by Lindsey Kelk
‘Never mind.’ I unliked the photo. It had only been a split second, hopefully she hadn’t noticed. ‘OK, this is a picture from her last salsa dancing competition. Ooh, she came in second. She’s good, is she?’
Sam unfolded himself and stretched his feet out straight in front of him.
‘I don’t know,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘I didn’t know she danced. Who’s that?’
I enlarged Elaine’s picture to see what he was talking about. There she was, eyes closed, head thrown back and draped across the arm of every man’s worst nightmare. Tall, dark and gorgeous, in skin-tight black trousers and a white shirt unbuttoned to reveal what honestly looked like painted-on abs. I glanced at Sam and then back at the photo. It was the ‘you versus the guy she told you not to worry about’ meme, only in real life.
‘Perfectly normal photo of someone dancing,’ I said, swiping out of the photo as quickly as possible. ‘Moving on to step four!’
I leapt to my feet, hopped over Sam’s long legs and went back to the blackboard. ‘Step four is going to be a fun one. Show her what she’s missing. If she’s not taking your phone calls and she’s away on holiday, the best way to remind her you’re alive is to make sure you’re posting to Facebook on the reg. Consistency is key in social media, Sam.’
‘Samuel.’
‘Consistency is key,’ I went on, tapping the word on the blackboard. ‘She said she needs time to think, well, let’s give her something to think about. You need to reactivate your Facebook account and you’re going to post something funny, funny and relevant to Elaine’s interests at least once a day.’
He actually gulped.
‘Facebook is easy,’ I promised. ‘Keep it cute or keep it mute. You’re not a troll, you’re not trying to stir the pot. You just want to remind Elaine you’re still here and how brilliant of a man you are.’
‘What do I post?’ he asked, scratching his beard.
‘I’ll help you for the first couple of days,’ I suggested. ‘And I know we said no photos on your Instagram but we might need to take a few pics for Facebook.’
Sam nodded absently as I tilted my head from side to side, trying to work out his best angle. Between the beard and the glasses, it was impossible to know what was going on under there.
‘Is that it?’ he asked, looking up from the floor like a naughty toddler. ‘Smile, nod, follow her around like a puppy and post nonsense on the internet?’
‘Well, when you put it like that, it does sound stupid,’ I grumbled, adding the last step to the blackboard. ‘You’re going to have to put some effort in, Sam. The final step is going to be the real test. “The grand romantic gesture”.’
He sighed, picked up a yoga block and knocked it back and forth against his head.
‘Doesn’t have to be expensive, doesn’t have to be elaborate,’ I said, not at all thinking about a certain someone’s recent ridiculous proposal. ‘Think of something meaningful. Something that will really show Elaine how much you care about her.’
Sam put the yoga block down and rested his elbows on his knees, chin in his hands.
‘Sam?’
‘I’m thinking,’ he replied.
Apparently this was going to take a while.
‘When’s her birthday?’ I asked.
‘November,’ he muttered.
‘Hmm, Scorpio,’ I noted. ‘Any anniversaries on the horizon?’
‘For as much as it is an anniversary,’ he said, lifting his chin from his hands, ‘it’ll be six years since we met in a couple of weeks. On the twenty-fourth, I believe.’
‘Perfect!’ I added it to the chalkboard. ‘That’s still two weeks away. Plenty of time to come up with something amazing. Maybe you could take her on a minibreak, something that would be nice for both of you. What about a yoga retreat in Ireland?’
‘What do you think I am, made of money?’ he scoffed before stroking his beard and breaking into a thoughtful smile. ‘Do you want to hear something funny?’
‘For the love of god, yes,’ I said, far too quickly.
‘As you know, I’m writing my second book about the lord lieutenants of Ireland but I’ve never even been to Ireland,’ Sam said in a whisper, dizzying excitement in his eyes. ‘Elaine did suggest we go over once but I can’t stand the ferry.’
‘Brilliant,’ I said, wiping a weary hand across my forehead, making a mental note to work on his sense of humour as well as his hair, his empathy and his ability to behave like a functioning human being. ‘You’re a laugh a minute, Sam.’
