If the sun's out, my heart's happy – that's just how it's always been. Mum says it's because I'm a "sweet summer child", or something. Now that the sun's streaming through the tulle curtains, things just feel right. The girls are still asleep – Caz is dreaming by my side, and Babe's sprawled out above us on the top bunk. Eric, too. Is asleep, I mean. As of now, 08:32, my wakey wakey, handsome text has no response, but that doesn't stop clarity from surging through the large windows with the morning light. I'm so grateful.

The laughter from downstairs explodes, in little bursts, through the spaces in my floorboard. When I lie back and open Tik Tok, I have every intention of relishing every lazy moment I can until the girls wake up... but once Young Hearts Run Free starts to play, with a little eye roll, I have to stretch and manoeuvre and creep my way out of the room to join the early morning fun.

I start on the steps, and continue my way into the kitchen, with a questionable disco step to the music. August's sitting on the table with her hands swinging about in the air, Mum and Walt are two-stepping with the widest grins I've ever seen before 11am; she's doing that thing where she purses her lips when she's giving a dance her all, and Walt's hyping her up, and making her smile, like he always does. When August looks over at me, she starts to beam and wiggle a little as the chorus comes up and we belt it together – young hearts, run free, never be hung up, hung up like my man and me. We start a kind of synchronised hip bump, Mum and Walt start cheering, and if this isn't the picture-perfect Saturday morning, I don't know what is.

The music's coming from Walt's little stereo, and I'm grateful for him too. He's a happiness we can rely on. He'll always pick August up in the middle of the day when she feels a little off. And he's wise – he always has something poignant to say when I'm stressing. Always. As if he's seen it all already; as if his 40 years are enough to have seen and understood everything there is to see and understand. August and I call him Mr. Rogers, partly because it's his name, Walt Rogers, but mostly because of his smile, his heart. We laugh and mimic his buoyant outlook and accent when we come home from school to scone spreads and 70s music, but Walt Rogers fits right into the gap.

People say a family is a family, whether it's made of 4, or 5, or 2. But when our 3 became 4, it felt hard to see the three of us as anything but incomplete. Then along he came, strolling over the Atlantic from Long Island somewhere with arms wider than his smile. He's part of us now, and I love my Dad in a way that needs elaboration, but Walt, with his humility and his warmth and his scones is here now because he's meant to be. He makes Mum feel loved, even though their names don't really fit, and nobody deserves that more than her. I wouldn't trade Walt Rogers for the world. Not even the nicest parts.

I appreciate Walt so much that I won't throw a fit about him kissing Mum's neck right now while she stirs. I share a wide-eyed it's-time-to-go glance with August, but apart from that I'll let them off. It's sort of making me miss Eric. Is that weird? I grab an apple from the fruit bowl before I try to turn on my heels, but that seems to have grabbed their attention.

"Um, excuse me!" Mum starts.

"Young lady," he drops his hands from around her waist so that they're free to chastise me, "if you're gonna eat that apple I better see it sliced up as a topping for these pancakes." He nods down at the breakfast bar full of, indeed, pancakes and berries and syrup, and I'm actually getting hungry. I roll my eyes with a small smile, getting out my plate and Auggie's,

"Fine, fine. I'll have your bloody pancakes."

"Um, girls what do you say to Walt?" August and I sing thank you, Walt nasally and smile back at my mum. Her eyes are twinkling, and when they meet mine whilst her hand's intertwined with his, I know for certain that she's found what she was supposed to.

We leave, he reminds me there's gluten free for Caz, when she wakes up!, and I think about how much he's changed things; how his kindness glued our shattered house back together, piece by piece. When Dad left my instinct was to blame Mum. Why didn't she stop him? Doesn't she want us to be a happy family? Then I grew up a little, but not enough, and found out that he hadn't left her for another woman, or to move across the world to a quaint Jamaican town, he'd just left. Then, the bitter voice of a kid who wanted a home started to blame her for not trying harder and blaming him for forgetting to buy her flowers. Then I grew up a little more and found out that the nasty rumour that sometimes love sometimes just doesn't work was true and being fallen out of love with became my biggest fear.

