‘I have to make a call,’ I reply.
Impulsively I hug the woman whose name I don’t know, and head out into the early afternoon, half-cut. I find a bench seat outside the station and I try Heather again. Once again, she doesn’t pick up.
I head into Angel Tube station, not completely sure where I’m going next, but just as I step onto the down escalator, my phone goes and it’s Heather. I turn and start trying to run back up the escalator as I fumble with the answer button.
‘Heather!’ I say, as I bat aside incoming commuters with my huge bag. ‘Sorry! Excuse me,’ I pant, as I focus entirely on getting up the stairs.
‘What are you doing?’ Heather asks.
‘Trying to get up the escalator! Fucking Angel. Massive fucking escalator,’ I shout as I reach the top and almost stumble off. I rush to the window ledge by the ticket gates and toss my bag to the ground. ‘I made it. I’m here. I can hear you,’ I say breathlessly.
‘Hi, Birdy,’ she says, her voice soft, if not friendly. ‘I’m glad you called. It’s time to talk. Where are you going?’
‘I was about to go – God fucking knows where. Home, maybe.’
‘Plymouth?’
‘Yes. Maybe.’
‘Well, to cut to the chase, I’m heading back to London this afternoon and I thought we could meet and talk.’
‘You’re not staying at Loch Dorn?’
‘I’ll explain everything when I get there. I don’t want to get into it now.’
‘Is everything all right? Oh, Heather, will you ever forgive me?’
‘It’s only been three days.’
‘Okay,’ I reply feebly, feeling the slightest shred of hope. ‘I’ll see you at your house. What time?’
‘Can you be there tomorrow around midday?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Bring my paddle brush,’ she snaps. ‘And no more lies.’
‘No more lies,’ I say quietly. I want to ask about Irene and James, and Roxy and Bill, but I’m afraid to. All of my focus needs to be on Heather right now, and on repairing the damage I’ve caused.
She hangs up, and for the first time in a week I feel a little lighter. I look down at my bag, yank it back over my shoulder and head to my hostel for one more night.
41.
November
I’m looking down at a Friend request from Roxy on Facebook. She’s in a pink bikini and a towel, with her arms outstretched on the edge of Loch Dorn, a huge smile on her face. It’s been there for a few days and I’ve been too nervous to accept it.
It is November and the wind has turned cold in London, but I am tucked up in Heather’s little flat – all mine for the next week, before I head off. I’ve ordered pizza and a six-pack of some lager from Uber Eats, and I’m planning a little party for one in the lounge with a crappy movie. I know, I know – but it’s sourdough pizza andlocal craftlager.
The house feels different without all Heather’s things around, but the memories remain, and the warmth and love I feel for her are stronger than they have ever been.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to Heather that day at her house. ‘I can’t pretend I didn’t know what I was doing. I did. I did know the risk I was taking with your reputation, even before I learned about the renovations. It’s just that the stakes got higher. It felt like there was no way out but to try to be a good enough version of you so that no one got hurt. But that’s no excuse. In the end I made the decision to use you. Your hard work. Your dedication. Just to ride on the back of it. It was a terrible thing to do.’
‘I do understand how it happened,’ Heather said. ‘Like, I get how you talked yourself into it being okay. And I do see how my evasiveness about the job, and my reasons for going and then not going to Scotland, contributed to the confusion.’
‘Don’t take any responsibility. It makes me feel worse,’ I said. ‘It was fucking stupid.’
‘It was,’ she said, shaking her head at me. But the tone had softened. She wasn’t angry any more. Disappointed perhaps. ‘Well, the one thing it did achieve was that I finally met my family.’
