Aria Remains
CHAPTER TWO

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A trace will always endure, no matter what might seem to have slipped away. There will always be something, just as there will always be everything; the whisper in a memory, the lingering perfume of a moment, the warmth of a fire long since extinguished. Always something, still there.

Waiting to be found, hoping to be remembered.

Aria saw him again. The man she recognised but did not know.

He was everywhere, it seemed, wherever she went. Walking along the other side of the street or exiting the shop as she was coming in through a different door. She would see him in all kinds of places yet he never seemed to notice her. It was as though he were blind to her, yet she could not escape the feeling that he knew she was close.

There wasn’t anything especially memorable about him, nothing remarkable that should make him stand out from everyone else. He was neither attractive nor plain, tall nor short, overweight nor underfed. He was, she had come to conclude, unexceptional. Brown, collar length hair. Slightly tanned, like someone who had a reason to spend time outdoors rather than being outdoors just to be tanned. Usually wearing a tee shirt and jeans, sometimes a light jacket if the weather was cooler. Blues, greys, sometimes reds. Trainers, not shoes. No limp or other obvious physical ailments. Always alone and always purposeful, getting something done, never idling, never glued to the screen of a phone to discover what other people - people he probably didn’t even know - were doing. A perfect example of someone who could fit anywhere, into any scene, any situation, who could be overlooked and unnoticed, a fragment in the air, a melody in the background.

There was nothing about him that should prompt her memory to hold him in place, no reason for her to have even noticed him so often. If she had been asked, she would have found it difficult to describe the young woman behind the plastic screen at the Post Office counter, despite chatting with her at least once each week as she waited to have her packages weighed and dispatched. The middle-aged man in the Pearl Street petrol station mini-mart, just across the road from her house, where she would go every time she needed whatever it was she had forgotten the last time. Sometimes he would be grumpy, sometimes more cheerful, but she would have an almost impossible task should she be asked to pick him from a line-up.

‘Hello, Aria,’ they’d say. ‘How are you today?’

‘Fine, just forgot to get salt,’ she’d reply, or, ‘Just a couple of small parcels today,’ with no idea whether she’d ever even known their names, guessing she must, at some point, since they knew hers. Conversations lost, familiarity unenlightened.

Yet, as she struggled up the long hill leading from the town centre to the bus stop, along which the taxi cabs used to wait until a scandalous occurrence of which she knew little had forced them to relocate, the thinning handles from heavy, plastic bags cutting into her burning palms, she immediately recognised him again. Walking briskly down the other side of the hill towards the marketplace at its end, sweeping a hand across his brow as the July heat reached its early afternoon zenith. Today he was wearing large, enigmatic sunglasses and had a scuffed, mid-brown leather bag hanging around his shoulders.

Waiting at the station for her bus to arrive, supporting her shopping between her calves as she tried in vain to replace comfort against the odd, sloping metal rails that were supposed to be some kind of seating but were, in reality, some kind of hateful torture device, she couldn’t help but wonder where he was going, and what he had in his own bag. Important documents, perhaps. Papers for a meeting, an unfinished manuscript, maps or magazines. She began to wonder whether he had seen her, too, whether he was keeping his own census of the moments they had passed one another. Did he wonder who she was? Why it was he kept seeing her everywhere? She had never noticed him looking directly at her so couldn’t be sure he had ever even seen her, but then he could say the same about her.

There she is again, he might think, if he had noticed her. That young woman with the long dark hair and the pale blue eyes who always seems preoccupied, always seems to be thinking about something. I wonder who she is and what she’s doing. I wonder if she’s going home to someone who’s been waiting for her, missing her for every single second she’s been away, untying once again the lugubrious fastenings of loneliness. Someone who will have a fresh jug of coffee prepared, its sweet odour filling the home they shared like a promise, someone who feels less than complete whenever they’re not together. I wonder what some of the million different things that combine to make her special could be.

He would be disappointed if he knew the truth, she thought, even if he did care enough to wonder.

She shook her head at her distraction and leaned forward to see if there was any sign of the bus, shifting her body uncomfortably against the rails. People wandered around, lost in their feverishness, no doubt complaining about the heat even though they had been waiting to be not cold for most of the year, flapping their hands close to their faces, exhaling as though they had just negotiated a substantial obstruction. Two or three other buses idled at their stops, wheezing and hissing and infusing the air with even greater degrees of torridity, discharging their boisterous translucent mirage, but there was, as yet, no indication of the one she wanted.

What difference did it make, anyway?

