Libby lies stretched out on the hotel bed with its familiar strip of aubergine-colored fabric draped across the foot. A Premier Inn hotel room is a happy place for Libby; she associates them with hen nights and city breaks and weddings in distant cities. A bed in a Premier Inn is familiar and comforting. She could stay here all day. But she has to meet Miller in the lobby at nine a.m. She glances now at the time on her phone. Eight forty-eight. She pulls herself off the bed and has a very quick shower.
It was a long journey from London the night before and she learned a lot about Miller in the five hours they spent together.
He was in a car accident when he was twenty-two and spent a year in a wheelchair and being rehabilitated. He was very thin and sporty when he was younger but never regained his former lithe physique. He has two older sisters and a gay dad and was brought up in Leamington Spa. He studied politics at university, where he met his ex-wife, whose name was Matilda, or Mati for short. He showed Libby a photo of her on his phone. She was extraordinarily pretty with dark red hair and full lips and a blocky hipster haircut that would look dreadful on 99 percent of other people.
“Why did you split up?” she’d said. Then added, “If you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, my fault,” he said, putting a hand to his heart. “My fault entirely. I prioritized everything over her. My friends, my hobbies. But mainly my job. And mainly”—he paused to smile wryly—“the Guardian article.” He shrugged. “Lesson learned though. I will never put my work before my personal life again.
“And what about you?” he asked. “Is there a Mr. Libby somewhere in the picture?”
“No,” she replied. “No. That is an ongoing project.”
“Ah, but you’re still young.”
“Yes,” she agreed, forgetting for once her usual sense of running out of time to achieve all her arbitrary goals. “I am.”
She re-dresses in yesterday’s clothes and gets to the lobby at two minutes past nine, where Miller is already waiting for her. He has not changed or, it seems, showered. He looks disheveled, every bit like a man who has not seen his own bed for forty-eight hours. But there is something pleasing to behold about his shagginess and his carewornness and she has to resist the temptation to arrange his hair for him, to straighten the neck of his T-shirt.
He has, of course, partaken of a hearty Premier Inn breakfast and is just downing the dregs of a coffee when she appears. Now he smiles at her, puts down his cup, and together they leave the hotel.
Sally’s practice is on the high street of Penreath in a small stone building. The shopfront houses a spa called the Beach. Sally’s rooms are up a flight of stairs on the second floor. Miller rings the bell and a very young girl answers.
“Yes?”
“Hello,” says Miller. “We’re looking for Sally Radlett.”
“I’m afraid she’s with a client at the moment. Can I help?”
The girl is pale and naturally blond and shares the same well-formed bone structure as Sally. For a moment Libby thinks that this must be Sally’s daughter. But that can’t be right. Sally must be at least sixty, probably older.
“Erm, no, we really do need to speak to Sally,” says Miller.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” he says, “sadly not. It’s something of an emergency.”
The girl narrows her eyes slightly and then turns her gaze to a leather Chesterfield sofa and says, “Would you like to take a seat, while you’re waiting? She won’t be much longer.”
“Thank you so much,” says Miller, and they sit side by side.
It’s a tiny room; they are close enough to the girl, who is back behind her desk, to hear her breathing.
A phone call breaks the awkward silence and Libby turns to Miller and whispers, “What if it’s not her?”
“Then it’s not her,” he says, shrugging.
Libby gazes at him for a split second. She realizes that he doesn’t see life the way she sees it. He’s prepared to be wrong; he doesn’t always need to know what’s going to happen next. The thought of living life as Miller lives his life is strangely appealing to her.
A tall woman appears. She is wearing a gray short-sleeved dress and gold sandals. She says goodbye to a middle-aged man and then catches their eyes, giving them an uncertain look. She turns to the girl behind the desk and says, “Lola?”
The girl looks at them and says, “They asked for an emergency appointment.”
She turns back to them and smiles uncertainly. “Hello?”
It is clear that she does not like people walking in asking for emergency appointments.
But Miller is unfazed and gets to his feet. “Sally,” he says. “My name is Miller Roe. This is my friend Libby Jones. I wonder if you might be able to spare us ten minutes or so?”
She glances back at the girl called Lola. Lola confirms that Sally’s next appointment is not until eleven thirty. She beckons them into her office and then closes the door behind them.
Sally’s consulting room is cozy in a Scandinavian style: a pale sofa with a crocheted blanket thrown across it, pale gray walls, a white-painted desk and chairs. The walls are hung with dozens of framed black and white photographs.
“So,” she says. “What can I do for you?”
Miller glances at Libby. He wants her to start. She turns back to Sally and she says, “I just inherited a house. A big house. In Chelsea.”
“Chelsea?” she repeats vaguely.
“Yes. Cheyne Walk.”
“Mm-hm.” She nods, just once.
“Number sixteen.”
“Yes, yes,” she says with a note of impatience. “I don’t—” she begins. But then she stops and narrows her eyes slightly.
“Oh!” she says. “You’re the baby!”
Libby nods. “Are you Sally Thomsen?” she asks.
Sally pauses. “Well,” she says after a moment, “technically, no. I reverted to my maiden name a few years ago, when I started this practice. I didn’t want anyone to… well. I was in a bad place for quite some time and I wanted a fresh start, I suppose. But yes. I was Sally Thomsen. Now listen,” she says, her tone suddenly becoming clipped and officious. “I don’t want to get involved in anything, you know. My daughter, she made me swear never to discuss anything about the house in Chelsea. Never to talk about it. She suffered from years of PTSD after what happened there, and really, she’s still very damaged. It’s not my place to say anything. And as much as I’m glad to see you here, alive and well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both to leave.”
“Could we, maybe, speak to your daughter? Do you think?”
Sally throws a steely gaze at Miller, the asker of this question. “Absolutely not,” she says. “Absolutely not.”