Immediately, Elissa realizes her mistake. Black and white are the traditional colours of a chessboard, along with the pieces that move upon them. Will her choice of cardigan influence her game? Her heart begins to jump.
Calm down. It doesn’t matter.
And yet the decision has paralysed her. She wants to call out to her mum, but suddenly her jaw feels wired shut.
Black or white? Black or white?
Blackorwhite, blackorwhite, blackorwhite?
It feels like an intricate set of cogs has seized inside her brain. This happens sometimes. A decision, seemingly routine, will render her helpless. Her muscles freeze and she’ll remain in the same position, gently swaying, until something knocks her back into motion.
Black or white? White or black?
She blinks. The movement is involuntary, a reaction to dry eyes.
‘Lissy?’ Her mum’s voice, from downstairs.
Odd that in chess, a game all about tough decisions, she never experiences this. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons she loves it.
‘Lissy!’
And then, just like that, she’s back. Her jaw releases. She lurches forwards, almost colliding with the cupboard. ‘White,’ she gasps, dragging the cardigan from its hanger before paralysis can reclaim her. At the mirror, she allows herself a final glance. Her black hair is neatly brushed, held by a plastic Alice band the same colour as her eyes. She’s always wished her eyes were brown and not green. So many people comment on them. She’s never felt comfortable with the attention.
Downstairs, her mum is standing in the hall, clutching her car keys. ‘OK?’
Elissa nods.
‘Sure you’ve got everything?’
‘Yep.’
‘Notebook? Pens? Lunchbox?’
‘Yep, yep, yep.’
‘Monkey?’
She winces.
Her mum laughs, bends down and kisses her. ‘You’re going to be great. The important thing is to enjoy yourself.’
‘The important thing is to win.’
Her mum tilts her head, as if she’s in an art gallery assessing a particularly peculiar piece. ‘I’m so proud of you, Lissy,’ she says. ‘I love you so much.’
‘Love you too,’ Elissa mumbles. And it’s true. She really does.
Lena Mirzoyan pushes up her coat sleeve and checks her watch. ‘We’d better go. Do you need a wee?’
‘Mum!’
‘OK, sorry. Bad habit. Let’s skedaddle.’
II
They’re in the car, heading along the dual carriageway. An Adele song is playing: ‘Rolling in the Deep’. Elissa doesn’t know much about music but she knows Adele because her mum has her CD and plays it all the time.
The tournament is in Bournemouth, an hour’s drive. Registration is at ten, but they left the house at seven. The risk of getting snarled in a two-hour jam this early on a Saturday morning is almost zero, but Lena Mirzoyan lives in fear of letting her daughter down. As a result, they reach the outskirts of Bournemouth exactly two hours before the venue opens.
Examining the Fiesta’s dashboard clock, Lena winces. ‘We’re a bit early.’
‘A bit?’
‘Oh, Lissy, I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to take any chances. I—’
‘Mum, I’m kidding. It really doesn’t matter. Maybe we can get some breakfast.’
Lena nods, relief spreading across her face. ‘I could certainly do with something. I didn’t eat anything before we left.’
‘Why not?’
She shrugs. ‘Nerves, I guess.’
Elissa laughs. ‘Why are you nervous?’
‘Because I know how much this means to you. I want you to do well.’
‘Don’t you think I will?’
‘I think you’ll knock ’em dead.’
‘Then you’ve no reason to be nervous.’
Now her mum laughs too. They pass a sign: WIDE BOYS RESTAURANT! OPEN 7 DAYS, EARLY TIL LATE! ‘How about there? Want to try it?’
It’s not the sort of place they usually go. Elissa says yes quickly, before Lena can change her mind. As they drift towards the exit lane, she glances out of the side window and spots a silver BMW barrelling up the inside of them. Her mum notices just in time, swinging right to avoid a collision.
Horn blaring, the BMW shoots past. Elissa gets a split-second view of a face distorted by rage. The car cuts in front. Its brake lights flare. Gasping, Lena slams on her own brakes. Elissa’s seatbelt bites her chest. The BMW weaves left and right, toying with them. Then it accelerates away. Elissa stares at the shrinking number plate: SNP 12.
‘Stupid Nasty Prat,’ she hisses, through clenched teeth.
Breathing hard, Lena checks her mirror before taking the exit slip for Wide Boys. In the car park, she turns to Elissa. ‘You OK?’
‘Sure. Just some loser. Don’t let him ruin your day.’
‘This day?’ her mum asks. ‘Not a chance.’
III
Inside Wide Boys, another Adele song is playing. When Elissa rolls her eyes, her mum clocks her expression and grins.
The restaurant is decked out like a sixties American diner: chequerboard floor, red vinyl seats, framed prints of Elvis and Marilyn Monroe. It smells of lemon floor cleaner, fresh pastries and frying bacon.
Lena Mirzoyan grabs an empty table. ‘What do you—’
‘You choose,’ Elissa says quickly.
Taking out her glasses, Lena studies the menu.
A middle-aged couple sits down at the next table. Covertly, Elissa begins to observe them. She loves to people-watch, noting all the little choices others have made during their day.
This morning, the woman beside her decided to wear a jade necklace. She decided to put on make-up, too, choosing her violet lipstick from what was likely a collection of different shades. She chose to wear jeans rather than trousers or a skirt, and boots rather than sandals or trainers. The man decided to shave before coming out. Elissa knows that because there’s a smudge of foam behind his right ear. He combed his hair, too, presumably with some kind of product; it looks wet, and ever-so-slightly sticky. Dirt is trapped beneath the nails of his blunt-tipped fingers. While he studies the menu he runs a hand up and down his throat, as if checking for patches the razor missed.
‘Stop that,’ the woman hisses. ‘Always touching yourself.’
He lurches upright, hand dropping to his side. Elissa hides her smile by turning away.
On the smaller table to her right sits an older man. He’s wearing a turquoise jumper, mustard-yellow corduroys and toffee-apple-red shoes. A signet ring gleams on his pinkie finger. Against his teapot leans a battered paperback: The History of the Peloponnesian War by Thucydides. His mouth twitches as he reads, revealing a set of pointed yellow teeth.
A waitress appears, then. She’s in her fifties, with blonde hair so glamorously styled she must spend hours maintaining it. Pinned to her T-shirt is a name badge: ANDREA. She’s at least sixty pounds overweight, all boobs and bum, but she wears it so well it’s impossible to imagine her differently.
‘Look at them fabulous eyes,’ Andrea crows, flashing a red-lipped smile. ‘Always wanted green ones myself, but you can’t have everything.’
‘You have green eyes,’ Elissa says.