She had no particular interest in talking to him, to this man who seemed to be everywhere. No interest in discovering his opinion of the weather, the government, the state of the planet or the latest talentless superstar. It might be that he had no curiosity for any of those things, that he was instead partial to cricket or stocks or chess. Maybe he was one of those people who held no particular interest in anything at all, who just woke up in the morning, free from dreams and aspiration, happily undertaking whatever work it was they had agreed, or been forced, to do, and then returned home to read the newspaper or listen to the radio until it was time to go back to bed so that the whole insipid routine could begin again.

She just couldn’t shake the feeling that she was seeing him everywhere for a reason, that it was more than coincidence. She occasionally wondered whether she did, in fact, know him from somewhere, that they had met at some hazy point in the distant and poorly-lit past. At a party, maybe? she wondered, finally climbing the steps and replaceing a seat half-way along the bus she had been waiting for, which had trundled into the station as if antipathetic to have to begin its whole anfractuous maunder once more. He might have sidled up to her in her usual spot, leaning against the kitchen sink, drinking too much wine, avoiding meeting people she didn’t know, trying to impress her, to win her attention. Maybe they’d been at school together, the decade between leaving high school and now as great a chasm, it seemed to her, as the distance from her very first day at primary school.

She thought about her friends at school, trying to place him amongst them. Although unable to recall them with a great deal of cognisance, she did know they had been an eclectic mix and that she had never really felt she fit with any of them. She had played the clarinet and consequently spent half of her time with the other members of the school band, a group not universally admired but conscientious and not without talent. But she was also a fan of more contemporary, albeit unpopular, music and, being pretty and talkative, had also fallen in with the more modish crowd, the good looking girls and athletic boys. Although there hadn’t been any real division between the cliques, or any real cliques at all as would be portrayed in the high school movies she would sometimes watch, cheering the underdog, desiring more from the libretto, still she felt absent for most of the time. There hadn’t really been anyone she had considered a best, or even close friend, not at that time. She was always there, always around, invited to the cool parties, propositioned by the cool boys, but had never allowed herself to become fully absorbed, had never shared more of herself than she wanted to. Eventually she came to be regarded as something of a mystery, a glimmering strand of silk caught in the volition of the breeze, seen without perception, heard without translation.

Finally escaping the choking atmosphere of the bus, the tyrannous heat and the stifling perspiration of the other passengers, the slivers of warm air that squeezed through the tiny openings in the windows only exacerbating her discomfort, she thought maybe he had been there, obscured by the shadows of time and the schisms of detachment. In some group of friends other than hers, or maybe not in a group at all. He might have been like her, always feeling that he was a loner despite never being alone. Or he could have been one of those people who really were on their own, someone perfectly nice and interesting who had slipped through the social cracks through no fault of their own. A little awkward, perhaps. A little unsure, a little insecure. Just like her, living a life that had never quite felt like his own. An observer rather than an initiator. A passenger who had never learned how to drive.

She reached her small terrace and went straight through to the kitchen, unpacking the shampoo and sponges and the books she couldn’t wait to read. As she spooned coffee grounds into the cafetière and then filled the kettle her mind wandered again, returning to the passage, to what the curious man might have had in his bag and where he could have been going.

Could he be wondering what I had in mine? she asked herself, pouring filtered water onto the grounds and flicking the switch of the kettle. And why does it even matter?

Her phone rang less than five seconds after she had taken her seat at the kitchen table. Standing to retrieve it from the counter with a tired sigh, she smiled as she saw the image on the screen.

‘Hi, Ruby,’ she said, returning to the table, hoping she sounded brighter than she felt.

‘Aria’, Ruby said happily. ‘How are you? Hot enough for ya?’

‘Just got in,’ Aria told her. ‘Back from town and now having a coffee. Although I probably should have just had water. It’s like sitting in the oven in here.’

A large fly caught her attention and she watched it sadly as it zig-zagged through the kitchen door and into the hallway. Despite her best efforts, trying to escort them towards an open window or through the back door, she had never been able to guide them back outside, and always hated replaceing them a few days later, coiled and lifeless behind curtains or ornaments, overcome by their inquisitiveness.

‘You’ll probably still want coffee fed through an IV at your funeral,’ Ruby joked. Aria nodded in agreement. ‘So, are you still on for later?’

Aria frowned, reaching for a clean mug from the draining board without answering.

’You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? Today’s Thursday. Which means tonight’s the night, the night you finally meet Mr Right.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Aria replied, the lack of excitement clear in her voice. ‘Look, I told you I wasn’t sure…’

’You’ll really like him, I promise. And really, what do you have to lose? Another evening reading books?’

Aria smiled at the way she had put such emphasis on the question, as though reading was as abhorrent an activity as cleaning the toilet bowl with kitchen utensils.

