Kitabı oku: «The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea», sayfa 2

‘Yeah, and I’m pregnant so you can’t hit me to get it back.’ Daph ducks behind Zinnia and pokes her tongue out at me. ‘Right, call log.’

I sigh as I watch her go through the phone. ‘Again, no repeat calls to any specific number. No late-night booty calls. Here, last number dialled was local. I’ll ring it.’

She presses the dial button and puts the speaker on.

‘Cheap N Easy Pizza is closed at this time. Try again after five-thirty,’ a tinny voice comes through the phone.

Daph hangs up and bursts out laughing. ‘The last thing he did was get a takeaway pizza. Ness, he’s literally you. When did you last have a takeaway pizza?’

‘The weekend,’ I say, trying not to blush. ‘There’s nothing wrong with takeaway pizza. Not all of us have husbands who like to experiment with cooking gourmet meals for us, you know.’

‘Not for my lack of trying to find you one,’ she mutters. ‘And I bet he even likes pineapple on it too.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with—’ I start to protest but Daph drops her arm and I see an opportunity to snatch the phone out of her hand. ‘Ah ha!’

‘Okay, how are you going to find him then?’ Zinnia asks. I’m surprised she’s getting so involved in this. She loves anything to do with love, but she’s not usually got much time for me. I’m supposed to be a fact-checker for Maîtresse but my heart’s not in it. She knows it and I know it, and I’m not fast enough, thorough enough, or dedicated enough for her to like me.

‘There’s not even any social media,’ Daphne says. ‘I’m getting a bit worried here, Ness. Where’s his Facebook app? No Twitter? No Instagram? You are sure he isn’t a technophobe ninety-year-old, aren’t you?’

‘Well, maybe he just likes to keep things private. Not everyone’s on social media. Some days, I think we’d all be a lot less stressed if we weren’t. I don’t have the Facebook app on my phone either.’

‘See?’ Daph holds her hand up. ‘Perfect match.’

I sit there and scroll through the photos. He’s certainly got a thing about carousels. Almost all his photos are of them. There are photos taken of aged photos depicting them in olden days, pictures of broken parts of various wooden animals, paint-chipped poles, carousels in fairgrounds, one on a pier, and there are other rides too. I spot what must be joints of a rollercoaster and possibly some tracks, what looks like antique furniture and old steam engines. I linger on the distant photo of him standing on a carousel for longer than could be considered normal. My heart is pounding harder just at the sight of him in a zoomed-in photograph.

I have to stop thinking about it. The sooner this phone is out of my hands, the better. ‘Why don’t I try texting someone on his contact list and ask them how to get in touch with him?’

‘I volunteer my services while you go and get on with work,’ Daphne says quickly. ‘I’ll find someone who can get in touch with him and verify his relationship status.’

‘Chop chop.’ Zinnia taps her wrist like I’m on a schedule.

I scroll through the messages again but Daph’s right, there don’t seem to be any ongoing conversations or anything other than perfunctory messages and courier confirmations, so I go to his contacts list instead, hoping it might be in some kind of most-contacted order but it’s alphabetical.

‘Just text the first one,’ Zinnia says, and I get the feeling this has gone on too long for her. She’s efficient and doesn’t believe in wasting time, which is probably why she’s the editor of a popular women’s magazine and I’m the person who phones round publicists trying to find two sources to confirm that Brad Pitt’s name is actually spelt Brad Pitt. Nothing is too pedantic in fact-checking.

I slide my finger back up to the top. ‘Okay. Alan it is. Let’s hope he’s a good friend of Train Man.’

Hello, I type out. I found this phone on the train this morning and I’m trying to get hold of the owner to give it back. Do you know how I can contact him?

‘Now we wait.’

Daph starts talking about the baby pressing on her bladder, but within minutes, the phone lets out a low jingling noise and lights up in my hand.

‘Oooh!’ we all say in unison.

I unlock the phone and blink in surprise at the reply. ‘Oh. No “oooh” at all. Wow.’ I ignore the growingly insistent chorus of ‘whats’. ‘That’s not very nice.’

I read the text message from Alan aloud, cutting out some of the more, er, choice language. ‘Eff off Nathaniel, don’t involve me in whatever stupid game you’re playing now.’

‘Ooh, intriguing,’ Daph says.

