8:58 p.m.—Bea
“You might want to pick that up.” Bea nods at the buzzing phone on his desk. “It’s your wife.”
Dr. Finch gropes for his glasses. “It can’t be, she’s at the cinema seeing—”
“I don’t care,” Bea interrupts, standing up from the sofa. “And it is.”
Slipping his glasses onto his nose, he squints at the screen. “How the hell did you know that?”
Bea shrugs. “Perhaps she can smell a guilty conscience.” She reaches for her dress, slipping it over her shoulders.
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Dr. Finch drops the phone back onto his desk. “I’ve often thought she was a witch.”
“Piss off,” Bea snaps, unsure why his use of the word annoys her so much. “That’s your wife you’re talking about, the woman who gave birth to your kids—you have kids, right?—and I bet you’re no domestic angel. You leave the toilet seat up, never make dinner or do the school run, and”—Bea searches for another fact she doesn’t know how she knows—“Download particularly filthy porn to your son’s computer.”
Her Logic and Language lecturer casts her an incredulous look, then busies himself with rearranging cushions on his sofa, saying nothing to confirm Bea’s CliffsNotes on his character. She doesn’t care; she knows she’s right.
“You’re hardly in a position to cast moral disapprobation.” He sits up. “You weren’t showing much concern for my wife’s welfare twenty minutes ago.”
Bea gets up, picks her bag off the floor. “Well, I’m not married to her, Prince Charming, you are.”
She doesn’t hear what he says in response, something about daddy issues, since she’s already slamming the door shut behind her. The sex, such as it was, hadn’t been worth leaving the library for. She’d suspected as much when he’d invited her, and it irks Bea that she hadn’t followed her instincts.
11:58 p.m.—Leo
Tomorrow Leo will bump into her. He’s waited long enough to ensure it’ll appear coincidental. He feels Goldie’s power increasing every day, every hour that brings her closer to her eighteenth birthday. Now that he knows that, if he’s to stand a chance of victory, he must maximize his tactical advantages. He still has the element of surprise and knows how he might enhance it. It’d be easy enough to seduce her, exceedingly pleasant too, and would leave her far more vulnerable at the moment of attack. Admittedly, Leo won’t feel proud of such an unsporting ambush. But if it’s his only chance of survival, then he’ll have to take it.
9th October
Twenty-three days . . .
1:57 a.m.—Scarlet
It takes Scarlet hours of intense rationalization to recover from the moth-exterminating episode. In the end, she settles on the explanation of spontaneous combustion. Quite how this could have occurred, Scarlet isn’t certain, but it’s sort of scientific and means that she isn’t delusional, bewitched, or dangerous, which is surely all that matters.
Scarlet wishes she could talk to her grandmother, share her worries, ask advice. Most of the time Scarlet is okay, strong and self-sufficient. An almost adult who looks, generally, as if she’s got her act together. But sometimes she feels like an eight-year-old whose mother has just died, scared and alone, wanting to be held. Especially late at night when all she can hear is the ticktock of the grandfather clock in the stillness and it feels like an eternity until morning.
Which is how she feels tonight. She wishes it were raining. Thunderstorms are best. When one can luxuriate in the comfort of being safely tucked up instead of out getting soaked. Sadly, the night is still, the sky clear. The moon is nearing full, a shard of light falling into the room.
Scarlet feels a tug towards the window, as if a lover were coaxing her out of bed. Without thinking why, she slips out from under the duvet and steps across the carpet. Looking up at the moon, Scarlet thinks of the café, wondering if she’s doing the right thing struggling so hard to hold on. Perhaps she should stop fighting to save a sinking ship, especially when her grandmother’s drowning. Perhaps she should take the lifeboat being offered by Mr. Wolfe—though she’s not seen hide nor hair of him since dropping him off at the hospital—sell up and take care of Esme properly. Scarlet could find a nice nursing home, get a job in a café (anywhere but Starbucks), and let someone else worry about the bills while she collects an hourly wage and a free lunch.
