Mixed Messages by Janet Jones

What is the word I’m trying to dislodge from between my teeth … creep … alongside this … obnoxious …syrupy … repugnant … flapjack?

The cake is too sugary-sweet, juxtaposed against what is playing out in front of me, but then so is everything in this garish over-lit service station. I park the sticky jumble on my plate; reach for my coffee. Try to disentangle my gluey fingers from the cup, in the same way I’m trying to extricate my thoughts from the twosome filling my eyeline. Failing on both counts.

She looks too young. Should I say something? Not a child, there would be no hesitation then, but half his age, more than. She needs help, but … And he needs telling. He’s not for her. Too old, too … what? Back to the words … odious … stuck between …loathsome … my teeth. Too uncomfortable – for me.

And what do I know? Their stories are running on fast-forward in my head. Truth, untruth, reality, lie. But they’re my version of their stories. And yet I know I’m right. About her at least – not of this place, I’m sure; not streetwise; not ready.

She comes through the Arrivals door, jostling with the others newly-arrived from Romania, overwhelmed by a sea of name cards and excited children and waving relatives. Yet she doesn’t see the person she’s expecting.

There is someone. Waving. Obviously recognising her. But he is not the man in the photos she has pored over. This one is thin-haired and grey-skinned. With belted jeans. And tucked-in sweatshirt. He is not the guy with the surf board, toned and tanned.

A thud in her chest, as realisation dawns.

He can’t remember ever having felt excitement, even as a boy, at Christmas; and certainly not the quivering, stomach-churning headiness which is now overwhelming him.

And then, there she is. Emerging with all the other arrivals. Even more beautiful than her photographs. He holds up a hand, waving hesitantly and then frantically, afraid she will go to someone else, and this moment, his one portal to a life he has never experienced, will be lost.

But she has seen him, is walking towards him. He shouldn’t have used those photos; the ones of Larry. But who would ever have “liked” his details, if he’d used his own? It was more obvious than obvious that the truth would come out, just as it may now unravelling in front of him. But the rest is true, he reassures himself – the flat and the car and …

Adina looks again at the over-eager schoolboy of a man. She is tempted to turn, ask to get back on the returning plane. But knows that won’t be possible without the rigmarole of passport checks and security and tickets. And she has no money for tickets. She is only here because he has bought her passage.

And so she walks towards him.

He pulls flowers from behind his back. Garish chrysanthemums. Leans to kiss her, too eagerly, aiming for lips; she turns at the last moment, diverting his enthusiasm to her cheek.

‘I’m Ken,’ he says, a hand around her shoulder, looking into her eyes. ‘It’s so wonderful to meet you at last.’

Adina wishes she had chosen another picture, another profile.

He can barely put one foot in front of the other. He has waited so long. Life with Mother had pootled along, year in, year out, much the same. He had barely noticed the months ticking themselves off. But then, without a moment’s notice, Mother was no more. It was a slap in the face – no, more than that – a full-frontal knockout punch. He had looked around and seen nothing. No wife, no family, not even a grass-mowing, car-washing, suburban existence.

He’d sold Mother’s house. Couldn’t bear the ghost of her, walking behind him yet no longer picking up his lost socks and half-read books; not sharing a game of canasta or a glass of sherry.

But now Adina is here, in front of him. ‘I’m Ken,’ he blurts. Holds her shoulder, tries to kiss her. She turns away and his heart drops to his guts. He can see by

her face it is too much, too soon. He pulls flowers from behind his back, looking every inch the garish petrol station blooms that they are. He should have used the florist, he can see that now. He’ll make it up to her. Carry her bags, open doors, treat her like a lady.

He takes her case from her. She wants to snatch it back, keep her options open, to be able to walk away if that’s what she decides. But she knows nobody; knows nothing of the real London of Big Ben and Buckingham Palace; and anyway, what help would she find there? She notices the policemen, black-uniformed and armed, as they walk across the concourse. Her heart jumps at what might transpire, where it might lead, if she makes a fuss; her experience of police at home is not good. And so she follows as he leads – to the car park, installing her in his Volvo, driving her away. Like a lottery win.

He leads her to the Volvo, trying to explain that the sports car is in for servicing. She seems not to understand. Seems to be in a trance. But perhaps it is just the sights of England, he re-assures himself, the differences of a new, more developed country. He’ll explain, he decides – what they are passing, as he drives her down the motorway, how life works here.

He’s doing a good job, he thinks, giving all the information she might need. But she is too quiet, not answering him, not asking questions. He stops talking, unsure what else to do.

‘Could we have … music?’ she asks quietly.

He talks. Incessantly. About the scenery which passes their windows, about the English weather, the politics on the radio. No music. She would like music. It would divert her mind from what is to come. She asks, shyly.

‘Yes, yes of course. There,’ Ken indicates the glove compartment. ‘You choose – anything you like. Your choice …’ Hoping she will pick his favourite, that they will at least have one thing in common. She chooses Katie Melua. Not his favourite. He swallows hard. He wants everything to be perfect.