‘Well, yes.’ He dipped his head modestly. ‘Is that it?’
‘For now.’ I nodded. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘I’m a thirty-five-year-old man with two PhDs,’ he said, rising to his feet and stretching his hands up over his head so that the too tight T-shirt under his too big shirt rose up over his stomach. I looked away and added another note: new clothes needed. ‘I think I can manage to follow a set of rather simple instructions.’
‘Well, then,’ I said, ushering him out of the room. ‘Let’s get to it then.’
I took one last look at the blackboard and sighed before bowing to the nearest plastic Buddha. I was going to need all the help I could get.
CHAPTER NINE
Tuesday, 10 July: Twenty-Four Days to Go
‘And where are you running off to, Annie Higgins?’
I was already late when I heard my name. Charlie bounded up the steps of the tube station, two at a time. Instead of his usual office attire, he was wearing gym shorts and an Arsenal shirt. As much as I didn’t care for football, he’d gone for quite a tight shirt and it did not look terrible. In this day and age, I hated to objectify anyone but he was already doing half the job for me.
‘More like where have you been?’ I asked, making a point of looking at my watch. It wasn’t even noon. ‘What’s this? Casual half-day?’
Charlie laughed, lifting his gym bag onto his shoulder.
‘I’ve got a knackered knee,’ he said, lifting what I supposed was the knee in question. ‘I had physio this morning. Getting too old to be dragging myself round the pitch every Sunday morning.’
‘Exercising can be very bad for your health,’ I agreed, awkwardly swinging my bag in front of me. ‘Going to the office?’
‘Seems like it would be a good idea,’ he said. His smile was practically blinding. There was no way he hadn’t been on the whitening strips. ‘You?’
‘I’ve got a meeting,’ I replied, gently pushing him out my way and starting down the stairs. ‘And I’m late.’
‘Always on the move,’ he called after me. ‘We should catch up, you can let me know how you’re getting on with the bet.’
‘I’m getting on just fine,’ I assured him, even if it wasn’t entirely true. ‘But thanks for asking.’
‘I can already taste that pizza,’ he said, rubbing his tight stomach at the top of the stairs. ‘Shame we won’t be able to share.’
Before I could reply, he turned away and jogged off up the street.
I’d never been a museum person. Whenever I spent too long in the Tate Modern, I got my “museum headache”, mental exhaustion brought on by straining to read tiny description plaques without getting in anyone else’s way and one too many human beings in the same room. We’d done a lot of museums, growing up, mostly the free ones, mostly the rubbish ones; and there was a chance I’d held on to the sense of resentment that comes from being dragged away from the telly and dropped in a room full of fascinating things then being told you can’t touch them. It’s a cruel and unusual punishment for a child, when you think about it. And so I was already uneasy when we arrived at Hampshire House, the former home to one of Sam’s beloved lord lieutenants and possibly the scene of my first ever murder.
‘Can’t you just feel the history oozing from the walls?’ he asked as he let me in the front door. ‘Then there’s a smell. You can smell the power that thrived inside these four walls.’
‘Fairly certain that’s mould,�
� I replied, squeezing my elbows into my sides. In stark contrast to the museums I went to as a kid, here, I had no desire to touch a thing.
‘So glad you suggested this,’ Sam said, carefully placing his rucksack on the floor. ‘I couldn’t be more excited to share the story of the thirteenth Earl of Eglington with you. Unlucky for some, they say. Fairly unlucky for Archibald really, he died at forty-nine.’
‘He died here?’ I shuddered and clutched my bag closer to my body.
‘Here?’ he replied as I shrank away from the ancient wallpaper. ‘Of course not. He died at Mount Melville House near St Andrews.’
‘Was he born here?’ I asked.
Sam shook his head and his beard shimmied in the morning light. ‘He was born in Palermo, Italy. Interesting story.’
I believed him, thousands wouldn’t.
‘So he lived here, did he?’ I did not care for the story. ‘While he was Lord thingamabob of Ireland?’
‘No. But he did once spend the night here on his way to oppose the Jewish Disabilities Bill.’
