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‘He told us he had no family.’
‘No immediate family. I’m his cousin.’
The receptionist nurse person, a tall, rather glamorous black woman, gave me a long look. ‘You’re from Australia.’
‘New Zealand. I’m from the distant New Zealand arm of the family.’
‘And how did you know he was here?’
‘The neighbours told me. I was supposed to visit him today.’
The woman gave me an even longer look. ‘Well, you can’t visit him now.’
My heart lurched. ‘God! Why not? Has he—’
At my obviously genuine distress, the woman finally softened. ‘No, no, don’t you be worrying. He’s in surgery, that’s all. He won’t be fit for anything for at least two days. You come back the day after tomorrow. Leave your contact details here. I’ll make a note that you’re coming.’
Eek. I wasn’t sure I wanted my lie to be committed to paper. But then it hadn’t been a very big lie. Most of it, in fact, had been almost true.
And deep down, what worried me more was whether I’d have enough courage to come back. What would I say to him, after all? What would he say to me?
I decided I’d wait and see how I felt on the morning of the day in question. I told myself that no one but me would know if I wimped out. But I didn’t find that terribly reassuring.
When I returned to the house, it was quiet. No landlady. No builder. I assumed he’d be back tomorrow, but for now I could enjoy the peace and privacy and lack of surliness.
I fired up my email and found three new messages in my inbox: one from Michelle with the subject line ‘NEWS!!!’, one from Simon, subject line ‘How’s Blighty?’, and one from H McManus, no subject line at all.
As is my wont, I opened the least worrying one first. Simon wanted to know how I was, whether I’d been to Greenwich yet, and whether he could crash for a night or two if he managed to con his bosses into letting him go to some international wave science conference on the Faroe Islands in a few months’ time. He did not mention my parents, for which I silently thanked him. I said I was fine, that Greenwich was about middle on my as yet un-begun list of sights to see, and that if he didn’t mind using a Portaloo he was welcome to stay. I hit send, and opened up Michelle’s email.
There were only two words in the subject line, all in capital letters, followed by fifty thousand exclamation marks. The email had a few more words. She was pregnant again. It was a girl. And for a moment, I didn’t know if I was happy for her. But after I’d given myself a firm mental slapping, I decided I was. I didn’t want Michelle’s life. What I did want was a bit of her luck. Tom had come easily to me, just as Michelle’s good fortune had come easily to her. It just didn’t seem fair that her luck was continuing, whereas mine— Well, I’d been working hard lately to try to push that kind of thought aside. There was no rational reason, I’d been telling myself sternly, why I couldn’t be lucky again. I mean what had I done to be singled out by the gods of misfortune? Didn’t I deserve a good life as much as anyone?
I was happy for Michelle. I sent her an email to tell her so. I made sure to include fifty thousand and one exclamation marks.
Then I took a deep breath and opened Hippolyte’s email. I read it through, and then I read it through again. I checked that it was addressed to me, and found it was addressed not only to me but also to a whole lot of other people. I recognised some names as those of other romance writers.
The email said she had resigned to take a senior position at a top New York publishing firm. She said we’d be reallocated to one or other of her colleagues, who’d be in touch sometime in the next few weeks. There might be some hold up with any books currently being reviewed and she apologised for any inconvenience. Then she said it had been real and wished us all the best.
Oh shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
Exclamation mark.
The following morning, there was no knock at all. He just walked right in. He and another bloke.
I was in the kitchen, making tea and toast. I could see why Clare wanted to renovate. The kitchen was tiny; two people standing at opposite benches would be less back to back than bottom pressed to bottom. If you opened a cupboard door, no one could get in or out of the room.
Adjoining the kitchen was a small courtyard. Clare’s plan was to knock the kitchen and courtyard into one, roof the whole lot and put in large skylights. The new, big kitchen would be open to the dining room. Right now, the old, tiny kitchen was down the end of the hallway that ran parallel to the stairs. When you came in the front door, you looked straight down to it. The two builders had just closed the front door. They couldn’t miss me.
