‘You okay?’
I took a deep gulp of my drink, trying to hide what I felt was written clearly on my face. Suddenly, for no reason I could work out, I wanted to cry. It was too much. That odd, unbalancing night. The fact that Will had loomed up again, ever-present in every conversation. I could see his face suddenly, that sardonic eyebrow raised, as if to say, What on earth are you up to now, Clark?
‘Just … a long day. Actually, would you mind if I –’
Sam pushed his chair back, stood up. ‘No. No, you go. Sorry. I didn’t think –’
‘This has been really nice. It’s just –’
‘No problem. A long day. And the whole grief thing. I get it. No, no – don’t worry,’ he said, as I reached for my purse. ‘Really. I can stand you an orange juice.’
I think I might have run to my car, in spite of my limp. I felt his eyes on me the whole way.
I pulled up in the car park, and let out a breath I felt as if I’d been holding all the way from the bar. I glanced over at the corner shop, then back at my flat, and decided I didn’t want to be sensible. I wanted wine, several large glasses of it, until I could persuade myself to stop looking backwards. Or maybe not look at anything at all.
My hip ached as I climbed out of the car. Since Richard had arrived, it hurt constantly; the physio at the hospital had told me not to spend too much time on my feet. But the thought of saying as much to Richard filled me with dread.
I see. So you work in a bar but you want to be allowed to sit down all day, is that it?
That milk-fed, preparing-for-middle-management face; that carefully nondescript haircut. That air of weary superiority, even though he was barely two years older than me. I closed my eyes, and tried to make the knot of anxiety in my stomach disappear.
‘Just this, please,’ I said, placing a bottle of cold Sauvignon Blanc on the counter.
‘Party, is it?’
‘What?’
‘Fancy dress. You going as – Don’t tell me.’ Samir stroked his chin. ‘Snow White?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘You want to be careful with that. Empty calories, innit? You want to drink vodka. That’s a clean drink. Maybe a bit of lemon. That’s what I tell Ginny, across the road. You know she’s a lap-dancer, right? They got to watch their figures.’
‘Dietary advice. Nice.’
‘It’s like all this stuff about sugar. You got to watch the sugar. No point buying the low-fat stuff if it’s full of sugar, right? There’s your empty calories. Right there. And them chemical sugars are the worst. They stick to your gut.’
He rang up the wine, handed me my change.
‘What’s that you’re eating, Samir?’
‘Smoky Bacon Pot Noodle. It’s good, man.’
I was lost in thought – somewhere in the dark crevasse between my sore pelvis, existential job-related despair, and a weird craving for a Smoky Bacon Pot Noodle – when I saw her. She was in the doorway of my block, sitting on the ground, her arms wrapped around her knees. I took my change from Samir, and half walked, half ran across the road. ‘Lily?’
She looked up slowly.
Her voice was slurred, her eyes bloodshot, as if she had been crying. ‘Nobody would let me in. I rang all the bells but nobody would let me in.’
I wrestled the key into the door and propped it with my bag, crouching down beside her. ‘What happened?’
‘I just want to go to sleep,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘I’m so, so tired. I wanted to get a taxi home but I hadn’t got any money.’
I caught the sour whiff of alcohol. ‘Are you drunk?’
‘I don’t know.’ She blinked at me, tilting her head. I wondered then if it was just alcohol. ‘If I’m not, you’ve totally turned into a leprechaun.’ She patted her pockets. ‘Oh, look – look what I’ve got!’ She held up a half-smoked roll-up that even I could smell was not just tobacco. ‘Let’s have a smoke, Lily,’ she said. ‘Oh, no. You’re Louisa. I’m Lily.’ She giggled and, pulling a lighter clumsily from her pocket, promptly tried to light the wrong end.
‘Okay, you. Time to go home.’ I took it from her hand, and, ignoring her vague protests, squashed it firmly under my foot. ‘I’ll call you a taxi.’
‘But I don’t –’
‘Lily!’
I glanced up. A young man stood across the street, his hands in his jeans pockets, watching us steadily. Lily looked up at him and then away.
‘Who is that?’ I said.
She stared at her feet.
‘Lily. Come here.’ His voice held the surety of possession. He stood, legs slightly apart, as if even at that distance he expected her to obey him. Something made me instantly uneasy.
Nobody moved.
‘Is he your boyfriend? Do you want to talk to him?’ I said quietly.
The first time she spoke I couldn’t make out what she said. I had to lean closer and ask her to repeat herself.
‘Make him go away.’ She closed her eyes, and turned her face towards the door. ‘Please.’
