The elevator doors closed behind her.Going up. For a moment something stirred in him, sharper than regret, deeper than lust. Something in the region of his heart.
He rubbed two fingers in the center of his chest, feeling the ridge of the scar under the fine cotton.
“Laura said you have no heart.”
“She has her reasons.”
“Bad luck, darling,” Laura said behind him.
Tim straightened his shoulders, mentally steeling himself beforehe turned. He composed his face to its usual blank.Nothing to see here. Move along. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But Laura wasn’t put off. She knew him too well. “The girl. Did she shoot you down? Or... No. You turned her down, didn’t you?” She smiled wryly. “You’re good at that.”
“This is hardly an appropriate conversation for work,” he said.
“It’s after hours.”
“Woodman and Wainwright promotes a culture of respect at all times.” He sounded like a robot. He was a robot. Very rusty.
“Tell it to that lot,” Laura said, nodding at the table under the window. “Right now they’re going on about hiring lap dancers for Rob’s stag weekend.”
Tim sighed mentally. “I’ll have a word with them.”
“Don’t you dare. Not on my account. It’s not like they’re getting in the way of me doing my job.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Tim said. Although legally, of course, it did. “An organization reflects the values of its leadership.”
“Relax. I’m not running to HR to file a grievance. You need to loosen up.” She tilted her head. “Oh, wait. I forgot who I was talking to.”
Heat crawled up the back of his neck. “Your boss. Was there anything else?”
“Yes. Your mother says hello.” Laura took a step closer. She lowered her voice. “She misses you, you know.”
He did know. His family was not given to displays of emotion. But he was her only child, born late in life after his parents had despaired of his mother ever carrying any pregnancy to term. When he was in hospital, Caroline had left her dogs in a neighbor’s care so she could see him every day, sitting for endless hours by his bed, getting up needlessly now and then to adjust his blankets or the light. Sightlessly turning the pages of her magazine, her eyes full of terror.
He’d promised her no more risks. But there was a limit to what he was prepared to do, even for his mother.
“I’ll call her,” he said.
“Or you could come to London for a visit. Stay a few days.” Laura reached up to smooth his lapel. “We all miss you.”
He looked down at her pink nails against his dark suit coat and felt... absolutely nothing.
Quite a relief, that, actually.
FIVE
I definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
I used to dread being the new kid in school, trying to find the cafeteria or the girls’ bathroom or someone to sit with at lunch. Even when I went to college, I’d struggled to find my place. To fit in. But I refused to let the strangeness of everything here crush my mood.
After three days, Glenda Norton had emailed with the name of the woman who had agreed to meet with me, whose guidance would shape the next year of my life. I squeezed my hands together. I couldn’t wait to meet her.
I paced the writing center’s common room, stopping in front of the notice board to read an announcement about some prize award in poetry. A poster for an upcoming guest lecture by American children’s author Oscar Diggs. Note cards offering Rollerblades for sale and tutoring in Italian. There were housing ads, too, thumbtacked near the bottom.Accommodation required. Seeking accommodation. Seeking single room to let.Three-bedroom house available to rent in Swords. Not that I could afford a house. But I certainlycouldn’t afford to stay in the hotel much longer. The minibar charges were killing me. Maybe I could find a housemate?
I eyed the only other occupant of the room, a slim, dark girl reading on the couch. She had a gorgeous mane of glossy waves and black-fringed eyes. What if we became friends? Best friends. My first friend in Dublin. I imagined us going to pubs together or the library.I know this great place to get a cup of tea,I’d say after we emerged from a late night of studying, and we’d cross the bridge to Clery’s Newsagents and Hot Poet would bring us toasted buns and linger at our table to listen to our deep, passionate, intellectual discussions about... about...
“Do you need help or something?” the girl asked.