‘Worrying,’ I amend for her. ‘What’s he done to this bloke? What “stupid game” has he been playing before?’

‘Why’d he bother to keep him as a contact if they hate each other so much?’

‘A mystery,’ Zinnia says. ‘To solve.’

‘Nathaniel is such a sexy name,’ Daph says, fanning a hand in front of her face again.

‘That’s what you took from that message?’

‘Well, at least we know what he’s called now. Although I don’t fancy texting dear old Alan back to ask for his home address or landline number, do you?’

I recoil at the thought. ‘Don’t you think we’ve invaded this poor man’s privacy enough? We’ve been through his pictures, his notes, his messages; we’ve even managed to text his number one enemy. I should have dropped this phone straight in at lost property in the station. It has nothing to do with me if he gets it back or not.’

‘There’s an amazing story in this. It’s so romantic. A man you’ve been silently flirting with on the train for months, eyes meeting across a crowded carriage, and now you being the one to spot his dropped phone and the quest to find this mystery man and return it … Our readers will love it.’ Zinnia looks between me and Daphne with an expression that means she’s plotting something, and then her eyes settle on me. ‘And you’re going to be the one to write it.’

‘Me?’ I shake my head in an attempt to clear my ears because I’m definitely not hearing her right. ‘Write what?’

‘This.’ She rolls her eyes, leaving me in no doubt about how dense she thinks I am for not getting it yet. ‘The story of The Guy on the Train. It’ll be like that novel but without all the alcoholism and murderyness.’

‘Oh, it’ll be so romantic.’ Daph picks up a magazine to fan herself with. ‘The playful flirtation, the eye contact, the smile, the dimples, the connection on a crowded train where the only thing anyone usually connects with is some drunken guy’s leering or the smell of wee where someone’s urinated on a seat. Again.’

‘Yes,’ Zinnia says. ‘A story about being in the right place at the right time to pick up the mysterious gorgeous man’s dropped phone and lose him by the whisper of a second in a crowded station. A romance for the modern woman who commutes to work every day on public transport. A magical connection with a stranger that could happen to any one of our readers at any moment.’

‘But … I …’ I have no idea what to say. I can’t believe she’s giving me a chance to write for Maîtresse. It’s what I’ve been waiting for since I started here. Fact-checking was only ever supposed to be temporary, but in the two years since I started, it doesn’t feel temporary anymore.

‘I want this story, Vanessa, and realistically you’re the only person who can write it. I know you joined Maîtresse with the intention of writing features for us, and I know you’ve been hoping for a promotion since your first day and you’re probably wondering why I’ve always overlooked you, but the right way for you to prove yourself has never come up … until now.’

It’s probably meant as a compliment but Zinnia only succeeds in making me feel about as important to this office as the persistent bluebottle buzzing around the water dispenser.

‘I want this article on my desk today. We’ll put it on our website straight away, and if it gets a good response, then you’ll find your debut feature in print in the July issue of Maîtresse, and we’ll talk about moving you out of fact-checking and into a feature-writing role. We can start with Daphne’s maternity leave. You know she’s disappearing on us next month, and you probably know that I haven’t arranged cover yet. Impress me with this article, and Daphne’s job is yours for the twelve months of her maternity leave. If you do well, we’ll look into something more permanent.’

Daphne squeals in delight. ‘I told you ages ago that Ness should do it!’

I’m, again, unsure of whether the idea that my best friend and boss have been talking about me is a good thing or not, but it makes me feel a bit irrelevant. Daph mentioned that I should talk to Zinnia about covering her maternity leave months ago and I never plucked up the courage – if she mentioned it to Zinnia around the same time then Zinnia clearly wasn’t interested in the idea.

‘It’ll be a great start to a career as a writer here,’ Zinnia continues. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘More than anything,’ I say quickly before she has a chance to change her mind.

She nods once. ‘Good. I’ll forward this morning’s articles to be fact-checked to one of the temps so you can give this your full attention. I think this is going to be really special. Two o’clock this afternoon and not a second later.’ She goes to walk out but then spins on her heels and points a long red nail at me. ‘And, Vanessa? Leave it open-ended. You’re going to find this guy, and when you do, our readers will want to know about it.’

Daph barely gives her time to get out of earshot before she squeals. ‘This is brilliant, Ness, well done!’

