“Ah, don’t be. The last one to pass away was when I was eighteen, so it was a while ago.”
“So you’ve not been to England since you were eighteen?” I ask.
“No. But I went over to Europe as part of a study-abroad program in college. It’s not the same, but y’know.”
In the background to his phone call I can hear the hissing of a can of fizzy drink opening and then he takes a sip. The sound of him going about his day is comforting.
“Where in Europe did you go?” I unfurl my legs and go to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle. Outside the snow is falling more heavily than before and the afternoon has grown dark. The world outside my kitchen window is shrouded in an artificial bright-white gauze.
“I went to Paris and then to Rome.”
“Sounds heavenly. I’ve never been to Rome.”
“Oh, you’ve missed out,” he says. “Top of my bucket list is to learn how to make pizza and pasta in Rome. I can make both, kinda, but I want a real Italian in some tiny culinary school to show me properly. I’m even learning Italian in preparation for a trip I haven’t yet booked.”
“Are you using London as a gateway drug to get to Italy?”
“Yes. Tea and biscuits until I can hit the hard stuff.”
I like this. I like him. I look toward Joan’s back fence and curse her and Miranda for putting that suggestion in my head.
“What time is it there?” he asks.
I pull my phone away and look at it. “SixP.M.It’s snowing, by the way.”
“Is it? We don’t get too much of that here. And by ‘too much,’ I really mean any.”
“Get ready for a million different weather outcomes every day when you come here. I carry a cardigan and umbrella around with me every single day. Even in the middle of August.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Not the cardigan part, but I’ll bring a sweater. You should go outside when you get off this call. You should go make snow angels. I’m jealous at the thought of you doing that.”
“Snow angels? What am I? Five?”
“Do it. You’ll have fun.”
“OK. Send me the details of those flats and I’ll schedule tours and look one night after work this week.”
“Thanks, Hannah. I’m really glad I found you.”
“Have a good afternoon,” I say.
“Have a good evening,” he replies.
When I’m off the call I sip my tea and move into the sitting room to start wrapping Christmas presents. Then I turn around, open the back door, lie in the snow, and make snow angels.
Chapter 5
I leave workbang-on 5P.M.on Thursday night. I’m usually very diligent and almost never leave on time, making sure all my emails are answered and my to-do list is done. It’s been a long week, but I’ve made time pass with lunches with friends and colleagues and a bit more—probably unnecessary—Christmas shopping. I’ve even packed a suitcase for Thailand, checking how much all my planned clothes and shoes weigh, so I know how many bottles of sun lotion I can feasibly get in. Why does everything weigh so much? I’m ready for a holiday that I’m not even going on for well over a month.
Tonight I’m heading to Brixton. I’ve got two flat viewings for Davey, one straight after the other, and only a few roads apart. Thankfully both are unlived in. There’s nothing worse than looking around a flat when tenants are still in situ. It’s so awkward. Although I will miss out on looking at stocked bookshelves and seeing what kind of stuff people have. The first flat Davey’s chosen is a new-build in a brand-new development. Very snazzy, close to all the amenities. The second is in one of Brixton’s many Victorian terraces, very similar to mine. It’s first-floor, so it’s without a garden, but the light is amazing and the rooms are huge. He hasn’t told me which is his favorite, but I suspect it’s this one. I hope it’s this one. I’ve taken pictures of both and hit send on thestream of images, so he can see it without the lie that is the estate agent’s fish-eye camera.
I have thoughts,I message him.I’ll write them down for you when I’m home.
But when I return, having trudged back through the snow, my feet damp on the way back from the Underground station, I find a message on my phone from Davey.Don’t spend time writing it all out. Call me?
I’ve never called him before. It’s always been him calling me. But I assemble myself some dinner and look out at the fresh snow in my garden. My snow angels from days ago have been blanketed in a fresh coat of powder. I pick up my phone while my pasta bubbles away gently on the stove and call Davey, who picks up immediately.
“Hey,” he says and I smile. I always smile at his voice. He asks about my day and I ask about his. He’s been enjoying his last few weeks in Austin, taking in the botanical gardens one final time today, before he leaves. “I realize I’ve been a terrible tourist in my own hometown, so I’m adventuring,” he tells me.
