Ursula parks up outside number fifteen William Street, flips down the sun visor and scrutinises her refection in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed, her eye make-up is a little smudged and her bottom lip is chapped but she looks presentable. Presentable-ish. She rakes her fingers through her fringe then sniffs at her armpits and wrinkles her nose. She takes a deodorant can from the glovebox and applies it liberally. 5.58 p.m. Time to meet her new landlord.
After Charlotte and Matt kicked her out she burned through her deliveries, forgoing chats with her regulars to try and make up time. A visit to the shopping centre was the carrot at the end of her shift and, after she’d delivered her last parcel, she’d driven to the Meads with her shoulders hunched, a pain in her chest and her forearms knotted tight.
Don’t, said a voice in the back of her head. Don’t do it. It’s what got you in this mess in the first place. But her legs had ignored the frantic pleading of her mind and carried her out of the car park, across the forecourt and through the glass doors of Mirage Fashions. The shop was empty apart from two assistants and the bored-looking security guard. That made it risky, more risky than normal, but she didn’t turn back. Instead she headed towards the back of the shop as adrenaline coursed through her, quickening her reflexes and sweeping her anxiety away. There was no plan, no item she particularly wanted or needed, but the urge to steal crawled from her forearms to her fingertips, like ants under her skin. She’d feel better once she’d taken something, when it was in her hand or under her jacket or shoved deep into her bag; the tension knotting her shoulders would vanish and she’d be able to breathe deeply again. She searched the rows of clothes like a magpie, her heart thumping in her chest. She felt a spark of irritation as the shop manager drew closer, pretending to sort one of the racks.
Spotting the man with the bunch of flowers, gesturing for her to get the shop manager’s attention, had been a godsend. The moment the manager set off across the store, Ursula had whipped the sparkly dress from the hanger and shoved it into her jacket. The security guard hadn’t given her so much as a second look as she’d marched through the glass double doors. Her high had lasted for all of the four or five minutes it took her to leave the Meads, enter the car park and open the door to her van. Then the shame set in and her mind filled with noise: discordant voices shouting over each other, telling her she was fat, a failure, unlovable, unliked and unwanted.
‘You’re a freak.’
‘What’s the weather like up there, Mount Ursula?’
‘You scared the children. You need to get help.’
‘You’ll never amount to anything.’
She shoved the dress under the passenger seat, squishing it up against cutlery she’d stolen from restaurants, plastic pot plants she taken from McDonald’s, a cushion she’d nabbed from a café, make-up she’d swiped from Debenhams and lots and lots of clothes and jewellery with the tags still on. Then she started the engine, pressed play on her CD player and blasted out George Michael, turning the volume louder and louder until her eardrums throbbed.
Now, she opens the door to the van, walks up the path to the small terraced house in Totterdown and knocks on the door. Unlike the other houses on the narrow, car-lined street there’s no light on beyond the bay window and no television screen flickering from between the gaps in the blinds. Ursula raises her eyes to the first floor. No light on in the bedroom either. She checks her watch. 6.03 p.m.
She knocks again, then jolts as the door is wrenched open, leaving her curled fist hanging in the air. Even with the step up into the house the man in the doorway is still several inches shorter than her. His gaze flicks from her face to her battered trainers and then back again and she braces herself for the inevitable comment about her height.
‘Edward.’ He holds out a slim hand. His eyes seem to bore into her from behind his round, wire-framed specs. ‘You must be Ursula.’
She returns the handshake, noting the man’s neatly clipped nails. He doesn’t look like she imagined from their brief phone call. She thought he’d be tall and angular like Benedict Cumberbatch, but he’s actually very small and slight. His is the physique of a thirteen-year-old boy but there’s a ruggedness to his skin and a peppering to his temples that suggests he’s at least mid-thirties. His accent, and polo shirt and chinos, suggest he’s posh, but the hall carpet by his feet is thin and worn, and when he turns on the light only one bulb in the overhead fixture comes on.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ she says.
Edward doesn’t immediately respond, instead he continues to stare up at her. The intensity in his eyes, small and bright behind his Harry Potter glasses, makes her shift from foot to foot. But then he smiles and Ursula feels the tension in her belly melt away.
