by loud bangs or flashes of light. It had calmed over the years, yet still; she’d flinch.
She wouldn’t let people kill rats. Only humane traps to get them out of the home. Her friends would roll their eyes at her kindness - always commenting with an affectionate laugh that she was a tree hugger.
The only animal she seemed afraid of, were dogs. Not all dogs, but any big dark breeds. Those in her life suspected an accident with one, but were kind enough to never ask.
And she hated all talk of magic. She found it silly, and too farfetched to entertain. People figured it was perhaps a religious thing. They didn’t bring it up.
Still, everyone had loving words about Mary.
Colleagues called her hardworking and talented. The future of editorials, once she’d worked her way up the ladder.
Neighbours and acquaintances called her friendly and helpful. Always there to lend sugar or help swap out a car tire.
Her friends were proud to have that title. To them, she was a blessing in their lives that they would never be able to repay. She was always there in a crisis, always helpful whenever babysitters cancelled or somebody was moving house. Good, dependable Mary MacDonald.
The issue with being so kind and helpful, she had found, was that no one though to ask how you were beyond niceties.
If someone asked Mary to talk about herself, it would be far less glossy. She would describe herself as lonely but healthy. Aching for something she could not identity, but surrounded by friends. Prone to breakdowns on random dates: November third, January thirtieth, October thirty-first. Always drawn to heads of ginger in a crowd - forever blushing at the blonde girls at the bar.
There was far more to Mary than she wished. It would have been preferable to be simple. Her thoughts less existential and pessimistic. Every possible outcome was a possibility in her mind, racing against each other constantly. It was a wonder she was still sane.
But God was she lonely. Most days, it clung to her like a shadow. An ache across her breastbone. Too many nights trying to drown it with wine, manic flurries around her apartment hunting for photos she did not own. Always searching for something she did not know.
It wasn’t too bad, despite all that. She had her plants and her cameras.
And she was happy. Sometimes. It got easier, the older she got.
Mornings like this, she was content. Despite the chill of the December air, there was a sparkle to the world. Frost glittering in the grass, twinkling on street lights and post boxes.
The perfect day for the perfect hot chocolate. Wrapped in two jumpers and a thick raincoat, Mary heaved through the crowd of commuters - all waiting for their morning coffee before boarding the tube stop barely half the road over. Unlike them, Mary was a believer in getting the bus. With a mule of apologies, she shoved her way through, grabbing her hot chocolate with an appreciative smile. The barista winked, turning to the crowd and warning them to stand orderly.
Mary let out a little laugh, moving through a lot easier now the group had shuffled to make several channels.
It was as her attention turned to sampling her drink, that she missed the man stood in her path; his attention distracted by the cacophony of patrons.
“Oh! Sorry!” She gasped, steadying her cup as to minimise spillage. Luckily, the lid had sealed it well - only a minor splatter on her sleeve as evidence.
“No harm.” She looked to the poor man she’d walked into, blinking rapidly as she took him in.
He had one of those faces that feels like an old friend. Shaggy blond hair shadowing his scarred face, gangly limbs and a tall spine. A heavy coat that looked worn and well-used, laying over a ripped jumper and stained jeans.
“Is your coffee alright?”
“Not a drop spilled.” He promised, presenting his mug to her. “Besides, it’s actually hot chocolate.”
“I come here for hot chocolate all the time too,” she grinned up at the man, the rose of her blush blessedly hidden by her deep complexion. It was odd. Though Mary had never met him before; it was as though he had the face of an old friend. “Margie always gives me an extra marshmallow. She’s good people.”
“She always tries to sneak me an extra tiny biscuit with my coffee.” The man laughed, scars pulling at his lips. If it had been anyone else, Mary might have flinched or winced involuntarily. But with him, she hardly noticed them at all. “Always goes on about needing to fatten me up.”
“You are rather skinny.” She regarded him pointedly.
“Oh don’t you start.” He chuckled, prompting a laugh from her. She hadn’t felt this free in years.
“It’s funny. I don’t think I’ve ever spotted you before.” There was a weight to her words, a fog to her mind that befuddled her entirely.
“I see you all the time.” He admitted, sheepishly shaking his head to hide behind his fringe. “But you always seem in your own world.”
“I am very busy. I work for a publishers, actually. Boring stuff mostly, taking headshots of authors and actors modelling for the cover.”
“Sounds more interesting than you’re selling.”
“What about you? What kind of work do you do?”
“I work part time in a bookshop. Trying to pursue academics as well but I think its time to quit kidding myself that I’ll finish it.”
“Don’t say that.” Mary frowned, placing a soothing hand on his arm. “My mam always used to say that you can do anything you set your mind to. If people want to push you down or tell you you can’t; you prove them wrong.”
He stood for a moment in deep thought, digesting her words. There was something so very refreshing about how open his face was. How easily she could see that war inside his mind; that fight he was having over whether to listen to her. Finally, he blinked it away; and he smiled at her fondly.
“Your mum sounds like a good woman.”
“She was. Died a few years back.”
“Mine too.” He shrugged awkwardly. “She got ill.”
“Car accident.” There was a moment in which she could have sworn she saw confusion on his face, masked quickly with an easy smile.
“Never do get used it it, eh?”
“I get that.” Mary smiled half-heartedly - feeling the ache in her chest grow slightly. “It’s funny. I never remembered her birthday when I was younger, but now I remember it every year.”
“I’m the other way around. I try to forget.” He spoke as though there were some great irony she were missing. Some joke she were part of. Her chest tightened as she tried to figure it out, a stabbing pain behind her left eye.
Mary felt too aware of herself as she checked her watch, suddenly worried for the time. Flashing back to look at him with apology, she stuttered, “I’m so sorry, I’ve got to run for a meeting. It was nice to meet you.” She offered her hand, which he shook with a laugh.
“I get it.” He dismissed it with kind understanding, watching as she made her way to the door. Nearly at the exit, she turned to him one final time, somehow certain that she would never meet him again. She didn’t know how, but she knew it. Already, it was difficult to remember his face. “See you around?” She asked hopefully; unsurprised at his half-hearted smile in reply.
“Goodbye, Mary.” He tilted his cup to her, taking a sip from the mug.
With a final look at his sandy hair and green eyes, she nodded farewell and made her way.
It was only once she got halfway down the road that she paused and realised something peculiar. She had never told the man her name.