by Beth O'Leary
Generally use this two a.m. time to write to Richie. His phone calls are limited, but he can receive as many letters as I can send him.
It’s been three months as of last Tuesday since he was sentenced. Hard to know how to mark an anniversary like that—raising a glass? Striking another tally on the wall? Richie took it well, considering, but when he went in, Sal had told him he’d have him out of there by February, so this one was especially bad.
Sal. He’s trying his best, presumably, but Richie is innocent and in prison, so can’t help but feel a little resentful toward his lawyer. Sal isn’t bad. Uses big words, carries a briefcase, never doubts himself—all seem classic reassuring lawyer things? But mistakes keep happening. Like unexpected guilty verdicts.
What are our options, though? No other lawyers sufficiently interested to take Richie on for reduced fee. No other lawyers familiar with his case, no other lawyers already all set up to speak to Richie in prison … no time to find someone new. Every day that goes by, Richie sinks further away.
Has to be me that deals with Sal all the time, too, never Mam, which means endless exhausting phone calls chasing him. But Mam is shouty and blamey. Sal is sensitive, easily put off from actually working on Richie’s case, and completely indispensable.
This is doing me no good. Two a.m. is terrible time for dwelling on legal issues. Worst of all the times. If midnight is witching hour, two a.m. is dwelling hour.
Idly reaching for distraction, I find myself googling Johnny White. Mr. Prior’s Hollywood-jawed, long-lost love.
There are many Johnny Whites. One is a leading figure in Canadian dance music. Another is an American footballer. Both were definitely not around during World War II, falling in love with charming English gentlemen.
Still. Internet was made for situations like this, no?
Try Johnny White war casualties, then hate myself a bit. Feels like betraying Mr. Prior to assume Johnny’s dead. But it’s worth trying to eliminate those options first.
Find a website called Find War Dead. Am initially slightly horrified, but decide actually it’s amazing—everyone’s remembered here. Like digital, searchable tombstones. I can search by name, regiment, which war, dates of birth … I type in Johnny White, and specify World War Two, but don’t have any more to give them.
Seventy-eight Johnny Whites died in armed forces in World War II.
Sit back. Stare at the list of names. John K. White. James Dudley Jonathan White. John White. John George White. Jon R. L. White. Jonathan Reginald White. John—
All right. Feel suddenly overwhelmingly sure that Mr. Prior’s lovely Johnny White is dead, and wish there was a similar database for those who fought but did not die in the war. That would be nice. A survivors list. Struck, as one is at two a.m., by the horror of humanity and its inclination to terrible acts of mass murder.
Kay: Leon! Your bleep is going! In my ear!
Leave laptop on sofa after hitting print, and then open bedroom door to find Kay lying on side, duvet overhead, one arm up in the air holding my bleep.
Grab bleep. Grab phone. I’m not working, of course, but the team wouldn’t bleep me if it wasn’t important.
Socha, junior doctor: Leon, it’s Holly.
Am pulling on shoes.
Me: How bad?
Keys! Keys! Where are keys?
Socha: She’s got an infection—observations are not looking good. She’s asking for you. I don’t know what to do, Leon, and Dr. Patel isn’t answering her bleep, and the reg is skiing and June couldn’t get cover organized so there’s nobody else to call …
Located keys in bottom of washing basket. Inspired place to keep them. Heading for the door, Socha talking white blood cell counts in my ear, shoelaces flapping—
Kay: Leon! You’re still wearing your pajamas!
Damn. Thought I’d managed to get to the door faster than usual.
7
TIFFY
OK, so the new flat’s quite … full. Cozy.
“Cluttered,” Gerty confirms, standing in about the only unoccupied space in the bedroom. “It’s cluttered.”
“You know my style is eclectic!” I protest, straightening up the adorable tie-dyed bed throw I found at Brixton market last summer. I’m trying very hard to keep my positive face on. Packing up and leaving Justin’s flat was awful, and the drive here took four times as long as Google said it would, and carrying everything up the stairs was torture. Then I had to hold a long conversation with Kay as she gave me the keys, when all I wanted to do was sit down somewhere and gently dab at my hairline until I stopped panting. It has not been a fun day.