It is brilliant, I know that, but … a love story? Me? I’m the worst choice in the world to write a love story. I haven’t even been on a date in over two years, as Daph reminds me repeatedly. She’s the one who writes articles about love and romance and couples who meet in weird and wonderful ways. I just fact-check them, and I love reading them because my best friend wrote them, but Daphne can make a story out of anything. I don’t know how to write this breathtakingly romantic article that Zinnia seems to want out of a guy I’ve looked at on the train a few times.

Daph’s already scribbling notes for me in a notepad. ‘Tell it exactly as you’ve always told me about Train Man. Focus on how his gaze makes you feel rather than how pretty his eyes are because you don’t want his identity to be too obvious. And make sure to mention how single you are and how single he is, and how you’ll meet when you give his phone back.’

‘I’ve got to find him first. Alan certainly wasn’t any help.’

‘Someone else will be. You haven’t got time to go through his contacts now, but after the article’s done, then you can concentrate on finding him.’

‘He’s probably a psychopath,’ I say. ‘Eye contact on public transport is a big no-no.’

‘You made eye contact on public transport with him too.’ She sighs. ‘You don’t always have to think the worst of people, Ness.’

‘I don’t always think—’

‘You thought that guy I tried to set you up with last month was a lunatic.’

‘He wanted to go rock climbing for a date. Rock climbing, Daph! A coffee is a date, not clambering up a flippin’ rock. Dating is bad enough without involving rocks and exercise.’

‘You wouldn’t have accepted even if he’d offered coffee and cake, just like you didn’t accept the last guy I tried to set you up with, or the one before that, or the one before. It’s been years since “poor Andrew”—’

‘Just how romantic do you think Zinnia wants this to be?’ I interrupt her. I know she thinks I was mad to break up with ‘poor Andrew’ and even madder not to want to find someone else, but I’m better off alone. ‘Poor Andrew’ proved that. Netflix is a much better companion.

‘So romantic. She wants the love story of the year that’s going to resonate with any woman who’s ever been on a packed train.’

‘That’s exactly the point though, isn’t it? It’s just a story. A fantasy. It’d make a nice movie, but this sort of thing doesn’t actually happen. It’d be great if he was the man of my dreams.’ I pat the phone in my pocket. ‘But he isn’t. Stories like these are just stories. They’re not real life.’

* * *

At five to two, I press send on my email to Zinnia.

The Guy on the Train: A love story for our time, with a twist worthy of any Paula Hawkins novel

By Vanessa Berton

The unspoken rule of London transport: ignore everyone. No one else exists on the tube. The disinterested gaze at nothing in particular as long as it’s not another human being is an art form that every person learns upon their arrival in the capital.

I have broken this rule. A man has broken this rule with me.

For a few months now, Train Man and I have looked at each other on the Victoria line. It’s not every morning, far from it. Sometimes there can be days or weeks between our clandestine gazes.

I’m not a born Londoner. Would other Londoners turn on me if they knew that I regularly make eye contact with a stranger? Would they make me disembark at the next stop if they knew that we sometimes – and I can’t believe I’m going to admit this – smile at each other?

There. I’ve said it. I’ve noticed that there are other people on the tube. One of them has noticed me. Sometimes we share a smile. And it’s a very nice smile. It’s a smile with dimples, and hair of the darkest brown, and dark eyes that smile too when they look at me. It’s quite a feat to see me flustered and sweltering on a summer morning and not be scarred for life, but Train Man manages it. Each morning that I see him is just a little better than any other morning. I arrive at work with just a slightly springier step.

This morning was different. This morning, instead of being at the opposite end of the carriage like I usually am, I was mere feet away from him, crammed against a sweaty shirtless body. Unfortunately not his sweaty shirtless body. That would’ve made the journey marginally more pleasant.

Our eyes met as usual. And his dimples at such close range were enough to make me take leave of my senses. I nearly spoke to him. Thankfully I stopped myself at the last second because I hadn’t completely lost my marbles. But he nearly spoke to me too. In fact, we were barely saved from a lifetime of awkward conversation by arriving at a station – his stop today, but not his usual stop. Why is he getting off here when he doesn’t usually? Judging by the suitcase and array of bags, he’s obviously going somewhere, and judging by the panicked looks he keeps giving his phone, he doesn’t have much time to get there.