"Isn't it fucked that people can just leave?"

"Huh?" Auggie looks up with a mouthful of pancake and raspberry, thrown off for a moment. Then, she starts dousing her pancake pile in syrup. "Ang, I'm gonna need some context."

I take a deep breath, and think about how I'll explain it in a way that doesn't ruin the morning,

"I mean," I start, before taking the bottle from her before she gives herself a cavity, "like, someone can just get up and be like I'm leaving your life now, and you couldn't really ever do anything about it. I dunno, it's a bit scary to me."

"That's because you have abandonment issues," she shrugs like it's common knowledge, with her attention more on the stolen syrup than me, "but I mean... it's not that scary if you're good on your own. Like, if you're balanced and stable and happy by yourself, with yourself, people leaving isn't that terrifying?"

I'm speechless. She's... right. I underestimate Auggie way too often. "Now can I have the syrup?"

When I pass it back like the pushover I am and watch her empty its contents with a smile sweeter than her breakfast, happy with her stack of sugar and happy with herself, I know she's right. I'm too dependent on other people for my happiness. I need to make sure I have my own.

"Earth to Angie? You alright, love?" Cara kisses the top of my head, before sitting down to her gluten-free stack. Babe's already filled her plate, and is reaching across the table for the whipped cream,

"What's got you pondering so hard over pancakes?"

"Oh," I snort, imagining how ridiculous I look zoned out and stabbing at one strawberry, "nothing."

****************************************

Now I'm on my way. I'm not exactly sure where to, but independently happy people do this, right? Go places, on their own for no reason, just to enjoy their own company?

Babe's back home, Caz is on her way, Mum and Walt are having a lie-in I chose not to enquire about and Auggie's doing homework. Fuck, I have homework. Anyway...

Walking into the city from our rural street always feels like crossing dimensions. It's not too long of a walk, maybe 35 minutes by foot, always enough time to think, but now that I'm making myself think, away from my favourite people, my mind's oddly quiet. Silence is the breeding ground of discovery, Mum always says, although I'm not sure if she means it, or if it's just something she says to shut us up when she's got a headache. All I've discovered so far is that Hubba Bubba runs out of flavour far too fast, and there aren't enough bins around here. Maybe I'll write to the council about that – the bins, not the gum; I don't suppose they could do much about that.

Okay. Okay I can do this. Think deep thoughts. Think funny thoughts. Think thoughts that make me like being around myself. Think-

"Oi, watch where you're fucking going!"

"Sorry!" I squeak, jumping out of the path of a peeved cyclist, as he mutters off up the hill. Okay, think with your eyes and ears open. Why is this so hard?

Is everyone like this? All in their heads? It's weird. Although it has made me realise that the sound of my own voice is intensely irritating, and that I need to focus on my surroundings more. Like bald-headed, short-legged cyclists pumping and cursing their way up the hill. And long-legged, bald-everywhere-but-the-head ladies whose highlights make up for the lack of light behind their eyes. One's teetering towards me now, with bags of newly purchased clothes hooked on almost every finger, but leaving enough digits to text, one-handedly and furiously, with a simultaneously blank, bitter and superficially bright expression that says I'd leave my husband if being his property wasn't so time-consuming. She looks like a Katie.

I cringe when Katie and I cross paths in front of a bristly beer-bellied man, who almost goes cross-eyed deciding whose thighs to ogle first. He looks like a widower. Can someone look like a widower? Perhaps it's rather that he looks like someone who had a lot, lost a lot, suffered a lot, and now takes solace in doing whatever he likes because he can't possibly be put through anything worse. Y'know?