For a moment, the light of the moon seems to brighten. Scarlet’s shoulders drop, her breathing slows, and she feels a sense of calm she’s not felt in a long while. Scarlet watches the sky until clouds drift over the moon and, all at once, she imagines the clouds slipping out of the sky and falling to earth. Then they aren’t clouds but leaves, perpetually falling from a nocturnal sky.
6:36 a.m.—Goldie
“I don’t want you to get another job,” Teddy says, uncomplainingly munching a piece of burnt toast. He doesn’t mind the endless toast and tins of beans, since it means I’m home for breakfast every morning and dinner every night. “I want you to stay home.”
I smile. “I want that too. And, if I suddenly found a few thousand quid, that’s what I’d do. But sadly—” I’m about to say money doesn’t grow on trees, but it’s something my stepfather used to say, so I don’t.
Yet again, I lament that I hadn’t been able to hit the safe before fleeing the hotel. Teddy interrupts my thoughts.
“What kind of job will you get?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Nothing fancy, I’m not qualified for much.”
Teddy peers over his singed toast, fixing me with his blue eyes. “I don’t care,” he says. “I think you can do anything in the whole wide world.”
I give him a rueful smile, leaning across the table to stroke his hair, the curls soft as moss, and say nothing.
6:45 a.m.—Liyana
“Good morning.”
Liyana looks up, startled to see her aunt—rarely awake before sunrise—walking into the kitchen. She’s annoyed since she’d wanted to be alone, filling out more application forms for exploitative minimum-wage jobs. She’s still not heard back from Tesco.
“Morning, Dagã.”
Her aunt pulls out a chair as if it weighs ten tonnes, then flops onto it with a deep and sorrowful sigh. “Coffee,” she says. “I need coffee.”
“You don’t drink coffee,” Liyana says. “You drink weird types of trendy tea.”
“It’s dawn, I need caffeine.” Nyasha rests her head on the table. “Please. Help a frail old lady.”
When Liyana sets down the mug, she hears soft snores emanating from beneath an intricate maze of cornrows. Liyana gives her aunt a poke in the ribs.
Nya squeals and sits upright with a snap, looking confused. “What did you do that for?”
“I just made you an excellent cup of coffee. I wasn’t going to let it go to waste.”
“What are you talking about? I was wide awake.” Nya takes a tentative sip of the scalding coffee. “Vinye, I think I’ve found the One.”
“Which one?”
“Well, the first one,” Nya says. “He’s overprivileged, flexible in his sexuality, and looking for a wife. At least”—she sets down her cup—“His mother’s looking for his wife. Anyway, he’s perfect.”
“Wait.” Liyana sits forward, heart quickening. She needs to stall, needs more time to prepare. “Where did you find him?”
“His mother is my cousin’s sister-in-law. She arranged my first marriage.”
“Who did?” Liyana asks, confused.
“My cousin. Pay attention, Ana, he’ll be here any minute.”
Liyana sits up. “What? No, wait, I’m not—”
She’s interrupted by the ring of the doorbell, which instantly propels Nya from her chair. “I’ll get it!”
As the door opens, Liyana wonders if she has time to run. When she hears her aunt’s voice rise into honeyed sweetness, Liyana knows her time is up.
Nya returns to the kitchen like a lion tamer leading her prize lion. And she’s holding a man. A man Liyana
recognizes but can’t quite place.
“It’s so good of you to come for breakfast,” she’s saying. “I know you’re very busy.”
“That’s fine,” he smiles. “I’m not due into the office till nine.”
Nya nods as if he’s just said something profoundly wise. Then she drops her gaze to her niece, looking a little surprised, as if she’d forgotten that Liyana was there at all.
“Ana, allow me to introduce Mazmo Owethu Muzenda-Kasteni.” Nya’s hand rests on Mazmo’s shoulder. “Mazmo, I’d like you to meet my niece, Liyana Miriro Chiweshe.”
Liyana considers him. “But we’ve met before.”
“You have?” Nya looks delighted. “Where and when? Do you know each other well?”
