“Drop me at your house?”
“Oh, is that bad? Are you worried it’s a ruse? I lure you in, and then—”
“You Adam John Whiteman me.”
“Ha! This is like the riddle. The fox, the chicken, and the sack of grain. They all need to be on the other side of the river. There’s a single raft.” He closed his eyes. His face really was so beautiful. “I’ve got it,” he said. “You go up into your flat, get whatever you need, and prop the door open so I can get back up. You keep your keys. I’ll give you my keys—my only keys. You go to my place…have a bath and a lovely sleep….”
“A bath,” she said, almost lustfully.
“A bath. And guess what—I have a guest bed. It’s not made up, but there are sheets in the cupboard outside the bathroom. Which has, as I say, a bath.”
“And in the morning, if you survive, we can meet at Climpsons.” She nodded across the street. “And swap back.”
“Perfect. I need one more thing: Tell me your number. Actually.” He pulled his phone from his coat pocket. “Call your phone from my phone.” The lock screen was a selfie of him and his daughter, squinting, wreathed in sun. “I’m just going to Sultan to buy a toothbrush,” Adam said. “Okay?
“Okay!”
“See you soon!”
“See you soon.”
•••
Upstairs, she gatheredwhat she needed. She looked around the flat with her eyes and then with his. The landlord had removed every period feature in her Victorian flat. Even the fire-surround had been taken off and the fireplace blocked up. It would be more relaxed, more cool, if it was all a bit less spotless. But it would be artificial to stage the scene. The papers had to go, her notebooks, the drafts of her manuscript she’d printed off at work. She bundled them up, lifted the seat cushion of the sofa, and shoved them out of sight.
On the way out, she propped the door open with Elizabeth Jane Howard’sThe Long View. Abruptly, she turned, pushed back through the door, and rushed to the front window. Outside, a black cab drew to a stop. More revelers were disgorged. No sign of Adam. Who was he, anyway? One thing to talk about the fox, the chicken, and the sack of grain. What if it was the scorpion and the frog? The scorpion begs the frog to take him across the river. “Why would I sting you? Then we’d both drown.” The frog believes him, the scorpion climbs on. Halfway across the river, the scorpion stings the frog. “Why?” the frog sobs. “I’m a scorpion,” the scorpion says. People hurt other people. Bad things happen, and for no real reason.
The music from the pub was so loud now it made the chimneybreast vibrate. Specks of plaster came away and floated onto the books she’d stacked below. She closed her eyes, alone and in hell.
When she looked out the window again, he was there.
•••
Halfway across the park,she pulled out her new phone with the intention of searching “Adam Whiteman journalist.” The screen was lit up with an incoming call.
“Is it too loud?” she asked. “Do you want me to come back?”
“God, no. I can’t even hear it.”
“I can hear it through the phone!”
“I have a few questions,” he said. “If you don’t mind?”
“Go ahead.”
“Can I eat two of these eggs and…” She heard the crumple of paper and two loud taps. “This very appetizing brick-hard nub of sourdough?”
“Of course!”
“More questions.” In her flat, the kitchen was at one end of the modest main room. She could sense him turn around and face the blocked-up fireplace at the other end. To his left were the two narrow windows overlooking Broadway Market, beneath them the sofa that hid her (also modest) life’s work. To his right was the table with two chairs and the door through to the narrow hall and small bathroom and bedroom. She’d never sat at that table with someone else in her entire seven months in London. “The books,” he said. “Ever heard of shelves?”
“No,” she said wonderingly. “I’d love you to explain what they are.”
She was smiling and she could tell he was too.
“Are the piles organized in some way?”
“Sort of—can you work it out?”