‘Sounds like a right laugh,’ I mumbled. ‘I wonder if they’ll ever turn my house into a museum.’
‘The Ginnel should be in the national register,’ Sam said. ‘Heaps of history around that place. I’m rather surprised the management don’t mention it more when people come around to visit.’
I followed him down the narrow hallway and into a sitting room that was equally as musty and unpleasant. ‘Such as?’
‘Jack the Ripper almost certainly hid out there from the police,’ he said, a happy fever in his eyes. ‘He met one of his victims right in our alleyway.’
‘Oh,’ I looked back over my shoulder to see whether or not he’d locked me in with him. He had. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Odd that it’s called The Ginnel when it’s in East London. It’s a term most often used in the north of England, even though its origins are found in the French word chenel, meaning passageway.’
‘Fascinating,’ I said with a big, supportive smile.
It was Miranda’s idea to meet Sam somewhere he would feel comfortable and let him run around in his element, to see if I could loosen him up a bit. It was a beautiful, beautiful day and I thought perhaps he’d want to get a coffee or a snack or walk around Hyde Park or something, but no, of course not. He wanted me to sit on the tube for the best part of an hour and meet him in an entirely nondescript house that even your best friend’s auntie’s weird mum would be ashamed to call home.
‘So when did your Lord Eglington visit this place?’ I asked. ‘Recently?’
Sam didn’t even need to think about it.
‘Relatively. May 1848.’
‘And it hasn’t been decorated since,’ I marvelled.
And to think I’d given up my lunch hour for this.
He frowned at me from his position next to the fireplace. At least, I assumed he was frowning, it was so hard to tell from behind the beard. And the hair. And the glasses.
‘How come you’ve got the key?’ I asked, settling down on the edge of a stiff-looking chair. Sam remained next to the fireplace, resting his arm out on the mantle. All he needed were two very big dogs and a time machine. ‘Oh my God, Sam, do you own this place?’
‘I wish,’ he replied, lovingly stroking the ugly fireplace. ‘I’m one of the custodians. I help take care of the place, raise money for its upkeep. It’s a very important house in terms of British political history.’
‘Because people used to sleep over?’
‘They weren’t always sleeping,’ he said with a theatrical and regrettable wink. ‘Ah yes, many a scandal occurred in his house. If these walls could talk …’
‘They would say, “Please remove this wallpaper, you’re killing me,”’ I suggested. ‘Do you get many visitors?’
Sam looked aghast. ‘We’re not open to the public,’ he gasped. ‘This is a private house, a private museum. We couldn’t have people just wandering in off the streets and touching things.’
I didn’t have the heart to tell him there was nothing in this room worth touching.
‘How are you getting on with your homework?’ I asked. Sam cast me a dark look. I’d prepared him an All Elaine starter package, based on her interests, and played knock-a-door run the night before. Blu-Ray copies of Step Up one and four, Strictly Ballroom and Dirty Dancing, the original, not Havana Nights. Never Havana Nights. I’d also thrown in a couple of the documentaries she’d been to see at the docfest, a list of recent stand-up specials on Netflix, a book on mindfulness and half a dozen books listed on the website for Elaine’s monthly book club. And just for my own personal amusement, both Magic Mike movies.
‘I’m working very hard at being in the present as we speak,’ he replied. ‘I shall get to the rest of it when I have time.’
‘As long as it’s in the next two weeks,’ I said, resting my elbows on my knees. Sam pulled a tattered white paper bag out of his jacket pocket and fished out a sherbet lemon. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the other side of our bargain.’
‘Go on,’ he said, holding out the bag. Having no idea how long they’d been in there, I declined.
‘Since your passion for history is …’ I paused for a second, glancing around the manky old room. ‘Infectious, I thought we really should share it with the world.’
‘That’s what I’m doing with my books,’ he replied, folding over the top of the bag and storing it safely away for another decade. ‘Are you going to tell people about them?’
‘In a way, yes,’ I said carefully. ‘But think of your books like the main course of a banquet. They’re a big, meaty main meal and people don’t realize they’re hungry enough for that yet. We need to whet their appetite, get their history juices flowing, so to speak.’