Technically, I was dressed, if you count a t-shirt and a pair of boy-leg underpants as an outfit. The t-shirt was an old one of Tom’s. It had a cartoon lightning bolt on it and the words ‘Captain Awesome’. The underpants were my own. I’d always been practical in my choice of knickers. Comfort first. Looks second. I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of this, especially as this pair had started off pale blue but long since faded to dishwater grey. They had also lost quite a lot of their elasticity and were hence a tad baggy around the edges. I suspected I looked a little like Steptoe, which wasn’t, let’s be frank, the look I was aiming for. Then again, I was glad of the coverage. My bum wasn’t exactly bikini-ready, if you know what I mean, even in the dim light of morning.
Not that I would have had the slightest option, even if I’d been oiled up and buck naked. The only way to the bedroom and more clothing was back down the hallway and up the stairs by the front door. Where the builders were. I braced myself and tried to act as if I was always very comfortable to be caught half-starkers and with no makeup. Like I was part Swedish or something.
Anselo came in first, lugging a toolbox. He didn’t smile at me, but he did nod, which I suppose was a step up courtesy-wise. Behind him was a very young man, no more than eighteen, with amazing colouring: dark red hair, freckled coppery skin and coffee brown eyes. He too, I noticed, had a gold hoop in his ear. In fact, he had several.
He also, without asking, dragged a chair from the living room and used it to prop open the front door. I resented this. Even though this wasn’t my house, I was the one living here. The furniture and I both had a right to be treated in a less cavalier manner.
I was torn. If I protested, I’d draw attention to myself and my old-man underwear. But if I didn’t, this could be a bad precedent. If I didn’t set the rules of engagement now, it’d be too late—
‘Any chance of knocking next time?’ I said, still from the safety of the kitchen. ‘And that chair may not be Chippendale, but I don’t think Clare wants it damaged.’
Anselo stared at me. Then he said something to the boy, who went outside and came back with an old towel, which he draped over the chair back so it was protected from the pressure of the door. Then both of them went outside again, presumably to unload more stuff from their truck or van.
I walked quickly down the hallway, hoping to make it upstairs before they came back. But I had only just set foot on the first stair when they reappeared in the open doorway. I had to turn to face them.
‘Morning,’ I said. Someone had to say something.
Anselo’s expression suggested he’d be counting the minutes until I left them alone to do their work. The red-haired boy just stared at me, without much interest. If I’d been sixteen, blonde and busty, things might have been different. But then again, who knows?
‘This is Tyso,’ Anselo said.
Yet another member of the odd names club.
I gave the boy a small wave. ‘Darrell.’
Anselo blew out a short breath, as if talking to me was a waste of his time. ‘We’re bringing in some materials. We’ll store them outside in the courtyard.’
As if that was his cue, Tyso headed back out the door. I noticed that along with the gold earrings, he had a green handkerchief knotted around his neck. It occurred to me that I knew nothing about the Romani people, apart from the crossing the palm with silver thing and the baking of hedgehogs between bricks thing. Which are probably apocryphal and almost certainly racist. I mean, how much meat would you get off a hedgehog?
I knew Patrick had mentioned the Romani connection, but I had no idea how recent or distant it was. Were the hoops and handkerchiefs the real thing or just for show; a way of advertising their claim to a long-lost heritage, like those Americans in Irish pubs who can only be dissuaded from singing ‘Danny Boy’ with a punch in the head?
‘Another cousin?’ I asked Anselo.
He frowned, surprised. Then he scowled. ‘I got this job on my own merits,’ he said.
Jeepers. It was too early for this sort of shenanigans.
‘Are you always this touchy?’ I asked him.
He blinked, taken aback. But before he could confirm or deny, his offsider clattered through the door with an armload of wood and metal bits and forced us to step aside. At that moment, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror and just about swallowed my tongue. The Steptoe pants weren’t the worst of it. I looked like I’d tried to cut my own hair, and there was a big smudge of yesterday’s mascara under one eye. I assumed that these two would be turning up this time every morning, and I vowed that from tomorrow, I’d be ready for them. Today, I decided that the best thing to do was run. Which I did. Up the stairs and into the safety of the bedroom.