I don’t mean to watch him, but he’s tall enough to unintentionally draw the eye, and I’m short enough to be hidden by other passengers, so he can’t see me lurking behind him, watching the way long, sexy fingers wrap around the handle of his suitcase as he waits for the door to open. I see him give a final glance at his phone before he slips it back into his pocket. Except, he doesn’t slip it back into his pocket. He thinks he has, but I’m the only one who’s noticed that he missed, and in the clamour of the doors opening, he hasn’t heard it clatter to the floor.

I grab it before it gets caught in the stampede, and make a split-second decision to run after him to return it, but I may have been slightly lax on my gym visits lately, and he runs out of there at a speed that would make Sonic the Hedgehog jealous.

I don’t catch him. And I now I have his phone.

And I’ve managed to unlock it. I am inside the private life of Train Man. I’ve read his texts. I’ve seen his photos. I know what grocery shopping he bought last week and that he ordered a pizza last night. I know he likes the same things I like, that there are no texts to a significant other, and I’ve happened to notice on our shared journeys that he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.

Could a guy so friendly and gorgeous really be single? Could my silent flirtation with Train Man really mean something? Have we defied the laws of public transport because of a deeper meaning? Has the universe thrown us into each other’s path for a reason that we can’t yet see?

I have his phone. I have to get it back to him. But I have to find him first …

Daph warned me to only expect a response from Zinnia if she hates it, so I take the silence as a good sign and get on with fact-checking the stack of articles piled up in my inbox. Well, between obsessively refreshing the website to see when it goes live, obviously.

It’s not perfect; I know that. I’m sure it’ll fade into the depths of Maîtresse’s site and be read by approximately four people, three of whom will be me, Daph, and Zinnia double-checking ad placement, and any hopes of seeing my name in print and starting a real career will be gone forever. But it was fun to write, even if my promotion to features writer only lasts a morning.

Chapter 3

I’ve just sat on the sofa and put Netflix on that evening, and I’m scrolling through the recently added things, having already watched pretty much the whole catalogue, when the phone rings. I’ve left Nathaniel’s phone on the kitchen unit next to mine, and as I shove my microwave meal onto the coffee table and run to get it, I notice it’s his phone that’s vibrating across the counter towards the sink. I grab it and slide the screen up to answer without even glancing at it.

‘Hi, this is Nathaniel’s phone.’

‘Hi, this is Nathaniel.’ He pauses and my heart jumps into my throat. I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the number onscreen, a mobile number that’s not saved in his contacts. It must be him on another phone. Maybe it’s just as well I didn’t know – he’d have rung off by the time I’d psyched myself up to speak to him.

‘No, wait, it’s Nathan. Only people who hate me call me Nathaniel. Where did you get that name from?’

‘I texted the first name in your directory.’

‘Who was … oh no, don’t tell me. Alan? I take it he gave a suitably charming response?’

‘He, er, didn’t seem to like you very much …’

‘The feeling’s entirely mutual.’ He sighs. ‘What did he say?’

‘Um …’ I don’t feel particularly comfortable repeating the nasty message. ‘You’ll see when you get your phone back.’

‘Don’t worry, “um” is more than descriptive enough.’ He lets out a sad laugh. ‘It’s actually nice of you not to tell me. You are planning on giving it back then?’

‘Of course I am! I have my own phone that I’d like to get away from half the time, I certainly don’t want yours as well. I saw you on the train this morning. I was behind you when we pulled into your stop and you went to put your phone in your pocket but you missed. I picked it up before it got trampled or stolen. I’ve been trying to find a way to contact you all day.’ You know, between writing an article about how pretty your eyes are and examining every inch of your phone.

‘You’re the girl I see sometimes, aren’t you?’ His breath catches in his throat and I get the sense that he’s holding it, waiting for an answer.

At that caught breath, all of my doubts slip away. He does know me. I haven’t imagined some connection between us. He smiles at me too. Whatever Sliding Doors magic Daphne keeps going on about, whatever else Zinnia wants me to write about him. It doesn’t matter. Maybe they’re right. Maybe this isn’t just coincidence.

‘We do see each other sometimes, yeah,’ I say, hesitating a little because I’m not quite sure how to describe it.

He lets out a long breath and warmth floods my insides. He must’ve felt something over the months of our silent flirtation too. Not just that I was a weird public transport starer.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks in a soft Yorkshire accent.

‘Ness. Well, Vanessa, but everyone calls me Ness.’

