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Isabella Summers lived on a main road: there was always noise, and traffic, and a pavement no more than three people wide, where sometimes even just going to the pub down the road felt more like a battle than a leisurely stroll. However, there were perks. Perk number one being a 24-hour off licence just next door to her flat. Which meant that even when she felt like shit, she could go and get whatever would fix her problems. Sometimes it was painkillers, other times she might need tissues, and then there were situations in which only vodka would do.
Today, Isabella was mostly looking for canned soup. She’d felt fluey for two days now, and she had a job the next day which she simply could not miss. An actual, paid job, cash in hand - not an open mic night or a jam with some friends. Of course she had to fall ill just before the big day, and what made things worse was that she’d been socareful. She hadn’t gone out underdressed, gone to bed late, or drunk over the limit at all in the last week. But she must have pissed off someone high up regardless, because today, Isabella Summers felt like her whole face was on fire, and there was a dull ache in her throat even when she wasn’t speaking or swallowing. She’d stopped sneezing - that, at least, was something - but other than that, she was getting worse, if anything.
There wasn’t really a lot of choice in the offy - no one else probably went there for soup when there was a massive supermarket nearby that would have sold the same thing for a third of the price - but Isabella was lazy and ill and her head was so, so heavy and thank goodness there was a tall girl standing right there because they’d only gone and put the bloody soup on the highest possible shelf in the place.
"Excuse me," Isabella croaked out, "could you get me that can of soup please?"
The tall girl turned abruptly, and looked down at her with a mix of disappointment and panic. Her lips were quite thin, and her jaw had fallen open in quite a cartoonish way. She had bright red hair, messy and tangled up in big headphones, and for a few seconds Isabella couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her face, until it clicked that the girl was wearing fake eyelashes, but only on one eye.
"Er, I was actually going to buy that." The girl said, cheerfully, like she was happy to start an argument about it.
”Really?" Even with the flu, Isabella couldn’t help but snark. Seriously, what were the odds that someone would be in the offy at the same time as her to buy the same thing that she wanted? Any other time, she would have told her antagonist to go fuck herself and stalked off to Sainsbury’s, but Isabella was far too weak to be rational about it; her head was buzzing, and not in a good way.
"Yeah… I’m really sorry. I’ve asked them if they have any more already, because it’s not quite the flavour that I wanted, and they said this is literally all there is." She sounded a bit more soft-spoken this time, and genuinely apologetic, but she still reached for the can and wrapped her long fingers around it.
Isa didn’t know if it was a possessive gesture, or if she was reading too much into it. Never in her 25 years of life had she ever thought she’d be getting territorial over a can of soup.
The girl clutched the can to her chest and made to go. “You know if it helps, there’s a big Sainsbury’s just two minutes away from here.”
Isabella couldn’t contain herself. “Lady,” she called the girl, who was probably, all things considered, several years younger, “in case you missed it, I’m in here in my pyjamas. I live right next door, and I’m barely standing up at the minute. You, on the other hand, are fully dressed,” in some sort of a curtain and knee-high boots when it’s the middle of summer, she mentally added. “And you could just as easily go to Sainsbury’s and get your soup from there. Cheaper, too. And let me have that one.”
It was a fucking bad idea to say that many words when her throat felt like it was going to shatter. Not having an argument with a stranger in an aisle barely wide enough for two people, though. That was perfectly logical.
"Please?" She looked up, considering pouting in the way that usually got her free drinks. Although when that happened, she also usually didn’t have a jumper three sizes too big and a beanie on. "I’m honestly not feeling well. I think I might have tonsillitis."
The girl looked down, her thick fringe obscuring her eyes for a minute. “I didn’t want to play this card but… I am a singer, and I have an audition tomorrow!”
Isa perked up at that. “Pineapple Studios at 10?”
"Erm… yes. Are you going to be there too?" Maybe Isa was imagining things, but the girl seemed to be waiting for a signal to fully switch to auditionee mode, which was when people kept spouting fake reassurance at each other whilst all the time wanting to beat the competition. She’d witnessed enough auditions to know.
“I guess you could say that. I’m the pianist.” She smiled. What were the odds?
The girl started stammering. “Oh. Oh. So I guess if I don’t let you have this, you won’t put me through?” She looked at the soup in her hand with far more sorrow than was appropriate for an inanimate object, and Isa felt a pang of annoyance at how melodramatic she was being.
“That’s not how it works, mate. I’m the audition pianist. I don’t make the decisions.”
“But you could play my song in the wrong key! Or tempo!” The girl protested. She was getting herself really worked up over this. Why was she even auditioning for a girl group, anyway? She was going to stand out like a sore thumb, especially if she regularly dressed in what looked like tablecloths and had knees more scuffed than a four-year-old’s on show.
Isa grinned. “Well yeah. I suppose I could. Still want to keep the soup?”
But she couldn’t get to the end of the sentence because the girl had suddenly pushed the can towards Isa with both her arms, and was now offering it to her chest with her head bowed like some sort of religious sacrifice.
Isa tentatively lifted her hand to grab the top of it, uncertain until the very last minute if this was just a joke and the girl was going to yank it back and run to the till with it, laughing like a maniac.
She didn’t.
She did put up some resistance, like she really, really didn’t want to let go, but soon, the can was safely in Isa’s grasp and the girl had resumed eye contact with her. She looked like a heartbroken puppy.
"Oh, go on then," Isa groaned, "I told you I live next door. You can come up if you want, and we can share this."
"Really?" A hint of a smile started appearing on the girl’s lips.
"Yes. But no talking. Complete vocal rest. Unless you want to run through your song for tomorrow, to make sure, you know, that I get the key right.”
She winked, and triumphantly made her way towards the till.