When I felt presentable enough to venture back downstairs, the front door was closed and the chair replaced, and there were drop sheets along the hallway. I could hear a faint, tinny sound of music. The two men were out in the courtyard, along with a half-ton of building stuff and a portable Bluetooth speaker. It was emitting some standard rock fare that I did not recognise. The singer sounded as if he should have been more attentive while zipping his fly.
Anselo glanced my way as I approached. The only reason I’d come down was to snoop, so I pretended I’d actually come down for a glass of water. The door to the courtyard was propped open. I stepped into the doorway.
‘You can use the kettle,’ I said. ‘If you want tea.’
Anselo nodded. I assumed that was his way of saying thank you.
I really wanted to ask him what his schedule was — when all the big work was going to be done, when I was going to have to live on takeaways, or toast grilled in the open fire because there would be a big pile of rubble where the stove was. Anselo mistook my lingering as having another purpose.
‘You want the music down?’
‘Oh! No—’ I frowned. ‘What is it?’
Over his shoulder, Anselo said. ‘Tyso? What is this shit?’
‘Nickelback.’
Anselo and I exchanged a look and, to my astonishment, he grinned. I know it’s a terrible cliché to say that someone was transformed when they smiled, but Anselo’s smile was a corker. At the risk of making him sound like a horse, he had excellent teeth, straight and even and white. His eyes changed from wary to alive and amused. I was quite amazed at the difference. People can have natural good looks, but to me it’s their personalities that determine whether they are attractive or not. Tom was always smiling. He always looked as if he was genuinely happy to be alive, genuinely pleased to see you, and you could not help but respond to that.
Anselo said, ‘We take turns. If I had to listen to Tyso’s music all day, I’d be taking to the speaker with a bit of four by two.’
Tyso straightened up. ‘If I had to listen to yours, I’d be shooting myself in the head with the fucking nail gun.’
‘Don’t fucking swear.’
Tyso winked at me. I decided he was a naturally happy boy, too. But then, he was young. He had a job. What did he have to worry about?
‘And what does your boss listen to?’ I asked him.
‘Old boring shit.’
I looked at the boss. ‘That true?’
He shrugged. He’d stopped smiling. ‘I suppose,’ he said, and stepped away from me, towards the toolbox.
I could have been offended. But I had seen a flash of discomfort in his eyes. I sensed he had not intended for the familiarity to go so far and now wanted to quickly restore the distance between us. I wondered if it was personal, but decided it wasn’t. He was probably emotionally constipated with everyone.
In any case, sharing a house with a monosyllabic builder was the least of my worries. It was café time, and I would be seeing Mr Perfect — could I ever call him Claude? — for the first time since we’d introduced ourselves. My worry was that I had no idea what the protocol was now. Should I invite him to sit with me? Should I feel free to invite myself onto his table? Or should I just wave and smile? Composedly this time, not like a loonish fool.
The latter seemed the best option, although I really, really wanted to talk to someone about being abandoned by my editor. I’d woken up at three panicking about it. My rational side had reminded me that I had a contract for this book. There might be a delay but they could not, by rights, refuse to continue working with me on it. My gremlin side had asked if I’d actually read my contract? Was there some fine print that gave them an out? Could they delay indefinitely? And what would happen to me if my money did not come through as expected?
I knew the answer. It was dead simple: I’d have to pack up and go home.
And, you know, a couple of weeks ago, that might have seemed like an OK deal. But now? Now, what I feared would never happen in a million years just had. I’d met someone! And he was handsome, older (in a good, Pierce-like way, not a creepy, pervy way), posh, and possibly very, very wealthy.
I tell you, if I was writing this story, this is what would happen: Mr Perfect would turn out to be the scion of an aristocratic family from whom he is now estranged. He would have reached an emotional turning point in his life, and be looking for greater meaning than merely watching his wealth accumulate and jetting between his Monegasque chateau and his Manhattan penthouse. The usual parade of well-bred, flawless women now filled him with nothing but ennui, and he would be initially intrigued by and soon violently attracted to a sparky young brunette who combined refreshingly normal good looks with a certain amusing colonial charm.
Ideally, she’d also be a virgin and have the lissome grace of a willow sapling. But then we all have to get used to disappointment, don’t we?