Steel picked her parents up at St. Pancras station. In a taxi on the way back to their flat, she told them that not only was it all over but that she would be leaving her job. She explained to her mother and father in the best way she could that she had solved the final piece of her puzzle, that the final image, as she pulled back to view the totality, wasn’t the image of a person she was looking to be. She promised them she would never go back to that world. Her mother cried with joy in the rear of the bouncing cab as it made its way down to Bloomsbury.
The next morning, she helped them both open the café for breakfast. As she and Sheena hot-mopped the linoleum floor, her mother asked innocently about Georgia Turnbull, about the possibility of working for her.
“You two seem to get on so well, Davina. Why in God’s name not?” Steel stopped what she was doing. She said nothing, then finally craned back to her mother, her eyes full and worn wet with a quiet sadness.
“Georgia Turnbull is dead to me, Mother. I’m going to ask you nicely to never mention her name again, okay?” Sheena wasn’t sure what to say or how to answer. She wanted to ask more, hear more, but knew it was best to let her daughter just keep on with her mopping.
“Yes. Yes, of course, doll. The name’ll never come up again. I promise.”
Steel went and washed her face in the sink. She soaked it in the cool water, then dried off. She walked to the counter by the window and quietly looked out onto the street, watching the cars and the people going back and forth, trying desperately not to see Georgia Turnbull’s face in the crowd.