His eyes lift from Katie's legs, above and behind, to a suited man at a bench, except the man's not sitting on it or leaning against it, but he's lifted his foot up onto it, with his knee at the strictest right angle I've seen, as if he's discovering the free world or some shit as he yells to himself about 'the Dubai deal'. Wait, no, he's yelling into his earpiece. Beer Belly's still staring at him. Aw, did you used to be a big businessman too, Beer Belly? The kind of men who stood outside their offices on their lunch breaks and yelled important things for the whole of Aldwych to hear, were more common than one would think. My father tried to be one of them, at one point. Unsuccessfully – he had too much conscience. They smoke anything stylish, pride themselves on their poker face, and think they're next in line for fucking Wall Street because they buy Mayan cigars and can understand the appeal of insider trading. The kind of men who buy into the happy-hooker myth because otherwise they'd have nowhere to take the clients they were trying to schmooze. Great, now I'm thinking about how much I hate slicked back hair and my father (sort of) and how my father's latest girlfriend that he doesn't call his girlfriend used to slick back his hair, I wonder if he's still dating her, and now I need to recalibrate and breathe deep.

This woman on the other side of the bench is shooting Dubai Deal death glares that he's either pretending not to notice, or genuinely doesn't notice because he thinks he's impressing her with his big voice and big money talk – I'd put my money on the latter, and whoever she is I like her already. She's writing in a little diary, or no, journal? Her lips are thick as they mimic whatever she's writing down, and I've never been more curious. She looks so content, or did until Jordan fucking Belfort started barking. She's gorgeous. Even Belfort saw that in the few distracted seconds he took to eye her up and down. She's writing with a secretive smile like whatever she knows is what we're all dying to know, and her hair is blowing in the soft wind, not all dramatic like a high-fashion model's, but corkscrew by dark corkscrew. It's hypnotising. I wonder if she's married. Not because she looks young or old or convention-bound or free, but because of how she pauses, tilts her head and thinks before she writes the next word; I wonder if there's anyone in her heart, on her ring finger, who she pauses to consider before she speaks or loves.

My phone goes off, loud and shrill, with that stupid bloody marimba, and the sound makes me jump like I was in hiding.

Mummy Dearest would like Facetime...

"Hi, Mum." I say, still a little distracted.

"Hi, darling! Are you having fun on your walk?"

"Oh, absolute bucket-loads, Mummy." I smile with too many teeth.

"Somebody's sassy. We're just checking in, making sure you're alright!" She pans the camera over to Walt, who clearly didn't expect the camera time, as he pulls the duvet up to cover his torso,

"He-ey, Angie!"

"Hey, Walt. I promise I'm fine, I'm just," what am I doing? As if on cue, the maybe-married-lady stands, walking into the charity shop behind her.

"...doing a spot of thrifting," I say, turning the camera onto the boutique-style shop, before turning it back onto me, "I'll be back within the hour, okay?" Walt pipes up as I'm about to sign off,

"Wait! Wait, Angie, is that the Royal Trinity on York Road?"

"Yeah, why?"

"No, noth- no reason, I just hear it's sketchy in there sometimes. Don't be too long or talk to strangers or anything like that." I raise an eyebrow. Walt's never one to prescribe – Mum thinks it's weird too, and looks at him the same way, with thin knitted brows. For a second, I think I see what people see when they say we look alike.

"Alright, Papa Walt. Er, what he said, I suppose. We'll see you soon, sweetie, okay?"

"Alright, love you, bye." Once the call is hung up, and maybe-married-lady's disappeared inside, I push my shoulders back and start towards the quaint little store, ready to find out what Aldwych has to offer, beyond Eric's house, if any such thing exists.

****************************************

I've been here for a grand total of 28 minutes and I'm pretty certain I adore it. The owners' Maltese, Lily, is my new best friend, people burst out singing random lines from Major Tom when it's playing on the shop radio, and when it's not, and say things like oh! Don't you just look precious! when you come out of the changing room. So far, I've only seen pensioners come through the door, which I understand given the vague scent of ash and lavender, but honestly, you forget all about it after the 3rd Lionel Richie song plays in succession. Something about All Night Long (All Night) transports you, I swear. Still, I suspect that having too many people my age around might mean teenagers doing what teenagers do best, and something about this periwinkle-painted space is distinctly anti-mirror selfies and loud conversations. I'm guilty too, every now and again, but for today I'm quietly captivated by this little vintage wonderland.