“Not yet,” Mazmo says. “We met about a week ago. At the gym on Upper Street—”
“The Serpentine Spa.” Aunt Nya shoots a self-satisfied look at Liyana, since it was her membership that occasioned this auspicious initial meeting. “I’m there three times a week—I’m surprised I’ve never had the pleasure of bumping into you myself.”
“It’s not my usual gym,” Mazmo says. “But I had a meeting in Islington that day, so . . . serendipity.”
Gazing at Mazmo, Nya snaps out of her reverie. “Where are my manners? What can I get you, Mazmo—tea, coffee, warm lemon water?”
Mazmo slides into the chair beside Liyana. “Do you have kombucha?”
“I’ve run out.” Nya’s momentarily mortified. “But I can nip out to—”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Mazmo waves his hand. “How about matcha green?”
“Absolutely. Ana, what would you—?”
“Nothing for me.” Liyana glowers at her aunt, who’s busying herself with teacups, then casts a sideways glance at Mazmo. Admittedly, he isn’t a bald septuagenarian with a paunch and halitosis. He is, as her aunt promised, both young and attractive. Exceedingly attractive, excessively attractive. And that voice. She’d forgotten the velvet of his voice, a river smoothing rocks.
“So . . .” Mazmo’s saying. “I hear you enjoy dancing.”
“Do I?” Liyana casts another scorching glance at her aunt, who’s fiddling with the water filter.
“If you want to go, I’m good friends with the chap who owns the M25.”
Liyana frowns. “The motorway?”
He laughs and Liyana looks at him, caught off guard by the sound of the river again. Liyana feels her aunt’s glow emanating from the espresso machine. A moment later, she hands Mazmo his tea as if it were an offering of frankincense and myrrh. She lingers at the table. “Oat milk? Almond?”
“No, thanks.” Mazmo pats his washboard stomach. “I’m paleo.”
“Of course,” Nya says, as if this were the only sensible dietary choice. “Well then, I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted . . .”
Mazmo half stands. “You won’t stay?”
“No,” Nya says, the word weighted with reluctance and longing. “No, I should go.”
“No, stay.” Liyana grabs her aunt’s hand and squeezes tight. “You really should stay, Dagã. You know how I met Mazmo, now I want to hear how—”
With a swift tug, Nya extricates herself from Liyana’s grip. “I’ll let him tell you that funny little story. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
As her aunt wafts out of the kitchen on an air of regret, Liyana turns with equal reluctance to Mazmo. How embarrassing to meet him again under such circumstances. And how, she wonders, does one charm a man without the promise of sexual favours? She thinks of what her aunt said about his sexuality—is he gay and wanting an heir to satisfy his mother? That she cannot do. Or does he simply want a wife, to draw a veil over his pansexual practices? That she might be able to do—Kumiko permitting. Still, how to raise the delicate matter of finances? Liyana thinks of her heroine. BlackBird would simply threaten bodily harm if premarital funds weren’t immediately forthcoming, but Liyana will need to be slightly more subtle than that.
“So . . .” Mazmo says.
“So . . .” Liyana echoes.
He smiles again. And again she’s caught by it, reminded of that something long ago. The moon breaking through clouds. The river catching its light.
11:03 a.m.—Nyasha
Nyasha will never forget her first time. The first time she tasted champagne. The first time she saw diamonds. The first time she heard opera. And each of these things had happened on the same night. Fittingly, it had been the first husband who introduced her to them all. For this reason alone, she’s always held him in fond regard. That he was an inconsiderate lover and serial philanderer meant she’d never liked him much, though she’d loved him once.
Under the watchful eye and instruction of her cousin Akosua, Nyasha had been courting Kwesi Xoese Mayat for three weeks when she was told that tonight she must finally agree to marry him. Timing, according to Akosua, was everything. One must make a suitor wait a suitable period: long enough to garner respect, but not long enough to engender frustration. So Nyasha was prepared. She didn’t particularly want to marry Kwesi, but Akosua had assured her that love had little to do with relationships; it was all about family.
“If you like him and he will take care of you,” her cousin said, “that is enough.”