“Did you discuss this with Leon?” Mo asks, perching on the edge of the bed. “I mean, bringing all your stuff?”
I frown. Of course I would be bringing all my stuff! Did that need discussing? I’m moving in—that means my stuff has to live here with me. Where else would it live? This is my permanent abode.
However, I am now very aware that my bedroom is shared with another person, and that that person has their own stuff which was, up until this weekend, occupying most of this room. It’s been a bit of a squeeze getting everything in. I’ve solved a few problems by moving things into other parts of the house—lots of my candle holders are living on the edge of the bath now, for instance, and my amazing lava lamp has a great spot in the living area—but all the same, I could do with Leon having a bit of a clear-out. He should probably have done that beforehand, really—it was the decent thing, given that I was moving in.
Perhaps I should have taken some of my things to my parents’ house. But most of this stuff lived in storage at Justin’s and it had felt so good to dig it all out last night. Rachel joked that when I found the lava lamp it was like Andy being reunited with Woody in Toy Story, but to be honest it had been surprisingly emotional. I’d sat for a while in the hall, staring at the multicolored mess of my favorite things spilling out from the cupboard under the stairs, and felt for a weird moment that if the cushions could breathe again, so could I.
My phone rings; it’s Katherin. She’s the only writer I’d pick up the phone for on a Saturday, mainly because she’s probably ringing me about something hilarious she’s done, like tweeting a wildly inappropriate picture of herself from the eighties with a now-very-important politician, or dip-dyeing her elderly mother’s hair.
“How’s my favorite editor?” she asks when I pick up.
“All moved in to my new home!” I tell her, gesturing for Mo to put the kettle on. He looks mildly peeved but does so all the same.
“Perfect! Brilliant! What are you doing Wednesday?” Katherin asks.
“Just work,” I tell her, mentally scanning my diary. Actually, I have a tedious meeting on Wednesday with our director of International Book Rights to talk about the new book I commissioned last summer from a debut bricklayer-turned-trendy-designer. It’s her job to sell it abroad. When I acquired it I talked a lot (but really quite vaguely) about his international social media presence, which as it happens is rather a lot smaller than I made it out to be. She’s always emailing me for “more detail” and “specific breakdowns of reach by territory.” It’s getting to the point where I can’t avoid her any longer, even with my wall of stealthy potted plants.
“Great!” says Katherin, who is being suspiciously enthusiastic. “I have some really good news for you.”
“Oh, yes?” I’m hoping for early manuscript delivery, or a sudden change of heart about the chapter on hats and scarfs. She’s been threatening to remove it, which would be disastrous as that’s the only part that makes the book remotely sellable.
“The Sea Breeze Away people rescheduled my live How to Crochet Your Own Clothes Fast show to their Wednesday cruise last minute. So you can help me with the cruise after all.”
Hmm. This time it would be in work hours—and would put off that conversation with the rights director for at least another week. What would I prefer: getting dressed in homemade crochet waistcoats on a cruise ship with Katherin
, or getting bollocked by the rights director in a meeting room with no windows?
“All right. I’ll do it.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly,” I say, accepting Mo’s tea. “I’m not doing any talking, though. And you’re not allowed to manhandle me as much as you did last time. I had bruises for days.”
“The trials and tribulations of life as a model, eh, Tiffy,” Katherin says, and I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s laughing at me.
* * *
Everyone’s gone. It’s just me, in my flat.
Obviously I’ve been super chirpy all day and have made sure to give Mo, Gerty, and Kay no indication that moving into Leon’s flat is at all weird or emotional.
