Twenty-five was when I’d met Christopher. Like clockwork, really. There I was, standing on a street corner in the West Village trying to hail a taxi on a Saturday night, when a cab pulled up a block away. I’d bolted down the street, arms waving wildly in the hope of catching the driver’s attention, but my heel caught on a subway vent, and suddenly I was flying through the air. I landed, hard, right outside the taxi’s door, and out stepped Christopher, face etched with concern.
‘God, are you all right?’ he’d asked in that perfect accent of his, and in an instant I’d forgotten about my bloodied knees and the taxi and the blind date who was waiting for me uptown.
‘I’m fine,’ I’d said, but I knew that I was better than fine. I was on the threshold of crossing another thing off my list. Number 19: Meet the man of my dreams at twenty-five. And here he was, twinkling down at me as I lay on the sidewalk. And British, too! Number 17 on my list popped into my head: Live in a foreign country. This guy was a stone capable of taking out multiple birds. I canceled my date, and, after a quick trip to Rite Aid for band-aids, the two of us went out for drinks, and that, basically, was that.
And now, here I was, living with him and about to marry him. (Number 25: tick! Number 27: almost tick!) Forget about the goddamn anti-fungal cream – this was everything I’d wanted! Besides, it was time. I was thirty-one. It was in the plan. An unstructured life was one step away from chaos, and I’d spent my entire life avoiding chaos.
I turned off the water and toweled off. My legs goosepimpled as soon as I stepped back onto the cold bathroom floor. I wondered what time it was. Late, probably. Nearly midnight. I had to be up early, too. If I was lucky, I’d get six and a half hours of sleep that night. Really, I needed eight. Mild anxiety hummed through me as I thought about how tired I’d be tomorrow.
Jackson wouldn’t keep track of the hours he slept, counting them out and hoarding them like a miser. The thought popped into my head, unwelcome as a boil. I shook it away. Who cared what Jackson would do?
I threw my damp hair up into a bun, pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, and climbed into bed. Christopher was already fast asleep, his chest gently rising and falling, a light whistle emanating from his nose with every exhalation.
I pulled up the covers and tucked myself into his side, wrapping my arm across his chest. ‘You’re freezing,’ he murmured, taking my hand in his.
Yes, I thought, as I drifted off. This is where I’m meant to be.
11
The next morning, I arrived at work early thanks to last night’s shower and a mercifully quiet Northern Line, and by nine o’clock, armed with a strong cup of coffee and a biscuit stolen from the tea-point tin, I was ready to dig in to the new case files Jeremy had left on my desk. Ben wasn’t in yet, so the office was quiet, with just the dull hum of the comfort cooling system for company.
I scanned through the basics of the case. A cobbler’s in Columbia Road had burned down, gutting the shop and causing serious damage to the flat above. It was an owner-occupied building, the cobbler living upstairs and coming down each morning to work in the shop. Along with re-heeling the soles of Hackney’s hipsters and bankers, he also cut keys and repaired leather goods. He was claiming that the fire had been caused by an electrical fault, but the initial case manager had suspicions that he’d set the fire on purpose to collect the money. Cobbling wasn’t exactly a booming trade these days, and with property values being what they were in London, he was set to get a healthy pay-out. Whether he deserved that pay-out was the question I had to answer.
I clicked on the cobbler’s biography and scrolled through it. Full name: Edward Bryant. Age: 63. Pretty close to retirement age. He’d been born in Hackney, and from the looks of it, he’d lived there his whole life. He’d bought the shop forty-one years ago and had been there ever since. I checked his marital status. Widowed. Poor old Edward Bryant, all alone in his shoe shop. Still, it could be another reason to cut his losses. Maybe he had an eye on a nice place in Spain. A new life in the sun for himself.
I flicked through the photographs Mr Bryant had sent through as evidence. The extent of the damage was pretty clear – the shop had been gutted entirely, just a blackened skeleton remaining, and the flat upstairs was grayed and grimed from smoke damage. Definitely uninhabitable. Probably a tear-down.