‘Do come in,’ Edward says. ‘I’ll give you the tour.’
He leads her into the living room first and switches on the light. There’s nothing unusual about the rooms. Nothing remarkable either. There’s a shabby two-seater sofa covered with a multi-coloured ethnic throw that looks like it was rescued from a student bedroom in the 1990s, a forty-inch TV in the corner of the room, a large brown leather armchair and a gilt mirror above the fireplace. There are no prints on the walls, no books, no ornaments, nothing to give the room any character apart from a dartboard on the wall opposite the doorway. Edward catches her looking at it.
‘I like darts.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Obviously.’
A memory creeps into Ursula’s head, of Nathan standing beside her in the pub, pointing across the room and shaking with laughter at the three darts she managed to embed in the wall.
‘I’m a courier,’ she says as she follows Edward to the galley kitchen. It’s so cramped she has to remain in the doorway while he points out the oven, sink, microwave and recycling bins and explains that he does his washing at a local laundrette because there’s no space for a machine. Like the living room it’s a bland, characterless space. There’s a wooden knife block with six gleaming stainless steel handles and a yellow-white kettle that looks like it’s seen better days. The only splash of colour is a portable red digital radio, the news reporter gravely explaining how another man had gone missing near the Harbourside.
‘I can’t remember if I already told you this,’ Ursula adds, ‘but I get a delivery of parcels every morning, at about 6 a.m. It’s my round for the day. Would that be a problem?’
Edward glances in her direction but his gaze doesn’t rest on her face, instead it drifts past her, towards the front door. He frowns as though considering the request. ‘Where would you keep them?’
‘In the living room.’ Ursula mentally kicks herself. She should have given herself enough time to make a good impression on him before mentioning this. ‘But only for an hour or so, until I load the van.’ She pauses, trying to read the troubled look in his eyes. ‘It’s going to be a problem, isn’t it? I can tell by the look on your face.’
‘No, no.’ His gaze sweeps past her to the knife block. He straightens the breadknife by a millimetre or so then wipes his hands on his chinos. ‘I don’t get up until 7.30 a.m. so if they’re out of the house by then it won’t be a problem.’
‘What do you do,’ she asks him, ‘for a living?’
‘I get by,’ he says in a manner that lets Ursula know that the subject is closed.
The voice on the radio stops speaking and the tinny beats of a pop song fill the room. It’s loud, louder than most people listen to the radio in their homes, but Ursula doesn’t care; when a good track comes on she cranks the volume right up in her van.
‘I like this song,’ she says, then immediately wonders why. She doesn’t like this sort of thing – a trembling female voice, screeching about a man who did her wrong. She likes George Michael, Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston, ABBA and early Madonna. She was too young to enjoy the music when it first came out but there’s something about 80s hits that appeals to her. They’re cosy and safe.
‘Do you listen to the radio?’ Edward asks.
‘Not much.’ She shrugs. ‘I prefer CDs. But I listen to Ken Bruce’s pop quiz sometimes, to test myself. I never score very highly though.’
He wrinkles his nose disapprovingly. ‘Well don’t get any ideas, about changing the station. I like it to stay on all the time. No turning it off. No fiddling with the volume.’
‘No problem. Oh. What’s through there?’ Ursula touches the door to her left. There are three doors in the kitchen: one at the far end that leads to a boxy garden, the door to the hall that was propped open, and this one. ‘Downstairs loo is it?’
‘No.’ Something in his expression shifts. ‘The basement.’
‘Oh. Cool. Good for storage. You wouldn’t believe the amount of stuff I’ve got in the van. I could—’
Edward crosses the kitchen and lays a hand on the door. ‘I’m afraid the basement is off limits.’ He smiles tightly. ‘Although you’re very welcome to make full use of the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom and the garden.’
‘Great.’ Ursula flashes a fake smile in his direction as a knot forms in her stomach. She can already predict how this living arrangement will work out. She’ll be told off for leaving coffee mugs in the living room and smearing toothpaste onto the sink. On the other hand – she glances around the minimalistic space – there’s nothing to steal.
