Echo and Narcissus
He appeared to be her ideal man – but looks can be deceiving for those who fall in too deep
The image on Ayda’s phone was vivid: the blue sign sharp like lime, the bricks, spicy peppers, the yellow curtains, candied. “This is the place.” She lowered the phone. “I think.” Ruth looked at her doubtfully. The colours of the building were drab, as if someone had muted Ayda’s vision. The streak of graffiti on the door, which had looked so trendy on Instagram, now signalled disdain and neglect.
“It’s cool,” she said, raising her phone again to hide the weathered paintwork, overlaying reality with the picture.
Immediately the thump of her heart slowed. Everything was going to be alright, this was where he spent his time. She was going to see him. And there was no way she would be disappointed.
She fixed her eyes on the bright version of the café, grabbed Ruth and pulled her towards the door.
As they entered, a bell tinkled and Ayda released a pent-up breath.
“See, it’s lovely.” She dragged Ruth to an empty table. “I’ll get us some tea, shall I? There’s a waitress behind the counter.”
Pointedly, Ruth slid her finger through a smear of grease, but Ayda held her gaze until she sighed and nodded. “See if they’ve got any camomile.”
“Cullen posted that they have everything. Anyway, he says this look is right on trend. Shabby chic. Or maybe it’s meant to be ironic.”
“Ironic dirt,” Ruth said with a quirk of an eyebrow. “Ironic three-star hygiene rating…”
“You’re only having tea. It’s boiling water and a bag, you’ll survive.”
“Think of the stories I’ll be able to tell my future children,” Ruth said. She leant back. “How long do we have to sit here?”
“Until he arrives. He’s here for lunch all the time. He’ll be here.” Ayda gripped the back of a chair, as if she could force his appearance in it by sheer force of will. Ruth reached for Ayda’s fingers.
“He might not be all you…”
Ayda pulled her hand back. “Don’t warn me, just… don’t. I need him to be real.”
“I know you do.” Ruth put her bag on the table. “I’m sorry.”
They had been sitting there for an hour.
Ayda was on her second Earl Grey, while Ruth nursed stone-cold, yellowing water, a soggy “camomile” label stuck to the handle of her mug. An old man slumped on a chair near the counter dozed over a congealed full English. The waitress had vanished into the back and Radio 1 played faintly in the kitchen.
“He might not come,” Ruth said eventually. “Surely he’s got something better to do than hang out here.”
Ayda shook her head. “He’s just posted – he’s done his hair. He must be on his way.”
“Done his hair, eh?” Ruth rolled her eyes. “Exciting.”
Ayda glared. “You don’t have to be here.”
“I’m sorry.” Ruth squeezed her hand. “But what do you really know about this man?”
“Everything. He’s an open book.” Ayda gazed into the image of Cullen’s soulful brown eyes. His hair was flicked back, and he had just the right amount of stubble. His biceps bulged beneath his tight white T-shirt and just visible on the table behind him was a copy of Stephen Fry’s Mythos.
“I almost forgot!” Ayda opened her satchel and pulled out the matching book, laying it carefully in front of her. It was well-thumbed, pages turned down.
“You really think he’ll want to chat myths with you?” Ruth reached for the book, but Ayda slapped her hand away.
“Of course. This is his favourite book. He’s so intelligent.”
“Which you told him.”
“He liked my comment.”
Ruth picked up Ayda’s phone. “He writes, ‘This place is so cool,’ and you write, ‘So cool!’ He writes ‘New haircut #pompadour, so trendy’ and you write, ‘So trendy!’ Of course he likes your comments, Ayda, you’re an echo chamber.”
“I’m not! I just think he’s…” “Perfect, dreamy, your ideal man. I get it.”
Ayda jerked upright, spilling tea on the table. “It’s him!”
A shadow had appeared outside the window, shaped exactly as Ayda had dreamt.
The bell chimed to announce him and Ayda held her breath as he strolled inside. Even without the filters he was beautiful: skin flawless, hair shining, mouth wide but firm.
As he chose the table beside Ayda’s, the waitress rushed from the kitchen with a glass of water. “Cullen! Finally!”
“Don’t start, Kaya. Is lunch ready?” His voice was smoky and sweet like honey in whisky.
“Drink this first.” She put the glass in front of him.
He shook his head. “I’ve got a shoot this afternoon. I haven’t drunk a thing for two days and look.” He pulled up his T-shirt to reveal a six-pack. “Sexy, right?”
Ayda gasped. “Sexy!” she whispered. Ruth rolled her eyes. Then Ayda stared, her eyes wide as Kaya the waitress started to cry. “You’re killing yourself. For what? Likes! Mum would go spare.”
“Don’t be daft.” Cullen leant on a fist and Ayda realised that, although his muscles bulged, his arms also trembled, skin sallow under the fluorescent lights. “I’m just feeling a bit… Can you get my…”
“Grilled chicken,” Kaya sighed. “How much exercise did you do today?”
“Not much.”
Ayda flicked back through his posts. Images from that morning showed him lifting weights. “Not much?” she whispered.
Cullen groaned and laid his forehead on his arms. “Just walking here has exhausted you. Cullen, are you listening?” Kaya shook his shoulder. “Cullen?” She turned to Ayda, her eyes wild. “You. Call an ambulance!”
Ayda jolted to her feet. “An ambulance?” Kaya noticed the book on the table. “Oh, no! You’re another one of his stupid followers, aren’t you? He hates all that intellectual crap. You know what his favourite book is? Killing Floor! Look at what he’s done to himself, so he can get thousands of likes. Really look at him!” “But I…”
“Call for help or get out.”
The old man tapped Ayda on the shoulder.
“This belong to you, love?”
He was scrolling through Cullen’s feed. “Handsome lad.”
Ayda took her phone with shaking fingers. “Handsome,” she murmured, holding the screen up so that the image of a smiling Cullen replaced the vanishing ambulance.