The next set of photographs showed what the flat had looked like before and … I had to say, it wasn’t exactly a bed of roses. The shop looked musty and tattered, and the flat upstairs was locked firmly in the 1970s, down to the avocado-green bathroom suite. If he’d put it on the market before the fire, he would have got below market rate. People looking to move to Columbia Road had serious money these days, and they wanted something that was already modernized and high-spec. The laminate kitchen cabinets alone would be enough to send most of them screaming towards the nearest artisanal bakery for a soothing turmeric latte.
If he’d wanted to make serious cash, the fire made sense. Burn the place down, collect the money, rebuild and sell it to the highest bidder. Or sell the land to a hungry developer …
I drummed my fingers on the desk. I glanced through his file again. Widowed. He was widowed … I typed his wife’s name into our database and a record popped up. Mrs Victoria Bryant, died aged fifty-seven from bowel cancer, poor woman. She’d held a life insurance policy with the company for nearly thirty years, and the full pay out – a whopping £150,000 – was paid to a single benefactor. Mr Edward Bryant.
I leaned back in my chair. Well, he sure didn’t need the money. At least he shouldn’t need it. Maybe he had a gambling problem? I’d need to do more research before I could draw any concrete conclusions.
I was planning my next step when Ben slid open the cubicle door and sloped inside. He grunted at me, threw his rucksack in a corner, and slumped into his chair with a long, pained sigh. With his tufty hair and big, sad brown eyes, he was a double for Eeyore.
‘Nice to see you, too,’ I said, stifling a laugh. ‘Long night last night?’
He shook his head, morose. ‘Just went to football. I was home by ten.’
‘Then why do you look like someone’s just peed in your cornflakes?’
Another protracted sigh. ‘She’s ignoring me.’
I looked at him. He really did look awful. His eyes were red-rimmed and rheumy, and his hair disheveled. He was even wearing a pair of regular fit, medium-wash jeans – a clear sign that he was not in his right mind. ‘You just saw her yesterday morning, didn’t you?’
He threw his head back in despair. ‘I know!’ he cried. ‘God, it feels like it was ages ago. She’s probably forgotten all about me.’
‘Ben, get a grip. How can she already be ignoring you?’
‘Because,’ he said, exasperated, ‘I sent her a text on my way to football yesterday, and she still hasn’t replied.’
I shook my head. ‘Jesus, you really have lost it over her.’
He shot me a dark look. ‘I appreciate the sympathy.’
‘No! I mean, I get it. You obviously like her a lot. But … it’s only nine thirty in the morning. Give the woman a chance to have a cup of coffee before you assume she’s ditched you.’
‘She could have texted back last night!’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe she was busy.’
‘With WHO? That’s what I want to know.’ He ground his fists into his eyes. ‘Why is she doing this to me?’
I wheeled my chair over to his and put my hands on his shoulders. ‘Ben! You seriously need to calm down right now, because you are acting crazier than a box of frogs. I know you like her, and it sounds like she likes you, too. Just cut her a little slack, okay? Maybe she hasn’t texted you back yet because she doesn’t want to seem too keen.’
‘But why would she want to do that?’
I sighed. He was so young, and had so much to learn. ‘Because women are basically trained that the only way a guy will like us is if we pretend not to like them.’
His eyes widened. ‘Seriously?’
>
‘Of course! We spend our whole lives hearing that no man wants a woman who’s too available, that we should “treat ’em mean and keep ’em keen”. Hell, Sleeping Beauty had to be knocked unconscious before Prince Charming noticed her!’
Ben shook his head, causing an avalanche of curls to fall into his eyes. He really needed to get some product in that hen’s nest of his. ‘I would never be interested in a woman just because she didn’t seem interested in me. That’s so shallow.’
My jaw dropped. ‘Please do not tell me you just said that.’
He looked at me, eyes wide with innocence. ‘What? I wouldn’t!’
‘What about the time you went on a date with a woman and she asked what your last name was?’
His face darkened. ‘Why did she need to know? I ask you!’
‘And the time you deleted a woman’s number because she had the audacity to ask if you wanted her spare ticket to The Black Keys?’