The ladies that own the shop, Roisin and Elma, are the most entertaining old ladies on Earth, or at least in Aldwych, and they make me wish I knew them when they were my age. Hell, I want to know them now. They operate around the shop like they're in sync, even when they're on opposite ends. Roisin's half deaf and smiles and speaks like a sassy children's TV character, but she'll shoo you right out of the shop on the slightest instinct of pickpocketing (she's 93% accurate from what I've seen). Elma's the daughter of a policeman, I'll have you know, with an exterior as though she'd been in the police academy herself, but her heart's gold – she turns up the radio if she hears you humming, and passes you dresses she thinks you'd like based on what you've already tried on, like a Customers who viewed this item also viewed list, but with a knowing smile, and distinctly Northern "you'll be well chuffed with this one, sweetie!"

"Would you look at her!" She says now to Roisin when I emerge from the changing room in the pink plaid skirt she passed me – outfit number 4. I smile in thanks, but Roisin doesn't hear her, so she yells again,

"Roisin! Sheen, turn your hearing aid up and come look at the skirt I picked for Goldilocks!" That's what they've decided to call me, since Roisin says my smile screams Goldilocks, even though my hair's more ginger than flaxen – now I'm considering getting my birth certificate amended. Elma said she had hair just like mine not so long ago, except straighter, with a fringe like Joni Mitchell's, and she says it so fondly that I want to give her mine.

"Look at you, Goldilocks! Lily, lookie!" Roisin exclaims, letting out an aww! when I do a little spin. Lily jumps up on her hind legs and spins shakily too, no less excited by the fact that she doesn't know why she's supposed to be excited.

"Don't you think she's stolen my legs, Sheen?"
"Sure. Not these sticks of cheese, but your legs 40 years ago, sure."

"Oh, you are a rude hag."

I hope Babe and Caz and I can still laugh at each other like that in 40 years. If everybody had a friendship like Roisin and Elma do, running a thrift store and teasing each other all day, I think everybody might be much, much happier.

"I'll take this one too, please, Elma!" I say, and though I don't think I would have had a choice even if I didn't want it, it's adorable – really, adorable.

"Oh, of course you will, Goldilocks. Sheen, get her other things in a bag."

"I can't, all the bags are downstairs."

"And your legs are broken, are they?"

"No, Jerome's having his session now."

"Oh, don't be such a baby."
"I'm not bein' a baby, I'm bein' polite."

"Flippin 'eck, I'll do it." Elma strides over to the bannister on the left side of the shop, and calls over it,

"Jerome, Marigold, I don't wanna rush youse, but how long you got left? Roisin needs to get bags, but she's scared to interrupt."

"I'm not scared of anything!"

The footsteps up the staircase are heavy and slow, but the face that appears, the first one at least, glows with a soft, effortless smile. Maybe-married-lady! Marigold?

"This is our other Goldie," says Roisin with a wide smile. She's short by all standards, but next to Marigold, with her arms around her statuesque figure in a proud bear hug, the top of her head just about reaches Marigold's chest. She's gracious when she smiles at me, and oddly it makes me feel shy.

"Hi," I say, quietly, with a wave so small that my hand doesn't really leave my side.

"You alright, lovely? We're all done downstairs, Roisin."

"How was our boy today?" Elma asks, and I wonder how old the boy is.

Up close, Marigold looks older than I had first thought, although I'm not sure how. Her skin's without a single line or wrinkle, and with the way her features are carved into it, and framed by her curly dark brown hair, I realise that she seems older because she's more majestic, than beautiful; more radiant, than pretty. Her eyes are big, deep brown, her lips and hips are thick and full and she's full-on fucking gorgeous.

"Ah," she puts a hand on her heart, and her nails are perfectly manicured, "Jerome's doing wonderfully, no doubt thanks to you lovely ladies." I'm not paying enough to what she's actually saying, so when she glances in my general direction I don't know what facial expression I'm supposed to show, but her voice is rich like her skin and her tone purrs you're safe. "I can't say thank you enough to you ladies for this."