But it is a bit weird. And I feel like crying again. I look at my lovely tie-dyed blanket lying across the foot of the bed and all I can think is that it really clashes with Leon’s duvet cover, which has manly black and gray stripes, and that there’s nothing I can do about that because this is as much Leon’s bed as mine, whoever this Leon man is, and that his semi-naked or possibly fully naked body sleeps underneath that duvet. I hadn’t really confronted the logistics of the bed situation until this moment, and now that I’m doing it, I am not enjoying the experience.
My phone buzzes. It’s Kay.
I hope moving in all went smoothly. Help yourself to any food from the fridge (until you get fully settled and do your own shop). Leon has asked that you please sleep on the left side of the bed. Kay xx
That’s it. I’m crying. This is really bloody weird. Who even is this Leon guy? Why have I not met him yet? I think about ringing him—I have his number from the advert—but it’s pretty clear Kay wants to be the one handling things.
I sniff, wipe my eyes hard, and wander over to the fridge. It’s actually surprisingly full for someone who works long hours. I help myself to raspberry jam and margarine, and locate the bread above the toaster. OK.
Hi Kay. I’m all moved in, thanks—the flat is feeling really cozy! Thanks for confirming re side of the bed.
It’s a bit overly formal for discussing who sleeps on the left or right, but I sense Kay would prefer that we don’t all get too friendly.
I type out a few queries about the flat—where’s the light switch for the outside hall, can I plug in the TV, that sort of thing. Then, jam on toast in hand, I head back to the bedroom and contemplate whether it will look too passive aggressive to remake the bed with my own sheets. Surely Leon would have put freshly laundered ones on in the circumstances. But … what if he hasn’t? Oh, god, now the thought is there—I’m going to have to change them. I yank up his mattress cover with my eyes screwed shut like I’m afraid of seeing something I don’t want to.
Right. The probably-already-clean sheets are in the washing machine, my lovely definitely-clean ones are on the bed, and I’m slightly breathless with all the activity. On second look, the room does feel more me than it did when I got here. Yes, the duvet cover is still wrong (I felt changing that would look a little bit pointed) and there are weird books on the shelves (none about making your own clothes! I’ll soon fix that), but with my bits and bobs around the place and my dresses in the wardrobe and … yes, I’ll just pull the blanket all the way up to cover the duvet, just for now. Much better.
As I’m rearranging the blanket I notice a black plastic sack sticking out from under the bed, with something woolen flopping out of it onto the floor. I must have left one bin bag unpacked; I drag it out to check the contents.
It’s full of scarfs. Amazing woolen scarfs. They’re not mine, but the craftsmanship is beautiful—it takes real talent to knit and crochet like this. They should be mine. I’d pay money that I do not have for these scarfs.
Belatedly I realize I’m rummaging through what must be Leon’s stuff—and something he’s keeping under the bed, too, so probably doesn’t want everyone looking at. I let myself linger over the weave for a second or two longer before I push the bag back to where it came from, careful to leave it how it was. I wonder what the significance of all those scarfs is. You don’t keep that many handmade scarfs for no reason.
It occurs to me that Leon could actually be any kind of weird. Keeping scarfs isn’t in itself weird, but it could be the tip of the iceberg. Plus there was quite a large number of scarfs in there—at least ten. What if he stole them? Shit. What if they are trophies of the women he murdered?
Maybe he’s a serial killer. A winter-based killer who only strikes in scarf weather.
I need to call someone. Being alone with the scarfs is making me feel genuinely a bit scared, and, as a consequence, a bit mad.
“What’s up?” Rachel says when she answers.
“I am worried Leon might be a serial killer,” I announce.
“Why? Has he tried to kill you or something?”
Rachel sounds a bit distracted. I am concerned that she’s not taking this seriously enough.
“No, no, I’ve not met him yet.”
“You’ve met his girlfriend, though, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, do you think she knows?”
“What?”
“About the murdering.”
“Umm. No? I suppose not?” Kay does seem very normal.
“She’s a pretty unobservant sort of woman, then. You managed to spot the signs in just one evening alone in his flat. Think how much time she must have spent there, and seen the very same signs, and not followed them through to their only logical conclusion!”