She sniffs, subtly. There’s a weird smell in the kitchen that she can’t place. The counters and oven top are thoroughly scrubbed but there’s a distinctly musty tang to the air.
‘Upstairs next,’ Edward says and she flattens herself up against the hall wall to let him past.
Any doubts Ursula might have had about living with Edward disappear the second he opens the door to her potential bedroom. She’d anticipated the room being poky but it’s absolutely enormous. Well, maybe not enormous, but it’s much bigger than the little box room she had at Charlotte’s house and there’s a double bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers with a small flat screen television on the top and a comfy-looking armchair in the corner. Not to mention the picture window that stretches across one wall. The curtains are drawn back and the sun is an orange streak across the sky but she can imagine the room being flooded with light earlier in the day. She’d never need to venture down to the lounge with a room like this.
‘It’s £350 including bills, right?’ she asks, perching on the bed and running her hands over the spotless mattress.
One side of Edward’s mouth twitches up into a lopsided smile. ‘Plus deposit.’
Ursula’s smile slips. In her excitement she hadn’t even considered the prospect of a deposit. If he asks for three months’ rent in advance she’s screwed.
‘How much would that be?’ she asks, tightening her grip on the mattress.
‘Call it £500 all in.’
‘So …’ She tries to remember the last time she checked her bank balance. It would be tight and she’d have to live on beans on toast for the rest of the month but it’s just about doable. ‘One month’s rent in advance and £150 deposit?’
‘That’s right.’
She considers her options. There’s no doubt that Edward is a little on the eccentric side but then again she’s not exactly normal and he hasn’t asked for a reference – something Charlotte might struggle to provide. If she takes the room she’ll be absolutely skint until next payday but at least she won’t have to shell out for a hotel. She gazes around the room, taking it all in, weighing it up, then lets out a little ‘ooh’ of surprise as she notices something unusual about the door. There’s a huge great hole, stuffed with tissue paper, just under the handle.
‘There’s no lock.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I had to break in.’
‘Why?’
Edward doesn’t shift his gaze from the door. ‘I’d fit a new lock,’ he says quietly. ‘If you’d like the room. You are … female after all.’
‘Well, yes.’ She frowns.
‘Like I said, there are other interested parties but I did promise you first refusal so it’s up to you.’
‘I’ll take it,’ she says before she can change her mind. She’s got some packing tape in her bag. She’ll plaster over the toilet roll stuffed hole before she goes to bed, and put the chair in front of the door. It’s not the right height to jam under the handle but the floor’s wooden; she’d hear it moving. And besides, she’s a good eight inches taller than Edward and at least eight or nine stone heavier. Unless he’s a knife-wielding maniac she can fight him off.
I won’t need to fight him off. She catches the dark thread of her thoughts and mentally shakes herself. He’s a bit odd but that doesn’t mean he’s a psycho. I’m a bit odd and I’m perfectly well balanced. Well, a little bit off-balance, but harmless. Mostly.
‘Excellent.’ Edward nods curtly. ‘If you could furnish me with the £500 we can discuss a move-in date.’
Ursula’s heart sinks. ‘Oh. I was hoping I could move in tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes … I … um. I … er … I’ve got all my belongings in my van outside.’
‘You’ve got nowhere else to stay?’
‘No.’ She says a little prayer, not to God – she’s already broken her promise to him about not stealing again – or the universe, but to the only person who ever really loved her. If you’re there, if you’re listening, please help me out.
Edward gives her a long look over the top of his rimless glasses and she braces herself for the inevitable ‘no, sorry’, but then he gives a faint shrug.
‘I don’t see why not. If you can get the money tonight I’ll give you a hand getting your stuff out of your van.’
‘Thank you.’ Ursula practically bounces to her feet. ‘I’ll do that now. Give me five minutes to find a bank and I’ll be right back. Oh.’ She pauses, halfway across the room. ‘I think I can only get £200 out of the bank today.’
‘That’s all right,’ Edward says. ‘You can write me a cheque for the other three hundred. It’s not as if you can do a runner.’ His eyes glint behind his glasses. ‘After all, I know where you live.’