‘So, what shall we say? Seven-thirty for pre-date drinks, or you wanna turn up when he’s already here? Be all late and interesting, like you’ve rushed away from something important?’

‘Ruby, it’s not a…’

‘Seven-thirty it is, then,’ Ruby decided cheerily, then added, ‘and you should wear that black dress, the one that’s got all of that nothing very much. Okay, gotta go. Need to run out to buy some wine. See ya.’

She hung up and Aria breathed out. She had forgotten the plans Ruby had made for her and, feeling a jolt of nerves, she looked mournfully at the new edition of Sylvia Plath on the kitchen table. It had been many years since she had last read the collection of her journals, when she was a teenager and had wanted to write poetry of her own. Somehow, somewhere her copy had been misplaced and she was excited to replace this new version, complete with photographs and scans of the original work, in the town centre bookshop while she was browsing for something new to read. She had planned to begin it again that evening, saving for another time the well-regarded new thriller about a hijacked plane which had landed the first-time author an enormous contract.

Pouring and sipping her coffee, she wondered what could possibly have possessed her to agree to Ruby’s suggestion that she join her for dinner, her live-in boyfriend, Josh, bringing his new work friend Robert to the table, no doubt as clueless and unprepared as a sacrificial offering. It wasn’t the first time Ruby had attempted such an integration and they had never gone well, had not once concluded with any ambition for renewed engagement. She didn’t even want to meet anyone new, the thought had not occurred to her but she loved Ruby and, apart from always appreciating her attempts at romantic philanthropy because they came from a place of kindliness, she knew it would be churlish to deny her.

It was now almost seven months to the day since Toby had left. Having been together for almost a year, Aria was standing beside him with a shared and resounding conviction at the precipice of cohabitation when, for no reason she had ever been able to fathom other than reaching the assumption that his feet had developed a severe and debilitating attack of frostbite, he had terminated the arrangement as if it had meant nothing, as if he had simply grown tired of looking at her. Aria had really liked him a lot, maybe even loved him. She had opened up to him in ways she had never expected herself to. She had told him secrets of her youth - at least, those she remembered - and furnished him with reasons why she had never before felt so comfortable with anyone. His touch had been both gentle and galvanic, his disposition inclined towards chivalry, his prowess in areas of intimacy prodigious. They had talked and laughed and tossed one another wildly, passionately upon the crisp sheets of attachment. And then he left her without any warning, without any of the usual portent. There had been no extended periods of quietude, no clandestine telephone calls, no disappearances to undisclosed places with unknown conspirators, and it had damaged her terribly. If it hadn’t been for Ruby’s encouragement and support she knew she might never have regained herself, might never have been raised from the floor, such was the force with which he had hurled her onto it.

She finished her mug of coffee and took the sponges and shampoo upstairs, leaving them in the bathroom before going to examine her clothing options, to replace what might be appropriate for a non-date date. She rattled the hangers against the oak wardrobe, which had been sheltered from conflict and nursed through numerous relocations, passed down through several generations of her parents’ family and cared for as though it were itself a participant in their genealogy. It had finally been left to her by her grandparents, whose love for dark furniture knew no bounds, as was proven by the collection of similar furniture scattered throughout the house. She pulled out the dress Ruby had suggested and held it against her body, studying herself in the large, oval mirror on the bedroom wall. It was somewhat revealing, something she had bought just before her fifth date with Toby, the night she had decided would be the night when she hoped that his confrontation with minimalism would lead to an encounter of extravagance. It had the desired effect, though she had no enthusiasm for raising the ardour of Josh’s colleague tonight, whoever he was.

She returned it to its hanger, placing it carefully so as not to damage its gossamer fabric, swept a few others aside and took hold of a baggy, oversized yellow dress with large, light blue circles scattered unevenly across it like daubs of paint and deep pockets on either side. It wasn’t the prettiest nor shapeliest, wasn’t even one of her favourites and was certainly not the most flattering, but she decided it would serve her purpose. It would announce, so that she didn’t have to, that yes, she was here, she was in attendance and this is who she is, an indefinable profile of discarded confidence. Laying it across the bed she shrugged her shoulders in acceptance of her choice and walked into the next room.

The black screen of the sleeping computer to her left, on the long dark-wood desk below the bay window, flashed into life as she entered. It made her smile every time. Forgetful for as long as she could remember, she was always searching for ways to help abrogate her negligence. Everything she needed, or was supposed, to do, those regular and repeating chores like putting out the dustbins or taking her vitamins would be listed into an application her phone, complete with reminder notifications, while tasks of a more imminent nature and those to do with her work would be written in the vegan-leather-bound notebook she kept open on the desk. The software that communicated between her computer and watch had been one of her favourite discoveries. Each time she was within fifteen feet of the computer it would start up, without even the requirement of its password, and similarly it would go back to sleep each time the border was broken again. To Aria it was magical, as if she had a celestial assistant primed, marking time until she reappeared in the room, charged with just one task - that of remembering her password, so liberating her of the responsibility.

