‘Oh, don’t you go believin’ everything you see or hear. I got my contacts in, is all.’
Elissa blinks, stealing a quick glance at her mum. ‘You can change your eye colour?’
‘Chuckie, you can change just about anything you want if you tries hard enough. Through these puppies I can’t see shitums, but at least I got my green peepers, even if I might bring you the wrong-flavoured milkshake because of ’em.’ Andrea winks conspiratorially. ‘You should see me on Hallowe’en. I wear a pair of eyes that’re bright orange, slitted just like a cat’s. Scares the bejesus out of people.’ She makes her hand into a paw and meows. They both laugh.
‘Well,’ the waitress continues. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t inherit those gorgeous greens from your mum. Should we be thanking your dad for ’em?’
‘Um … I guess.’
‘Is he joining you lovely ladies today?’
‘He doesn’t live with … I mean, we don’t …’
Elissa’s mum clears her throat. ‘I think, actually, we’re ready to order.’
‘Great.’ Andrea tilts her head. Her fake green eyes gleam. ‘What can I getcha both?’
‘We’ll have a couple of Hound Dog breakfasts,’ Lena says. ‘Coffee for me. Orange juice for my daughter.’
Hearing that, Elissa is a little disappointed. She was sort of looking forward to Andrea bringing her the wrong-flavoured milkshake, but she doesn’t correct the order; the thought of choosing which milkshake makes her shiver.
‘How’d you want your eggs?’
‘One set scrambled, one set fried.’
‘Coming right up.’
Andrea saunters off, buttocks swinging inside her tight black trousers.
‘Thanks,’ Elissa says.
Her mum raises an eyebrow. ‘For what?’
‘Ordering my food. Don’t think I could have done it.’
‘Too much choice?’
She nods sheepishly. ‘We probably would’ve missed the tournament.’
‘Can’t have that.’
‘Did she really say shitums?’
Lena rolls her eyes. ‘That’s why I don’t like bringing you to these places.’ Her smile shows she doesn’t mean it.
Soon, Andrea is back, plonking down coffee and orange juice. Five minutes later she returns with two huge plates. ‘Who’s for fried?’
Elissa raises her hand. There’s far too much food for a thirteen-year-old girl: bacon rashers, eggs, sausage, mushrooms, fried potato, grilled tomato, beans and a square of fried bread sparkling with grease.
‘Whoa,’ says the woman with the jade necklace. ‘Somebody’s hungry.’
Elissa stiffens, wondering if it’s a criticism, but when she looks over her fellow diner is smiling.
‘Growing girl,’ says the man with dirty fingernails.
Thankfully, another waitress appears then, ready to take the couple’s order. Spared from further attention, Elissa cleans her knife with a napkin. In the car, she hadn’t been that hungry, but now she’s famished. As she eats, her thoughts return to the tournament. Her mind becomes a landscape of black and white squares, populated by the carved shapes made famous by Nathaniel Cooke. Once she’s cleared her plate – everything except one egg, the mushrooms and the fried potato – she pushes it aside.
Her mum digs in her handbag for her purse. ‘Just popping to the loo. Will you be OK?’
‘Sure.’
Unzipping her rucksack, Elissa grabs the book by Jennifer Shahade and begins to read. She’s interrupted by a grunt from the next table. Looking up, she sees the man with shaving foam behind his ear examining the title.
‘Funny name for a book,’ he says. ‘What’s it about?’
She looks from the man to his partner, who smiles sympathetically, as if to say: Yes, sweetie, I know he’s a little slow. Just humour him for me, would you?
‘It’s about chess.’
‘Huh. Ain’t ever been my thing. Used to like a bit of poker, before.’
Elissa nods. Her focus returns to the book. It attempts to settle there, but she can’t help herself. ‘Before what?’ she asks, glancing up.
Using his knife as a pointer, the man indicates his partner. ‘Before … you know.’
The woman’s smile broadens. If there’s a message, this one’s probably something like: See the kind of shitums I have to put up with?
Elissa blushes. The couple continue to stare, as if expecting something in return for their interest, so she says, ‘I’ve got a chess tournament today, in Bournemouth. First of a Grand Prix.’
When they offer her fuzzy smiles and drift back to their conversation, she sags with relief. Turning away, she sees the man in the turquoise jumper watching her. He shakes his head minutely before returning to his book. Whether he was expressing solidarity at the unwanted interruption, or distaste at her poor social skills, Elissa cannot tell.
A minute later her mum comes back from the loo. Then it’s her turn to go. They meet back at the service desk and settle their bill. When they pass their table on the way out, the couple that were sitting beside them are still eating, but the man in the turquoise jumper has gone. Steam curls from his abandoned teacup.
IV
The tournament is being held at the Marshall Court Hotel on Bournemouth’s East Cliff. Because they’re early, they have no problem finding parking.
Elissa’s stomach gurgles and pops. She wishes she hadn’t eaten the fried breakfast. There’s a strange taste in her mouth, as if her teeth have been coated with grease. An image pops into her head. She’s taking the opening move of her first game. When her fingers release the chess piece, they leave a sheen of bacon fat.
‘Have you got a wet wipe?’ she blurts. ‘It’s really important.’
Her mum nods, scrambling inside her handbag. She pulls out a sealed pouch. Elissa breaks it open and swabs her hands.
They sit in the car for a while, staring at the whitewashed building as seagulls circle overhead. Finally, Lena Mirzoyan taps the dashboard clock. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘Game face on?’
‘What?’
‘I’m not really sure – I just heard it on TV.’
‘Oh, Mum.’
V
A giant whiteboard stands in the Marshall Court’s lobby. On it someone has written CHESS THIS WAY and drawn an arrow pointing left. Elissa follows it to a wide corridor carpeted in a busy geometric fabric. Along one wall, a draperied trestle table is piled with chess merchandise: T-shirts, mugs, travel sets, clocks, home-printed manuals and guides. A grey-haired woman in a fuchsia cardigan sits behind it, smiling as they pass. ‘Be sure to come by later,’ she says. ‘Good luck, Missy.’
At the end of the corridor, a registration desk is staffed by a birdlike man with a prominent Adam’s apple. Dark hair sprouts from his skinny wrists, which emerge in turn from the frayed cuffs of a pink shirt. Behind him is the ballroom, where rows of tables have been set up.
‘Name?’ he asks.
‘Elissa Mirzoyan.’
The man drags an overlong fingernail down his list. ‘And who’ve you brought with you today, Elissa?’