He began to walk across the street towards us. I stood, and tried to make my voice sound as authoritative as possible. ‘You can go now, thanks. Lily’s coming inside with me.’
He stopped halfway across the road.
I held his gaze. ‘You can speak to her some other time. Okay?’
I had my hand on the buzzer, and now muttered at some imaginary, muscular, short-tempered boyfriend. ‘Yeah. Do you want to come down and give me a hand, Dave? Thanks.’
The young man’s expression suggested this was not the last of it. Then he turned, pulled his phone from his pocket and began a low, urgent conversation with someone as he walked away, ignoring the beeping taxi that had to swerve around him, and casting us only the briefest of backwards looks.
I sighed, a little more shakily than I’d expected, put my hands under her armpits and, with not very much elegance and a fair amount of muffled swearing, managed to haul Lily Houghton-Miller into the lobby.
That night she slept at my flat. I couldn’t think what else to do with her. She was sick twice in the bathroom, batting me away when I tried to hold her hair up for her. She refused to give me a home phone number, or maybe couldn’t remember it, and her mobile phone was pin-locked.
I cleaned her up, helped her into a pair of my jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, and led her into the living room. ‘You tidied up!’ she said, with a little exclamation, as if I had done it just for her. I made her drink a glass of water and put her on the sofa in the recovery position, even though I was pretty sure by then that there was nothing left inside her to come out.
As I lifted her head and placed it on the pillow, she opened her eyes, as if recognizing me properly for the first time. ‘Sorry.’ She spoke so quietly that, for a moment, I couldn’t be entirely sure that that was what she had said, and her eyes brimmed briefly with tears.
I covered her with a blanket and watched her as she fell asleep – her pale face, the blue shadows under her eyes, the eyebrows that followed the same curve that Will’s had, the same faint sprinkling of freckles.
Almost as an afterthought I locked the flat door and brought the keys into my bedroom with me, tucking them under my pillow to stop her stealing anything, or simply to stop her leaving, I wasn’t sure. I lay awake, my mind still busy with the sound of the sirens and the airport and the faces of the grieving in the church hall and the hard, knowing stare of the young man across the road, and the knowledge that I had someone who was essentially a stranger sleeping under my roof. And all the while a voice kept saying: What on earth are you doing?
I took a deep gulp of my drink, trying to hide what I felt was written clearly on my face. Suddenly, for no reason I could work out, I wanted to cry. It was too much. That odd, unbalancing night. The fact that Will had loomed up again, ever-present in every conversation. I could see his face suddenly, that sardonic eyebrow raised, as if to say, What on earth are you up to now, Clark?
‘Just … a long day. Actually, would you mind if I –’
Sam pushed his chair back, stood up. ‘No. No, you go. Sorry. I didn’t think –’
‘This has been really nice. It’s just –’
‘No problem. A long day. And the whole grief thing. I get it. No, no – don’t worry,’ he said, as I reached for my purse. ‘Really. I can stand you an orange juice.’
I think I might have run to my car, in spite of my limp. I felt his eyes on me the whole way.
I pulled up in the car park, and let out a breath I felt as if I’d been holding all the way from the bar. I glanced over at the corner shop, then back at my flat, and decided I didn’t want to be sensible. I wanted wine, several large glasses of it, until I could persuade myself to stop looking backwards. Or maybe not look at anything at all.
My hip ached as I climbed out of the car. Since Richard had arrived, it hurt constantly; the physio at the hospital had told me not to spend too much time on my feet. But the thought of saying as much to Richard filled me with dread.
I see. So you work in a bar but you want to be allowed to sit down all day, is that it?
That milk-fed, preparing-for-middle-management face; that carefully nondescript haircut. That air of weary superiority, even though he was barely two years older than me. I closed my eyes, and tried to make the knot of anxiety in my stomach disappear.
‘Just this, please,’ I said, placing a bottle of cold Sauvignon Blanc on the counter.
‘Party, is it?’
‘What?’
‘Fancy dress. You going as – Don’t tell me.’ Samir stroked his chin. ‘Snow White?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘You want to be careful with that. Empty calories, innit? You want to drink vodka. That’s a clean drink. Maybe a bit of lemon. That’s what I tell Ginny, across the road. You know she’s a lap-dancer, right? They got to watch their figures.’
‘Dietary advice. Nice.’
‘It’s like all this stuff about sugar. You got to watch the sugar. No point buying the low-fat stuff if it’s full of sugar, right? There’s your empty calories. Right there. And them chemical sugars are the worst. They stick to your gut.’
