the yellow shirt

I’d invited Elisa round to Blackheath for some supper. She lived in Greenwich and she walked up over the heath. She was wearing a yellow shirt.

Elisa was from Lancashire. When I joined the shop she was assistant manager. She was a no-nonsense woman, who had lived in Turkey for a while with her boyfriend and who was saving up money to go back there.

I’d been living in Blackheath for a while. It wasn’t comfortable as H also lived in the same block. All bad timing. Later, Sedley moved in round the corner. It was another one room bedsit, with a futon bed, a baby belling, and a meter you put 50p pieces in to keep warm. Unlike H’s bedsit, it didn’t have a view of the heath. I was only there for six months.

Elisa ended up staying over. She crashed on the floor, I crashed on the futon. Or maybe it was the other way round.

The next day I went into the shop in King’s Road, where I was manager. (Elisa worked in the Neal Street branch.) Rebecca was there. George had recently given me a yellow cord shirt which he didn’t want. It was almost identical to Elisa’s shirt.

Rebecca, who was from Tamworth, and who got me the job at the Royal Albert Hall, said – nice shirt. I knew she was thinking something else. Then she asked me if I’d seen Elisa. I told her I had. In fact, Elisa had come for supper last night. Rebecca raised her eyebrows.

A little later, Rebecca said:
Doesn’t Elisa have a shirt like that.
I said she did.
A little later, Rebecca said:
That’s Elisa’s shirt, isn’t it?
I told her it wasn’t.
Rebecca asked me if Elisa had stayed the night.
I said she had. But not like that.
Rebecca couldn’t hold maintain her composure any longer. She came right out with it.
I can’t believe you slept with Elisa, she said.
I tried to persuade her I hadn’t.
But you’re wearing her shirt!