They continue, conversation exchanged for melancholy tunes; it gives her time to think. She struggles to form a plan in her head, wishes she had pencil and paper. But then he would know her thoughts exactly.

The music drones on. He thinks it is making her sad. ‘We’ll stop for a drink,’ he says, spotting the Motorway Services sign. She looks up, the most positive he has seen her since they’ve met. She’s going to run away, he thinks; she’s going to hitch a lift. In his panic he grabs her hand like a small child, leading her to the café.

‘What would you like? Have anything, choose what you want,’ he babbles, wishing he hadn’t grabbed her hand; wishing he’d given everything more thought.

‘Expresso,’ she says, ‘And maybe an orange juice.’

‘Cake, he says, ‘How about a cake? Flapjack – or a nice chocolate brownie?’ In truth he’s willing to buy her the whole display, if only it will make her stay. But she refuses everything.

She wants to stay alert, not a comatose sugar state. She shivers, at what she knows will be coming.

They sit down, a round table, close to each other, and she seems a little more at ease. Her hand is resting on the table, and he dares to slide his a little closer. She doesn’t pull away, and he takes her fingers in his – stroking, caressing, with no idea if what he is doing is right. All he knows is that he is praying to every god that has ever overseen this world that she will stay with him.

He plays with her fingers. It makes her shudder. He thinks she’s cold, puts his anorak around her shoulders. It smells of chip fat; she shrugs it off.

He’s older than her father, she thinks; or than her father would have been, if he had survived. She notices the couple at a nearby table, watching, pretending not to. Wants to pull away, keep her body to herself, but knows they will stare more if she makes a fuss. And so she leaves her hand on the table, allows him to play while she sits rigidly. Trying to smile.

Ken talks more. About everything. About nothing. Putin and Trump and Gaza, the mess the politicians are making of the world. He explains who everyone is, what they represent.

As if she has never read a newspaper in her life.

She doesn’t want to upset him, has seen rejected men’s behaviour before. And so she nods, allows the spotlight to be on him, all the time thinking what she will do next.

‘I need the rest room,’ she says, pulling her hand away.

No, no, no. The words charge through Ken’s head like hooligans. This is it. The moment she is going to leave and not come back. He stands to escort her, knowing immediately that it is the wrong thing to do. ‘I see it,’ she says, walking confidently away. It takes every ounce of his will not to go after her. He sees the woman on the table opposite, watching his every move. A second woman returns to her husband, mutters something; they both glare at him.

Adina steps along the quiet corridor and her shoes squeak on the tiles. She could just carry on walking, she thinks. Through the door at the back of the building. Through the lines of cars. Head for the trucks, she thinks. There will be plenty

there willing to give a young woman a lift. She is glad she decided on her best jeans, the borrowed make-up.

He knows what the couple opposite are thinking. The whole “Thai Bride” thing, that the lads at work make such a joke of. Adina isn’t as obvious as that. But there’s obviously something these people have latched onto. They think him a pervert, he realises, a predator, who has groomed this young girl on the internet, brought her to a foreign country, keeping her against her will. He feels the vomit rising in his throat at the thought of it. And now there is no sign of her.

Her passport, Adina realises, is in the pocket of her jacket. The jacket which is hanging on the back of her chair. Along with her money, her worldly goods. A woman at the washbasins is pretending to clean her hands, but is all the time watching her – the woman from the café, with perfume smelling of honeysuckle, reminding Adina of Grandma’s garden. She considers, briefly, asking the woman for help. Opens her mouth to speak. But the woman moves away, drying her hands at the noisy blower.

Adina has heard about women who have lost their passports. And what happens to them, at the hands of men who think they have control. And so she finishes in the rest room and walks slowly back to him. On the way she sees the garish plastic toys piled up in front of a shop. Toys which she knows Sophie, her little sister, would love. She glances at the sweatshirts and mobile phone covers and sunglasses and travel bags. None of them designer, as she has expected, but so much more than their little town back home. People think Romania is “up and coming” she has read, that it is heading into the West. That might be the case for some, she thinks, but not for the people she knows; not for her family.

But there she is, dawdling along the walkway, looking in at the shops. He’ll give her some money, let her choose for herself whatever she wants. Anything. But please stay. She smiles. A thin sad smile, but at least a smile.

‘We go now?’ she says.

Ken sighs. Maybe, just maybe, everything might be okay.

He waves from the café, eager to be home, with all that entails, she thinks. She tries to keep a picture in her head, of Grandma and Mama and Sophie. Who are relying on her. “A good match” Mama had said, looking at the online pictures. Of the younger man, and his riverside apartment and his car.

She will do this for them, she decides. Taking his hand as he moves from the table. Smiling. She will find a way to get what she needs; to deal with him.

I watch them walk towards the exit.

Should I call after her? Holler my list of names, so that she will be in no doubt – knowing everything there is to know about him?

But they are gone, absorbed into the melee of travellers, for better or worse. And I am left, coffee unfinished and their story gone cold.