He scowled. ‘She was practically stalking me.’
‘Ben, she wasn’t even asking you to go to the concert with her. She was just asking if you wanted to buy the ticket off her.’
‘That’s what she said,’ he grumbled. ‘Who knows what she was planning?’
‘You see?’ I hooted. ‘You’re totally put off by a woman who shows interest in you!’
He shrugged, pouting slightly. ‘Fine, maybe I do like a bit of a chase usually. But not when it comes to Lucy. I don’t want to have to chase her. I just want her to … be with me.’ He looked so sweet then, like a little boy asking Santa for his Christmas wish.
‘I’m sure she feels the same way,’ I said gently. ‘But you might have to do just a little chasing before you two can go full-on Netflix-and-takeaway.’
He gave me a withering look. ‘It’s Netflix and chill.’
I gave him a withering look right back. ‘Which one of us has been in a serious relationship before? Trust me, Netflix-and-takeaway is the more accurate description.’
‘Thanks for that searing glimpse into your personal life,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Trust me, with Lucy it’ll be all chill and very little takeaway.’
‘Go ahead,’ I said, ‘think whatever you want now. But don’t think I won’t say I told you so when she pulls out the de-elasticated sweatpants.’
His eyes filmed over with a faraway look. ‘I bet she’d look ace in sweatpants …’
I shook my head in disbelief. ‘You really are a lost cause.’
I was scribbling notes about the case on my yellow legal pad when a message flashed up on my phone. It was Jackson.
Meet me outside Westminster Abbey at 7:30 tonight. I’ve got a plan.
I groaned inwardly. Every Londoner knew what an absolute tourist clusterfuck it was around Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. The sidewalks were clogged full of people staring open-mouthed at Big Ben or unfolding enormous maps and staring at them ponderously. I’d been once, when my mom had come to visit during my first year here, but the experience had been enough to convince me not to return.
Can we meet literally anywhere else?
I hit send and heard the text whoosh off into the ether. My phone beeped straight away with his response.
Hey, this is my rodeo. 7:30 at Westminster Abbey.
I let out an involuntary cry of despair and threw my phone into my bag.
Ben glanced at me over his shoulder. ‘You all right?’
‘Fine,’ I muttered.
‘Of course you are,’ he said, sighing deeply. ‘You’re loved.’
‘Oh my God,’ I cried. ‘Stop! I told you this morning, she’ll text you when she’s ready!’
‘I might be dead by then,’ he said glumly.
It went on all day. Every time Ben’s phone chirruped – which, considering he was an active user of every form of social media available, was often – I’d hear him scrabble to grab it, followed by a long, deep sigh of despair when he realized it wasn’t Lucy. Frankly, it was a medical miracle that he hadn’t collapsed a lung with the amount of air he was forcefully exhaling.
The rest of the day passed in a blur, though not a particularly productive one. Between fielding Ben’s bouts of melancholy, and frequent ‘Knock knocks!’ from Jeremy, asking about progress on the case, I’d barely had time to take a breath before I heard the rustle and murmur of people around us shutting down for the day and asking each other about evening plans.
It was in the process of shutting my own computer off when I realized I hadn’t told Christopher that I wouldn’t be home for dinner. I was racking my brains for an excuse – work event? Spontaneous tennis match? Trip to the emergency room? – when a text flashed up on my phone. It was Christopher.
I’m out with my running club tonight so don’t wait up. xx ps can you defrost the pack of salmon in the freezer?
My body sagged with relief. Nights out with his running mates tended to be extremely boozy. I think they convinced themselves that downing pints of lager served as carb loading. Regardless, it meant he wouldn’t be home until at least midnight, at which point I’d be back from whatever crazy dinner Jackson had planned for us and safely tucked up in bed.
I sent a treacherous frowny-faced emoji as a response. Did it fill me with guilt? Yes. But I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I had to meet my husband at Westminster Abbey.
