my bag on the least grubby bit of floor, balanced my jacket on top and stashed my phone in the waistband of my skirt. Grabbing the nearest wheelie bin I could find, I rolled it under the window, its wheels giving out a deep, rumbling noise.
Unsurprisingly, I hadn’t anticipated my day would involve me having to clamber on top of a bin and so this morning I’d decided to wear my black suede stilettos with the polished metal heels. My fallback footwear of choice whenever I had a particularly difficult meeting to attend or when, like today, I needed a bit of Dutch courage, I considered them and their spiky, weapon-like heels my armour, there to fortify me against whatever might come my way. Super-high (even for me), when I’d bought them the girl in the shop had referred to them as limo shoes (so precarious, beautiful and expensive they necessitated the wearer to be driven everywhere lest she damage them or herself). Now, looking at the dimensions of the bin, I realised I couldn’t have worn a more impractical shoe.
Putting my hands behind me I tried to hoist myself backwards onto the lid. But the bin was empty and, almost immediately, it toppled onto its side, taking me with it. As I broke my fall with my hands, I heard the right underarm of my blouse rip wide open.
Dusting myself off, I reassessed. I needed something with a solid base to support me. Finding a bin packed to the brim with bags, I heaved it over to the window and placed a bottle crate next to it. Stepping up onto the crate, I put one knee onto the lid. The plastic buckled almost instantly. I waited for it to meet the top of the bin bags inside and, as soon as it had stabilised, I raised my other knee up. The bin’s column swayed beneath me and, once it had settled into position, I grabbed onto the window ledge and peered inside.
What I saw was some kind of living room. Pine laminate covered the floor and the walls had been painted magnolia. A mismatched sofa and armchair were the main pieces of furniture; an airer with grey clothes drying on it, a dead-looking yucca plant, small chest of drawers and a TV being the only other things in the room. A framed photo sat atop the chest of drawers. Too far away to see in any real detail, it seemed to feature the boy and two other people, all wearing sunglasses and sunhats, aboard some kind of small boat. One of the men was on the large side. Probably the shopkeeper. But the other person was more difficult to identify.
I realised the TV was tuned to a cartoon channel and looked at the room again, more carefully this time. Lego was scattered next to the sofa, and now a small hand appeared, moving a toy ambulance back and forwards and around the bricks. The hand was part covered by a royal blue sleeve, hanging low on the wrist.
It was him. The boy.
Slipping my phone out of my waistband, I turned the camera on and held it up to the window. The boy’s hand kept coming further and further out as he raced his toy faster and faster. I held my phone steady, willing him to break cover.
The hand disappeared from view for a few seconds and then re-emerged at the side of the sofa, this time pushing a miniature red racing car. He pushed it too hard, lost control and the car flew forward, out of his grasp. This was it. I held my finger poised on the photo button. He reached out to retrieve the car and as the back of his head came into view I began taking photo after photo. Just a bit more, just a bit more, I begged, snapping away. I could almost see the side profile of his face when I heard the back gate of a shop a few doors down being wedged open.
I climbed off the bin as fast as I could, my dismount levering open the lid, and as my heels clattered down onto the alley cobbles I caught a whiff of the rotten sweetness contained within.
‘If it isn’t my damsel in distress.’
It was the bloke from the café. The one who had helped me.
Wearing jeans and a pale green T-shirt that highlighted the dash of his shoulders, he smiled but then looked behind me, concerned, as though he’d realised