‘We have something in common then – full names we don’t get called by.’

The way he says it makes me want to smile but I still feel like I need to explain myself. ‘I tried to catch you, you know? But you ran out of there faster than the Road Runner.’

‘Beep beep,’ he says, doing a spot-on impression, and a giggle takes me by surprise because I used to love those cartoons.

‘Yeah, sorry, I had a connection to catch and about three minutes to make it between platforms and that was without the tube being a couple of minutes late. Trains to this part of the country only run once a day. I couldn’t miss it.’

‘What part of the country’s that then?’ I grew up in a little village where my parents still live. I remember the days of one bus an hour and being completely cut off from civilisation. The constant trains and buses were one of my favourite things when I first moved to London, but even that’s got old now. Sometimes I long for the days of one bus an hour and not being crammed into a tube train every morning like a limp flip-flop on a summer’s day.

‘A little village called Pearlholme. I bet you’ve never heard of it because it’s so small that even people who live five miles away from it have never heard of it. It’s on the Yorkshire coast, not far down from Scarborough.’

‘I always hear people saying they love that part of the country.’

‘It’s perfect here. The beach is amazing and the village is so tiny. It’s all cobbled streets and quaint cottages. There’s one combined shop and post office, a pub, and a couple of beach huts on the promenade, and that’s it. It’s the perfect antidote to London. I’ve only been here a few hours and I feel better than I have in months.’ He sounds like he’s smiling as he speaks.

I wasn’t expecting him to sound the way he does. His voice sounds warm and approachable, like a steady reassuring policeman, someone you’d be safe with. It matches the way his smile has always looked.

‘Are you on holiday?’ With your wife? And children?

‘No, I’m working, although I’ve got a nerve to call it work, really. I’m restoring an old carousel by the sea. I’m literally on the sand. The beach is my office. It’s amazing. It couldn’t get any better.’

I find myself smiling at how happy he sounds. ‘That explains all the pictures of wooden horses on your phone.’

‘So you’ve been going through my pictures then, have you?’ He still sounds jokey and not annoyed at all.

‘I wasn’t going through them, I was looking for a way of getting your phone back to you.’ I don’t mention quite how much time Daph, Zinnia, and I spent combing through his phone inch by inch this morning or that I’m already thinking about how smug I can sound tomorrow when I tell them the carousel horses aren’t just a weird fetish.

‘In my photos?’

‘Well, you could’ve taken a picture of your house, couldn’t you?’

‘Hah. It’s a crummy flat in an ugly block in London. The only people who’d take a photograph of it would be filmmakers for a documentary on Britain’s worst housing.’

‘Oh, I know that feeling.’ I glance over at the bucket in the corner, catching a leak of unknown origin. The landlord, on the rare occasion I can get hold of him, promised to get it sorted last year. He hasn’t answered his phone since. Perhaps I should stop the rent direct debit – that’d get him round here pretty fast.

‘And I bet you pay enough rent to purchase a small car every month too, right?’

‘Several small cars, actually.’

‘You should see the cottage I’m staying in here. It’s a holiday let that I’ve rented for six weeks, but I could live here for six months for the price of one month in London, and it’s gorgeous.’

‘Six weeks,’ I say, trying not to think about a beautiful cottage by the sea or that gorgeous man in it. It sounds like the most perfect place and I suddenly have an overwhelming pang of sadness because I’m here and not there. ‘You won’t be back for ages.’

‘No, the owner wants this thing restored by the summer holidays so I’m here until then. It’s an incredible old carousel. I reckon it was carved entirely by one person, and it was found in an old ruin. The owner won it in an auction, and put it on the beach for the public, and their busiest season is once the kids break up from school so that’s my deadline.’

So much for hoping to see him on the train again tomorrow morning to return the phone. ‘Do you do this a lot then? I mean, all those pictures …’

‘Yeah, mainly repairs rather than full restorations because there just aren’t that many carousels to restore in the country – this is a rare treat for me.’ He laughs. ‘And yeah, I really am that boring. That’s pretty much all I use my phone for, as I’m sure you discovered. Pictures of work.’

And keeping track of your shopping lists, of course. Which I know because you buy all of my favourite food.

‘I must be creating such a good picture of myself here. All I do is moan about my flat and talk about work. Sorry, I’m sure I’m not usually this boring.’

