ALL GROWN UP

Lusaka, Zambia – May 1993

Chrissie blew her hair out of her eyes and was about to order another drink, when she stopped, struck by a ghost from her past. But the man sitting at the other end of the bar was too solid to be a ghost. Chrissie studied her old enemy. He was hunched over his drink in sweat-stained khakis, his fair skin broiled by years in the sun to a reddish tan. His coppery hair had faded and he had aged badly, but it was Gerry Mann all right.

He must have felt her staring at him because he turned his head and raised his glass. ‘Buy you a drink, love?’

Chrissie suppressed the urge to tell him not to call her love, or flower, or pet. She had had enough of those names on her long climb to The Journal by way of newsrooms in rural backwaters where the male reporters still thought it was 1953, not 1993, and that a woman journalist should stick to writing about knitting patterns and scone recipes. Chrissie swallowed her irritation and slid off the bar stool. Gerry Mann had known her as a child growing up in Africa; he might have some answers to why so many of her troubled memories were beginning to resurface. He grinned and patted the seat beside him, obviously thinking he had made a bar room conquest. ‘What’ll you have, love?’

‘Gin and tonic, please.’ He turned to the elderly barman. ‘You heard the lady, Innocent.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Mann held out his hand; it was large and moist with the afternoon heat. She took it and quickly rubbed it on the back of her khaki trousers. He didn’t seem to notice and smiled at her again. The corners of his eyes crinkled and she realised he must have been handsome once before alcohol and the sun took its toll. ‘Gerry Mann,’ he said, the ‘a’ flat, northern English.

Chrissie sat down and didn’t return his smile. ‘I know who you are.’ Mann gave an uneasy laugh. ‘That’s funny, I’ve never met you before, but you know me, or so you say.’ He narrowed his pale blue eyes, now empty of their early friendliness. ‘Why don’t you tell me your name, love?’ ‘Well, it’s not love, that’s for sure,’ she said with a light laugh that held some steel. ‘I’m Chrissie Docherty. You knew my dad in the Seventies. Jim Docherty.’

Mann frowned. ‘British Council Jim Docherty? Chalimbana Jim Docherty?’ She nodded. He put down his drink, all smiles once more. ‘Well I’ll be…! I remember you now: you were a right skinny little rat.’ Chrissie winced. As a child she’d been all knees and feet, her gangly limbs not suited to the short dresses and white socks of her childhood. She had filled out and now she was glad of her long legs and the natural slimness that meant she could eat what she wanted. Mann seemed to share her appreciation; Chrissie didn’t like the way he was looking her up and down, as if he were choosing a prime cut of meat. He peered down her shirt and whistled under his breath. ‘Look at you now, though – all grown up.’ Chrissie’s hand went to her top button and she felt her cheeks burn when she realised it had come undone. She did it up and twisted away to take a slug of her drink, determined not to let him get the upper hand. He seemed to read her discomfort and laughed softly. ‘Well, well, well, little Chrissie Docherty.’ Chrissie wanted to get up and leave but she couldn’t move, like a rat transfixed by a snake.

l Maggie Ritchie grew up in Zambia, Spain and Venezuela before settling in Glasgow, where she lives with her husband and son. A journalist, Maggie’s debut novel, Paris Kiss (2015), won the Curtis Brown Prize, was runner up for the Sceptre Prize and was longlisted in the Mslexia First Novel Competition. Looking for Evelyn is published by Saraband and out now. Find out more at maggieritchie.com or follow her on Twitter @MallonRitchie

Author Maggie Ritchie