‘Go on,’ Sam said, sucking on the sherbet lemon.
‘A great way to get people engaged is to give them something they want to share with their friends,’ I explained. ‘And the things that get shared the most are funny.’
‘There are lots of funny stories in my book,’ he said, tucking the boiled sweet into his cheek. ‘Lord Eglington, for example, tried to establish a tournament in his name with jousting and the lot. Unfortunately, it rained on the day and the whole thing was a washout. Not to mention the fact it was 1839, hardly the Middle Ages.’
‘In many ways, I am afraid of you,’ I said. Sam continued to suck on his sweet, unperturbed. ‘As hilarious as that story sounds, we’re looking for anecdotes that are a bit more accessible to the everyday person. Something more soundbitey. Like Catherine the Great getting squashed by her horse when they were getting it on—’
‘That’s a common falsehood, there’s no evidence to suggest she ever had intercourse with her horse,’ Sam said, interrupting without hesitation. ‘She died after she had a stroke on the toilet.’
‘Like Elvis!’ I replied, perhaps too enthusiastically. Sam didn’t look nearly as pleased with the correlation. ‘OK. What I’m thinking is, you give me a list of interesting facts, I’ll illustrate them and we’ll post them on Instagram. People will see them, they’ll laugh, they’ll click the link and boom, before they know it, they’ve bought your book.’
‘But my book won’t be about Catherine the Great,’ Sam said with a frown. ‘Won’t they be disappointed?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I assured him. ‘It’s all in the history ballpark, it doesn’t have to be exactly the same. You’re a historian, your Instagram should be about history. This is perfect.’
He looked confused. For a change.
‘The posts don’t have to be about my specific field of expertise?’
‘Honestly, Sam, they just have to be good,’ I said. There was no kind way of explaining the only person who gave a monkey’s about Lord Eglington and his ill-advised tournament was him. ‘The first thing we worry about is finding our audience; we can bring them all onto the lord lieutenant party bus later.’
Sam clutched his backpack closer to his chest.
‘F
igure of speech,’ I promised.
‘I went on one of those for my brother’s stag party,’ he replied, white as a sheet with recollection. ‘Never again.’
My eyes lit up. ‘Are there photos?’
‘No, thank god.’ He relaxed slightly, sliding his arms into the straps of his backpack so that it rested against his belly like a papoose. ‘That’s it then? All you need from me is a list of historical facts?’
‘Interesting and preferably fun historical facts,’ I said, with major emphasis on the interesting and the fun. ‘And interesting to normal people, not just, you know, you.’
He looked down at his worn corduroy trousers. ‘I’m normal. Aren’t I?’
As if the trousers weren’t bad enough, the sleeves of his white shirt billowed around his waist as though he was about to sail away. Thankfully the shirt was anchored to his body by a far too tight, V-neck sweater vest I assumed he’d had since secondary school.
‘I should have said non-historian people,’ I said kindly. ‘Of course you’re normal.’
I tried not to cry as I watched Sam pull another boiled sweet out of his pocket, inspect it, pick off a bit of dust then put it in his mouth.
‘And then you’ll expect me to inspect the pictures you selected to go with the facts, will you?’ he asked. ‘I’m not sure about this, I’m so busy at the moment, with my lecture and my book deadlines. Not to mention all of the nonsense you left in my office yesterday. Perhaps this isn’t the best idea.’
‘You don’t have to check the images,’ I insisted, very, very quickly. ‘You don’t have to do anything other than send me the facts. Trust me.’
‘You keep saying that,’ Sam said, eyeing me carefully. I held my hands behind my back and smiled broadly, my finest impression of a trustworthy person. ‘And yet …’
‘I’m a very trustworthy person,’ I said, standing up before I was absorbed by the chair and wandering through to the back of the house. ‘I’ve got spare keys to all my friend’s houses and was routinely allowed to take the school rabbit home over the holidays.’
‘Half-term or summer?’ he asked.
‘Summer once, half-term three times,’ I answered, trying the handle on a huge wooden door and finding it locked. ‘What’s out here?’