The crowds were as thick as I’d expected. A horde of Italian teenagers almost pushed me into oncoming traffic, and I was very nearly impaled on a series of errant selfie sticks. I sighed and tutted my way through it all. No matter how long I lived here, I’d never get used to the crush of tourists that descended on us year-round. New York was bad enough – Times Square notably the ninth circle of hell – but at least you could avoid most of it if you wanted to. Here in London, thanks to the constant barrage of beautiful and historically significant buildings, there was no escaping. Bloomsbury, Piccadilly Circus, Regents Park, Camden Town, Borough Market: all up to their eyeballs in poncho-wearing slow-walkers. It was maddening.
As if to punctuate my point, I was about to cross Great Smith Street when I ran smack into a bunch of middle-aged Japanese men in bright-yellow rain slickers (chance of rain today: zero per cent), all of them rooted in place, heads tilted up towards the sky. I was about to shove past, when my gaze followed theirs and I stopped dead in my tracks.
The lights. My God, the lights.
The front of Westminster Abbey was a riot of luminous color. Strips of blue ran up either side of the building’s face, framing the illuminated figures of the statuettes mounted above the great doors. The muted gray stone figures of the saints were now painted in vivid purples and blues and reds, their heads ringed in glowing gold. It was breathtaking, like Christmas on steroids. The sort of vision that makes you believe in miracles.
One of the Japanese men turned to me and beamed. ‘Pretty incredible, huh?’
I nodded mutely.
I felt my phone vibrate in my bag. It was Jackson.
I’m under the column with the lady on top!
I threaded my way through the Japanese men, apologizing as I went, and dashed across Dean’s Yard and over to the column, where Jackson was holding an expensive-looking camera and looking out across the crowd.
‘Isn’t it incredible?’ he shouted as I came closer.
I couldn’t stop myself from smiling at him. ‘It’s amazing!’
We stood there for a minute, mute, and let the lights wash over us.
‘You ready?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Come on,’ he said, tugging at my arm. ‘There’s more to see.’
We pushed our way through the thronging crowds and made our way onto Westminster Bridge. The morning had kept its promise, and the evening still held a residual sweet warmth even though the sun had set. The crowds made it impossible to have a conversation, so Jackson led the way and I followed, the memory of the lights still dancing behind my eyes.
The good mood didn’t last long. We were halfway across the bridge when he stopped abruptly, sending
me flying into the back of his denim jacket. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, rubbing my shoulder.
‘Will you look at this?’ he said, pointing at something across the Thames.
A passing woman lodged a sharp elbow into my ribcage. The familiar rage returned. ‘It’s too busy to stop,’ I snapped. ‘We can look on the other side.’
He shook his head. ‘You’ve got to look now.’
I sighed and stared out over the sparkling black water. ‘What am I looking at?’
‘Wait a minute. It’ll come back.’
I sighed again and folded my arms across my chest. ‘Honestly, only tourists stop here—’ And then I saw it. A brilliant green flash coming from underneath the water’s surface. ‘What is that?’
‘Just watch.’
The green glow grew more intense, more distinct, until we were both staring down at the glimmering outline of a mermaid swishing through the Thames.
‘Are – are you seeing what I’m seeing?’ I stuttered.
‘I sure am. Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘This is genuinely insane. Isn’t this insane?’ I looked at Jackson for confirmation that yes, what we were looking at was insane, but he was too caught up in the moment to take any notice. ‘How is this happening?’ I said finally.
‘The lights,’ he said, nodding back towards the abbey. ‘They’re everywhere tonight, all across London. I’d heard that there was going to be something in the Thames, too, but I didn’t expect it to be so …’
‘Magical.’
He looked over at me and smiled. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Magical. You hungry?’
I nodded. ‘Starving.’
‘Great. How do you feel about tacos?’
‘I feel good about tacos.’
We headed down to the South Bank, where the London Eye had been lit to look like … well, like an actual eye, complete with glowing purple iris in the center. The Royal Festival Hall had been made to look like an enormous cruise ship, with iridescent waves licking at its hull. Outside the BFI, huge stalks of green LED lights reached up to the sky, capped with brilliant petals in oranges and reds and pinks.
Jenny Sparrow Knows the Future Page 13