‘It’s not boring at all. Pretty much all I do is work and moan about my flat too. At least your job is a lot more interesting than mine.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a fact-checker for a women’s magazine. I have to double-check everything that proper journalists write so we don’t publish anything that’s untrue. I want to be a journalist and I thought I’d get a chance to prove myself there, but it’s been years now and all I am is basically a proofreader who does a lot of googling and phoning around to confirm quotes. I work a lot of overtime because I have nothing better to do and I keep hoping my boss will notice how dedicated I am.’

‘I can’t complain about my job. I work a lot of overtime because I love old carousels and mainly because if I’m working then I’m not sitting in my crappy flat thinking about how many places I’d rather be.’

‘I know that feeling too,’ I say, looking at the window, which gives me a marvellous view of the building next door. I can imagine what his view in that gorgeous cottage is like. ‘Do you do anything other than carousels? There were some pictures that we— I— couldn’t work out, they looked like bits of rollercoaster?’

‘I’m glad you were so thorough in your search for my address.’ He still doesn’t sound annoyed by it. ‘And yes, I’m not strictly carousels, although they’re my speciality. I’m just a repairman in general, really. My firm restores all sorts of old things, from organs to engines to fairground rides, and yes, they were bits of rollercoaster but not rollercoasters as we know them now – the old wooden scenic railways that were popular in the early 1900s, the kind of thing anyone from a baby to a granny could enjoy a ride on, a real throwback to days gone by. I take a lot of pictures because you can rarely get parts in this day and age, and we usually have to find something similar and adjust it or make the parts ourselves.’

He suddenly stops himself. ‘I’m sorry, I must be boring you senseless. I’m not usually this boring, honestly. And the fact I’ve said that twice tonight probably doesn’t bode well. You’re not busy, are you? I’ve been rabbiting on for ages and never asked you if I was interrupting something. You’re probably sitting down for a nice dinner with your husband, and—’

I laugh at the mental image. ‘No husband. I was sitting down with a microwave meal and Netflix. How’s that for busy? Talking to you is much more interesting.’

He laughs too. ‘You obviously don’t know me well enough yet.’

I try to ignore another little flutter of butterflies at that ‘yet’.

‘And you’ve just described my average evening. Netflix and a sarnie. Sometimes I stretch to something really strenuous like cheese on toast.’ He says it with a French accent, like a posh chef describing a gourmet meal, and it makes me laugh again, and I realise that I’m gripping the phone tighter because I don’t want him to go yet. ‘My brother bought me a chef’s blowtorch once. God knows what he thought I was going to cook with it. Beans on toast on fire?’

‘You know what I don’t get?’ I say, trying to stop myself laughing again. ‘Instant mashed potatoes. You sprinkle a little bit out of the packet into the bottom of a mug, and it makes six bowlfuls.’

‘Oh, I love instant mashed potatoes,’ he says. ‘They’re like the ultimate comfort food, and I can pretend they’re healthy because they’re vegetables. Powdered, reconstituted vegetables, but still. I’m spoiled tonight because the landlady at the cottage made me a macaroni cheese and left it in the fridge. At least I now know why she asked if I had any allergies. I wondered if she was planning on filling the roof with asbestos and painting the walls with lead or something. I’m just waiting for that to come out of the oven and I’m going to eat it in the garden with a cup of tea.’ He pauses. ‘You probably thought I was thirty-six this morning, but now I reveal I’m really an eighty-year-old woman in disguise. No wonder I like it in Pearlholme so much. Everyone seems to be elderly around here. You should’ve seen my landlady, bless her. She looked like she could barely carry the key when I collected it. God knows how she’s still managing to cook huge casserole dishes of food.’

I laugh yet again. I’m not good at talking to strangers, which is probably quite weird for someone who spends a lot of time phoning strangers to confirm facts and double-check quotes in articles, but there’s something about him that puts me completely at ease. I’m often on edge in my flat – you can usually hear the shouting of neighbours or fights in the hall, and it never feels safe here, but his warm accent on the other end of the phone settles something inside me.

‘Thanks for picking up my phone this morning. I’m glad it was you. I mean … I saw you … We’re usually much further apart … and I was in such a hurry … and I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say. Just thank you for grabbing it and trying to get it back to me. I assumed I’d been pickpocketed. I always think the worst of people and don’t really trust anyone, so …’