The Beautiful Hummingbird - Part II

The Flask Edit

Song: 'Stay' – Rihanna feat Mikky Ekko

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There is not a spare seat to be had on the upper deck of bus route 214.  The windows are steamed up from the end of the day chatter that overlaps in my ears.  From which film to see at the cinema, to present ideas for a husband, to what to wear to the office party, to a mother's woe at not being able to secure pantomime tickets to fulfil her Christmas family tradition, it seems everyone has something they need to get off their chest.

One passenger is so ensconced on his phone that he nearly misses his stop.  Realising the mistake, he frantically pushes the stop button then rushes down the aisle towards the stairs.  At the commotion, the impeccably dressed mature lady looks up from her copy of Tatler, jazzy tie guy continues to read the Metro and wise old gentlemen with the briefcase, shiny shoes and raincoat remains bolt upright with his eyes closed.  I can never work out if he is having forty winks or meditating to get through the chaos that is the journey home.

The farther out of Central London we get, the more the rush hour queues ease.  The bus gradually empties of these passengers whose names I do not know but who I see on a daily basis.

I wipe away with my woollen glove the condensation on the window and peer out into the dark December evening.  The elegant houses in this part of London glow with their festive decorations.  Pretty wreaths hang from the brass doorknockers of traditional Georgian style front doors and sweeping bay windows display huge Christmas trees with twinkly lights and shiny baubles.  I catch sight of the gaunt reflection of the girl in the glass.  It is my face but I do not recognise it of late.

As the bus approaches the part of the road that narrows it has to wait to allow oncoming traffic through.  Harry is never far from my mind but my daily journey to and from work is usually the time I think about him most, that and when I switch out the light at night. Today my thoughts are different.

It is finally our turn to move and the bus winds round the road towards Highgate.  I leave my seat, press the stop button and carefully descend the stairs.  The driver pulls to a halt and as the double doors spring open, a rush of fresh air hits me.  I stand for a moment under the light of the bus shelter and watch the vehicle drive away.  As it disappears into the night, I turn and head towards The Flask.

I pause at the walled entrance to admire the grand old pub with its sash windows.  It derives its name from the fact that in the 18th Century it sold flasks to collect mineral water from the springs around Hampstead Heath.  Like every pub around here, it is steeped in history and has many a story to tell.  Byron, Shelley and Keats were said to be regular drinkers but by far the saddest story is that of the Spanish barmaid who hanged herself over unrequited love and now haunts the place.

Raucous laughter interrupts my musing.  A group of smokers huddle around one of the patio heaters; their coats wrapped tightly around them to keep out the winter chill.  Music, voices and light flood from inside onto the patio.  I scan the tables.  Nearly all are empty apart from one.  I glance at my watch.  It is exactly 7.30pm and, as agreed, Harry is here. 

Sucking a shaky breath in, I walk tentatively towards him.  I have repeated all I need to say over and over.  A quick drink, say it, then leave. 

He looks up as I approach then stands.  One hand lays flat against the front of his long wool coat, the other reaches out to me.  He leans forward as though he is going to greet me with a kiss but I do not move closer. 

"Hi, thanks for coming." I avoid looking at him but offer a weak smile towards the floor.  

"Hello Natasha.  It's wonderful to see you."  The soothing caramel greeting of his voice immediately lulls my insides but a clench of my fists at my sides stops my brewing emotions in their tracks.  Say what you have to say then leave, I remind myself.