"Alright, don't thank them too much, I'm not no charity case." Comes an American voice as heavy as the footsteps, finally. The 'boy' is a man, and the man is bearded, emerald green-eyed, looks the way he sounds, gruff, and I assume he's Jerome.

Elma told me as much as she could about him, with the air of a proud mother bear. "Jerome's just come out of Wormwood Scrubs," she'd told me, "but he's not one of them bad ones. I can see it in his eyes, and I can read people, mind you. Soon as I seen him come into the shop, Sheen tried to get him out 'cause he looked a bit scruffy, but I said, he's a good one, Roisin, I can tell. And he told us he'd just come out and he was trying to do somethin' honest, somethin' good, so we said come help here! But if you're any less honest than frggin' Sister Teresa herself, we'll have you out on your rump! Mind you, I could tell from his accent he was from a nice part of the States, you know, maybe Virginia, or Oregon, I like them parts. And he's been working here ever since and having these sessions – he's havin' one now – with his parole officer. Oh, she's lovely, Goldilocks, you'd absolutely love 'er – so gorgeous, so nice. It's a shame Jerome's on his own, though. Won't say a word about his family back home, if he even has any, poor thing."

Plodding up the stairs, Jerome looks like the sort of man to avoid family talk. His look's hardened, like he's long realised the world was a disappointment, and pre-prepared his permanent expression. His beard's lighter than his dark brown hair, but both are scruffy like he cuts them himself. In a roundabout way he's very good-looking. In a more direct way, his look pierces. He walks like he's aware of both facts.

"Alright?" He says, with a nod in my direction. "Can I help you?" His accent's strong, maybe Brooklyn, and when he asks whilst looking directly into my eyes, not past me, or in my general direction, I'm thrown a little off guard.

"N- sorry?" My eyes dip down as he tugs at his shirt. Shit, he's wearing a name tag; he's asking if he can help me find anything in the store. Elma dives in and it feels like she's saving me from my awkward self,

"This is our Goldilocks, Jerome. She's been keeping us and Lily company this mornin'." She smiles at me like she smiled at Marigold and I feel his damn emerald eyes again. When she lets me out of the cuddle to go to the counter, he's still looking at me, expectantly now. Did I miss something? Marigold rolls her eyes as she heads towards the door, and I get the impression that he's like this most of the time.

"Use your words, 'Rome," She winks at me as she leaves and I feel her nails on my shoulder, 1-2-3, "he's asking what your real name is, hon. Don't take it personally." As tempted as I am to let my eyes follow her as she leaves, I turn back to Jerome shyly,

"Evangeline." He's still looking at me, is there something on my face? "Channing," I add, hoping that's what he's waiting for. He nods, like our interaction's officially started now that the silly nickname's out of the way, and bends down to pet the little white dog, who yaps with excitement and follows his thick hands like it's a toy. I don't know his last name, and if I felt more comfortable, I might ask. Instead, I blurt,

"How long have you been working here?" He answers me without looking up and I instantly feel stupid,

"Long enough." He isn't rude, or at least it's not the impression I get. Still, it's safe to assume he's not as chatty as Roisin and Elma, and that's fine... Is it bad that the people-pleaser in me wants him to like me too?

"Do you like it?"

"Can't complain. It's a job. Place to stay. Was either this or the chip shop." He snips off the start of his sentences like it'll bring the end around faster.

"Ah, but you're not Elvis?" Shit. I hope he gets the reference. It was a dumb joke about some 80s' song Walt's obsessed with. He probably won't know the song and now thinks I'm insane. Great job, Goldilocks.

He looks up slowly, like he's coming to a realisation, but after this interaction I'm beginning to think that's just how he does everything. He's looking at me, right at me, again, but this time his look is calm, surprised. He lets out a sharp exhale, and the little smile that follows looks unnatural underneath his large beard, but it's a smile, and I finally feel a little at ease.

"No, I'm no Elvis," He grunts as he stands to his feet, "and no liar, neither. Sheen, I'll head down and get that bag for Goldilocks."