There is a pause. Rachel’s point is deceptively simple but very well made.
“You are an excellent friend,” I tell her eventually.
“I know. You’re welcome. I should go, though, I’m on a date.”
“Oh, god, sorry!”
“Nah, no worries, he doesn’t mind, do you, Reggie? He says he doesn’t mind.”
There is a muffled noise at the other end. I suddenly can’t help wondering if Rachel currently has Reggie tied to something.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I say. “Love you.”
“Love you, too, babe. No, not you, Reggie, pipe down.”
8
LEON
Hollow-cheeked, tired-eyed Holly looks up at me from bed. Seems littler. In all dimensions, too—wrists, tufty growing-back hair … everything but the eyes.
She grins at me weakly.
Holly: You were here last weekend.
Me: In and out. They needed my help. Short-staffed.
Holly: Is it because I asked for you?
Me: Absolutely not. You know you’re my least favorite patient.
Bigger grin.
Holly: Were you having a nice weekend with your girlfriend with the short hair?
Me: Yes, actually.
Looks decidedly mischievous. Don’t want to get hopes up but she is visibly better—that smile was nowhere to be seen last weekend.
Holly: And you had to leave her behind because of me!
Me: Short-staffing, Holly. Had to leave h—come in to work because of short-staffing.
Holly: I bet she was annoyed that you like me better than her.
Socha, the junior doctor, leans in past the curtain to get my attention.
Socha: Leon.
Me, to Holly: Back in a sec, homewrecker.
Me, to Socha: And?
She breaks into a big, tired smile.
Socha: Bloods just in. The antibiotics are finally having an effect. Just got off the phone with the GOSH med reg, he said as she’s improving she doesn’t need to go back into hospital. Social services are on board with that as well.
Me: Antibiotics are working?
Socha: Yep. CRP and white cell count both falling, no more fevers, lactate normal. Observations all stable.
The relief is instant. Nothing quite like that feeling of someone getting better.
Good-mood glow resulting from Holly’s bloods buoys me all the way home. Teens smoking joint on street corner seem positively cherubic. Smelly man on bus removing socks t
o scratch his feet evokes only genuine sympathy. Even a Londoner’s true enemy, the slow-moving tourist, just makes me smile indulgently.
Already planning excellent nine a.m. dinner as I let myself into the flat. The first thing I notice is the smell. It smells … womanly. Like spicy incense and flower stalls.
The next thing I notice is the sheer quantity of crap in my living room. Enormous heap of books up against breakfast bar. Cow-shaped cushion on sofa. Lava lamp—lava lamp!—on coffee table. What is this? Is Essex woman holding a jumble sale in our flat?
In a slight daze, I go to drop my keys in their usual spot (when not opting for bottom of laundry basket) and find it has been occupied by a moneybox shaped like Spot the Dog. This is unbelievable. It’s like a terrible episode of Changing Rooms. Flat has been redecorated to look immeasurably worse. Can only conclude that she was doing it on purpose—nobody could be this tasteless accidentally.
Rack brains to remember what Kay actually told me about this woman. She’s a … book editor? Sounds like profession of reasonable person with taste? Feel fairly certain that Kay made no mention of Essex woman being a bizarre-object collector. And yet.
I sink into a nearby beanbag and sit for a while. Think of the three hundred and fifty pounds I would otherwise not have been able to give to Sal this month. Decide this is not so bad—beanbag is excellent, for instance: It’s patterned with paisley and remarkably comfortable. And lava lamp has comedic value. Who has a lava lamp these days?
Notice my sheets hanging off the clothes horse in the corner of the room—she’s washed them. Irritating, as I went to great lengths to wash those and was late for shift as a result. But must remember that annoying Essex woman does not actually know me. Would not know that I would obviously clean sheets before inviting stranger to sleep in them.
Eh. What’s the bedroom going to look like?