He rang up the wine, handed me my change.
‘What’s that you’re eating, Samir?’
‘Smoky Bacon Pot Noodle. It’s good, man.’
I was lost in thought – somewhere in the dark crevasse between my sore pelvis, existential job-related despair, and a weird craving for a Smoky Bacon Pot Noodle – when I saw her. She was in the doorway of my block, sitting on the ground, her arms wrapped around her knees. I took my change from Samir, and half walked, half ran across the road. ‘Lily?’
She looked up slowly.
Her voice was slurred, her eyes bloodshot, as if she had been crying. ‘Nobody would let me in. I rang all the bells but nobody would let me in.’
I wrestled the key into the door and propped it with my bag, crouching down beside her. ‘What happened?’
‘I just want to go to sleep,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘I’m so, so tired. I wanted to get a taxi home but I hadn’t got any money.’
I caught the sour whiff of alcohol. ‘Are you drunk?’
‘I don’t know.’ She blinked at me, tilting her head. I wondered then if it was just alcohol. ‘If I’m not, you’ve totally turned into a leprechaun.’ She patted her pockets. ‘Oh, look – look what I’ve got!’ She held up a half-smoked roll-up that even I could smell was not just tobacco. ‘Let’s have a smoke, Lily,’ she said. ‘Oh, no. You’re Louisa. I’m Lily.’ She giggled and, pulling a lighter clumsily from her pocket, promptly tried to light the wrong end.
‘Okay, you. Time to go home.’ I took it from her hand, and, ignoring her vague protests, squashed it firmly under my foot. ‘I’ll call you a taxi.’
‘But I don’t –’
‘Lily!’
I glanced up. A young man stood across the street, his hands in his jeans pockets, watching us steadily. Lily looked up at him and then away.
‘Who is that?’ I said.
She stared at her feet.
‘Lily. Come here.’ His voice held the surety of possession. He stood, legs slightly apart, as if even at that distance he expected her to obey him. Something made me instantly uneasy.
Nobody moved.
‘Is he your boyfriend? Do you want to talk to him?’ I said quietly.
The first time she spoke I couldn’t make out what she said. I had to lean closer and ask her to repeat herself.
‘Make him go away.’ She closed her eyes, and turned her face towards the door. ‘Please.’
He began to walk across the street towards us. I stood, and tried to make my voice sound as authoritative as possible. ‘You can go now, thanks. Lily’s coming inside with me.’
He stopped halfway across the road.
I held his gaze. ‘You can speak to her some other time. Okay?’
I had my hand on the buzzer, and now muttered at some imaginary, muscular, short-tempered boyfriend. ‘Yeah. Do you want to come down and give me a hand, Dave? Thanks.’
The young man’s expression suggested this was not the last of it. Then he turned, pulled his phone from his pocket and began a low, urgent conversation with someone as he walked away, ignoring the beeping taxi that had to swerve around him, and casting us only the briefest of backwards looks.
I sighed, a little more shakily than I’d expected, put my hands under her armpits and, with not very much elegance and a fair amount of muffled swearing, managed to haul Lily Houghton-Miller into the lobby.
That night she slept at my flat. I couldn’t think what else to do with her. She was sick twice in the bathroom, batting me away when I tried to hold her hair up for her. She refused to give me a home phone number, or maybe couldn’t remember it, and her mobile phone was pin-locked.
I cleaned her up, helped her into a pair of my jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, and led her into the living room. ‘You tidied up!’ she said, with a little exclamation, as if I had done it just for her. I made her drink a glass of water and put her on the sofa in the recovery position, even though I was pretty sure by then that there was nothing left inside her to come out.
As I lifted her head and placed it on the pillow, she opened her eyes, as if recognizing me properly for the first time. ‘Sorry.’ She spoke so quietly that, for a moment, I couldn’t be entirely sure that that was what she had said, and her eyes brimmed briefly with tears.
I covered her with a blanket and watched her as she fell asleep – her pale face, the blue shadows under her eyes, the eyebrows that followed the same curve that Will’s had, the same faint sprinkling of freckles.
Almost as an afterthought I locked the flat door and brought the keys into my bedroom with me, tucking them under my pillow to stop her stealing anything, or simply to stop her leaving, I wasn’t sure. I lay awake, my mind still busy with the sound of the sirens and the airport and the faces of the grieving in the church hall and the hard, knowing stare of the young man across the road, and the knowledge that I had someone who was essentially a stranger sleeping under my roof. And all the while a voice kept saying: What on earth are you doing?