Sweeping away and humming Sweet Caroline too loud to even her herself, Roisin doesn't hear him. He glances at Elma, who pulls a funny face at him before he turns down the stairs, as if to say something habitual, and he lets out a large and abrupt belly laugh I'd never have been able to imagine coming out of his stony face if I hadn't heard it myself.

Once he's gone, I breathe out. Reflecting on my little morning stroll, I feel rather proud. I went out all on my own; Miss Independent; a lone lass; chica independiente.

Warm, large hands cover my eyes, and the matching husky voice is in my ear,

"Boo." Okay, so maybe I texted Eric. But I was a chica independiente for a whole hour and a half.

I feel myself melt into him, with utter satisfaction, when he hugs me,

"I missed you."

"I've missed you too, my love. We certainly have some catching up to do." He nuzzles his nose against mine, and when his cheek grazes mine I feel the slightest scrape of his stubble.

"I like this." I say, running a finger across his chin. He knows I like it when he doesn't shave, but he thinks I'm just saying it, and shaves anyway.

"Mhm, so you say." He rolls his eyes playfully. "Evie, darling, what are you doing here?"

"Oh, I was out for a walk and I found this place."

"Walking for what?"

"For fun, Eric." He's got his thick glasses on today, the one's he's supposed to wear all the time, but swaps out for the thinner, more stylish ones on most occasions. Maybe it's the glasses but when he raises his sandy eyebrows in surprise, I feel smug.

"I'll have to come with you on one of your little discovery walks, then, one of these days." He says, looping his arms around my waist.

"Hm, I'll have to see if I can fit you in on one – I'm a very independent woman, you know."

"Oh, are you now? I'm sure you can just about squeeze me in, no?" It's his tone of voice. His accent's so rich and his words so pronounced, that the slightest innuendo, intended or not, makes me cheeks heat up,

"Okay, okay, Casanova," I say, breaking free from his hold, "let me get my things before you get any funny ideas." He laughs as he lets me go and heads to the door.

The clock is soon to strike 12, or rather 3, and whilst I'm sure Mum won't mind, and I'm not entirely sure what Walt minds, I might as well head back now. When I turn to the desk, Roisin, Elma and Jerome are all stood behind it, watching Eric and I like mother hens, and the ladies bump into each other trying to pretend they weren't staring when I turn to face them. Not Jerome, though. His eyes are burning a hole into me. Maybe it's just the emerald, but his stare seems to go right through me.

"Who's that?" He asks bluntly.

"Jerome!" Elma whisper-yells, hitting his hard arm with a rolled-up Daily Mail, "Don't be rude, Goldilocks' man-friend is none of your business!" Man-friend makes me laugh, but not quite as much as the glance she gives me afterwards, as if to say, you can tell us, though, if you want.

I sigh looking to the door, where Eric's managed to get himself befriended by Lily, who's turned over on her back, happily having her belly rubbed. Lucky bitch.

"That's just, uh, my- Eric." I hope that misspoken 'my Eric' suffices and Roisin and Elma's gushing oh he's lovely! And so handsome! reassures me that it is. They smother me with hugs and come-back-soons, and I really do think I will. Jerome just looks between the two of us, plain-faced, looking at Eric particularly intently. As blank as they are, all his glares seem to carry power, like he knows things you don't; it's a little terrifying.

"It's been lovely to meet you," I smile, and I hope he knows I mean it, "I have to get back to my parents for tea."

"Your parents?" He says, before I can turn on my heels. "You live with your parents?"

Maybe it's the implication that I look older, but his words makes me chuffed nonetheless, and my laugh betrays my proud surprise,

"For now, yeah, heh. Well I live with my sister, my mum and her boyfriend, but Walt's a cool guy, not too strict or anything."

"That so," he says, although it doesn't sound like a question. I grab the opportunity to leave, with a final, quiet well, bye! when Lily comes yapping over, and Eric's brushing white fur off of his tracksuit bottoms when I join him. He pecks my cheek when we join hands and thus far, though it doesn't top a Thursday, this is my favourite Saturday yet.

"So, my love, tell me all about your little adventure."