I phone Donna on the spot.
“Donna, it’s Lucy,” I say. “Look, I said I’d help Freya out and I’d be glad to, really, but there’s one client on her list I really can’t work for. Hope that’s okay.”
“You can’t pull out now, girlfriend,” Donna says. “What’s the problem? Is it who I think it is? You unpacked his place so you already know it, and talk about convenient. Easy money. Exactly what you need. Exactly what Freya needs. Exactly what he needs.”
I try to tell Donna it doesn’t seem right, sneaking in and out of my neighbor’s apartment. Dirk’s no ordinary client. He’s somebody I know. A person I value.
“I really don’t think I can do this, Donna. I actually care for him. A lot.” The right words won’t come.
“‘Care for him,’ Lucy? Great. Even better, my friend. You can ‘care for him’ literally. Give him the works. Give him your apple pie.”
Maybe Donna is right. Am I being silly? She’s never asked much of me, and she’s been my lifeline all these past months. Still, I worry.
“You couldn’t step in, Donna? Do it for me?”
“No, I can’t, Lucy. You know how busy I am with all the unpacking clients. Business is great. Look, we wouldn’t have asked you if there was any other option. Freya’s in a pickle. I shouldn’t tell you this, but a couple of her employees were caught stealing and she had no choice but to fire them. She’s got new people joining, but they can’t start for at least a week. I still don’t see why it’s a problem for you.”
“I just ...” What? Am I ashamed to be caught cleaning? No. I’m not too proud to clean for a wage. It’s just ... should I tell him I’ll be in his personal space? Handling his things?
“So are you going to help us out? Please, Lucy?”
“Okay,” I say. Donna’s help for me was instant and endless. And I don’t really know where I stand with Dirk on a personal level any more. It’s not like he ran after me to accept my proposal.
Now I can go back to wondering whether Phoebe will turn up, not to mention worrying about whether I’ll even have a roof over my head soon. There’s no question I need the work. I’ll need the money, whether or not Hilary and I can make a successful offer.
I hang up the phone just as Phoebe rounds the corner with a new haircut and a face like marble – beautiful but distant. Gone are the days she would run to my arms – warm bundle of soft bones – and bury her face against me. She’d peep up at me and give me the smiles of her heart. How quickly heaven passed.
I go to stand but she’s already pulled out her own chair. She perches across the table from me, her body at an angle, a butterfly, ready to flee.
I reach my hands across the table, palms up.
“Phoebe.”
Her eyes flick to mine, then hide again. She keeps her fingers clenched around her chair, not yet bringing it forwards.
I could prattle. I could fill this silence with so many truths – how I’ve longed to see her; how I hope she’s well. I want to know how I can help her, but I’ve said all that before, in letters, in text messages, in voice-to-text. Until recently, into pure silence.
A strand of her hair is caught behind her right ear. I want to brush it back.
“Thanks for coming,” she says, and my heart turns over once, twice. I bite my tongue on the great gush of words and thoughts I want to share.
“It’s my boyfriend who thought I should meet you.”
I nod again. I smile, gently, a thousand questions pounding in my chest, unvoiced. I swallow to let another second or two pass in silence, to let her open up.
“He’s studying psych too; thinks seeing you is healthy.”
The waitress bustles back with an ornate menu, and Phoebe turns to it. She studies the great list of exotic teas from all over the world, and subcategories – chais and fruit teas, white and black teas, ones with caffeine and ones without, teas for wellness, for weight loss and calm.
I don’t care about tea. I care about Phoebe.
When she selects a hibiscus tea after much deliberation, I choose the same.
This is worse than a first date, but it’s another tiny step into a better future for us. I’ll do whatever it takes.
Phoebe chews at some skin on the side of her thumb, an old habit; picks up her phone, then puts it down again. She frowns at the cafe, almost empty, then stares at me, openly, her gaze a spotlight, a canon. Here it comes.
“You moved out and you didn’t even tell me,” she says.