Whenever she had been away from the house for longer than an hour or two there would be a long line of e-mails and other communications waiting for her return, and this afternoon was no different. A talented artist and photographer, she had become dissatisfied in her position as a record store assistant two years earlier, her complicity in the distribution of music she considered substandard making her feel she was a fraud, a traitor to originality. She had also found her thoughts increasingly pervaded by a yearning to turn her real passion into a business. She had begun as a weekend wedding photographer, capturing the souls of her clients’ perfect days but, replaceing the work too constraining, she started incorporating her shots into souvenir journals, with hand-sewn fabric-enclosed covers she had formed from sheets of book board. As a cold and wet winter seemed to suppress anyone’s plans for matrimony, and not being particularly interested in expanding her portfolio to include children or pets, she began designing her own pages for the journals, quickly learning difficult and complex computer software that allowed her to lend them themes, to create digital designs and so incorporate another facet of her creative eloquence.

She came across a website that was geared towards the selling of handmade items of all descriptions and, following Ruby’s advice, she nervously posted the first three journals she had made on the site. Amazed that they sold within a day, and with messages from disappointed shoppers urging her to make more, she swallowed hard, handed in her resignation at the record store and concentrated on making journals full-time. It was an uncharacteristic leap of fate, of succumbing to destiny by putting into the hands of others her financial stability but the business was now something of a minor success, providing her enough income on which to live reasonably comfortably. Having never been the kind of person who had to have the newest or most fashionable items, she had so far always been able to ensure the rent was paid, the kitchen was stocked, materials were replaced and there was usually enough money remaining for the occasional treat.

It took almost half an hour to catch up with her correspondence, and she spent the remainder of the afternoon working on a new digital kit. She’d had the idea of making pages for a yearly planner, something her buyers could download and print, then fasten together as their wishes or abilities dictated. Or they could bind the pages together, reconstituting an old book for the purpose of its cover. It was one of the things Aria enjoyed most about the new community she had found herself a part of, that the people who bought her designs would use them in fresh ways she may not have even previously considered.

As the sun moved around to dazzle against the bay window, soaking the room in a glorious golden light, Aria realised the time was passing quickly and that she needed to prepare for her dinner with Ruby. She moved lightly to the bedroom, discarded her tee shirt, wriggled from her jeans and pulled the yellow dress over her head, briefly pausing in front of the mirror to shake out her hair with her hands. Never usually bothering with make-up, she decided this evening would be no more special than any other and therefore commanded no requirement for the embellishment of nature’s bequest.

Ruby lived a short walk away and, passing the homogenised semi-detached houses with their cars and self-satisfaction on display to their likeminded and indifferent neighbours, and cutting through an alleyway with tall wooden fences on either side as she went, she paused to stroke a very warm and very sleepy ginger cat she often said hello to, and which watched her until she reached the other end of the alley with a knowing narrowing of its eyes.

She arrived at just after half past seven.

‘Wow,’ Josh said as he opened the door to her, since they had been friends for some time, long enough for the prerequisite of any sort of formal greeting to have long been negated.

Aria smiled and then, suddenly concerned, looked down at her dress. It had been a ‘wow’ given without context, and even though she didn’t know why, since she didn’t think it really mattered, still she wanted to check there was nothing wrong with her dress. It wouldn’t have been unusual for her to have spilt something on it without noticing, but today she was free of coffee stains and of spots of ink.

‘Hi, Josh,’ she said, turning sideways to pass him as he opened the door fully. ‘I brought a bottle of Rose - I hope that’s okay.’

‘Great,’ he grinned, taking the bottle from her and gesturing towards the living room. ‘Ruby’s just through there.’

Aria watched him walk to the kitchen ahead of her and then went to replace Ruby.

‘Aria!’ she exclaimed, seeing her enter the room and standing from the sofa.

‘Hello,’ Aria said, slightly confused. It was unusual for Ruby to greet her in such a way, and for a second she wondered why she was being so courtly. Then she noticed someone else in the room, the back of a brown-haired head against the top of the armchair facing away from her.

‘Aria,’ Ruby said, sweeping her arm to the side as a game show hostess might when presenting the main prize. ‘This is Robert, and Robert, this is Aria.’

The brown-haired head rose from the armchair and brought the rest of itself into view.

‘Hello, Aria,’ Robert said. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’

Aria’s breath caught in her throat as the man approached, holding out his hand.