That he liked her was clear. That night he drove her from Ayitepa to Accra for a night at the National Theatre to see La traviata. Afterwards they dined at La Chaumière, a formidably chic and forbiddingly pricey restaurant. Nyasha had been so spellbound by the opera that she passed the dinner in a daze. A shame, since she’d barely tasted the exquisitely expensive food. She was so spellbound that when Kwesi slid a long black leather box across the table, Nyasha didn’t notice until he emitted a self-conscious cough.
“Sorry,” she said. “What?” Then she looked down. “Ao? Is it for me?”
“Of course.” Kwesi smiled, as if he were a judge bestowing a medal. “Open it.”
She did, and La traviata was eclipsed by three long strings of sparkling diamonds and fat pearls that glittered and glistened in the candlelight.
Kwesi laughed. “Well, aren’t you going to try it on?”
Slowly Nyasha reached out, lifting the necklace as if it might be spun of moonlight and cloud, between forefingers and thumbs.
Kwesi took a swig of his champagne. “It won’t bite.”
Nyasha nodded, not looking up as she hung the necklace, fumbling with the clasp until, finally, it fastened. As the cool jewels touched her warm skin she held her breath.
“C-can I . . . keep it?”
Kwesi laughed again. It was a laugh of easy wealth, of silk, cashmere, and Scotch; the laugh of a man who’d never had to strive for anything. “Of course, I just gave it to you.”
“Nyó ta. Yes, I . . .” Nyasha dropped her fingers from the pearls. “Akpe . . . And is it—or do I . . . will I give it back to you if . . . ?”
His smile deepened, plumping out his satisfied cheeks. “You mean, if we break up?”
Nyasha turned her eyes to the table, settling her gaze on the silver cutlery, resisting the urge to clutch the necklace again.
“I certainly hope that won’t happen.” Kwesi Xoese slid his hand across the thick linen tablecloth, taking hers. “But yes, if you divorce me it’s still yours.”
She lifted her eyes to meet his. That was it. A marriage proposal that was an assumption instead of a question. She hadn’t even been given the chance to say yes.
“You might divorce me,” Nyasha said instead.
“Oh, ao!” Kwesi lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. “I can’t ever imagine such a thing.”
Nyasha gave him a shy little smile, reaching up with her other hand to rest her fingers back on the strings of diamonds and pearls. Hers. No matter what. It was then Nyasha experienced another first. The first time she felt safe.
11:11 a.m.—Goldie
“Wait!”
I’m nursing my sixth rejection of the day when I see him. On Trinity Street, amid the bustling tourists a
nd students. Fortunately, I’m not caught in the act of lifting a fat wallet from a fancy bag. Still, I’ve no desire to relive the shame of our last encounter, so I turn to avoid him.
“Goldie, wait.”
I stop. When he reaches me, I can’t meet his eye.
“Are you all right?” he says. “I’ve been worrying about you since . . .”
“I’m fine.” I feign an effortless shrug. “No harm, no foul.”
“But . . . your manager, he didn’t call the police?”
“Probably,” I say. “I didn’t stay around to find out.”
“Oh.”
I wait for him to ask exactly how I escaped, but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches out, as if he’s going to touch my shoulder, then drops his hand.
“So, you’ve found another job?”
“No, that’s what I’m doing right now—looking for another job—but it doesn’t seem like anyone’s hiring.” I glance at the pavement. “I guess I picked the wrong time to steal your wallet, then bite off my boss’s finger.”
“You bit off your boss’s finger?” Leo’s incredulous.
Hardly surprising, I suppose, that Garrick kept that detail to himself.
I shrug again, as if it’s of no matter, as if I’m biting off fingers all the time. “I exaggerate,” I admit. “But only slightly.”
Leo smiles. “And how did you get hold of his finger in the first place?”
“A long and unseemly story. Let’s just say I’m not pining for my old job back.” I glance again at the hand that almost touched my shoulder. I still can’t meet his eye. “Though I wish it wasn’t so bloody impossible to find a new one.”
The Sisters Grimm Page 12
