I take a step back and look up at my window. I haven’t left it open—not that I fancy my chances of successfully scaling a plastic drainpipe. Then Iwonder if perhaps the neighbor’s been forward-thinking enough to break the terms of his tenancy agreement by leaving a key under a flowerpot. But there aren’t any flowerpots out here, or anything you could really hide a key under.
I’m starting to resign myself to calling my parents and staying the night at their place when the front door swings open.
We both stop still, temporarily wordless.
“Hello.” I feel a whoosh of unexpected pleasure. “What... what are you doing here?”
“I live here. What areyoudoing here?” He squats down to greet Murphy, who’s writhing with excitement on the end of his lead. “Hello, you.”
“You... livehere?”
Eyes alight, Joel straightens up. He always looks so classic, and tonight is no exception—navy-blue collared jacket, skinny jeans, brown boots. “Nearly ten years now.”
For a moment I am speechless with happiness, before I realize he’s waiting for me to explain my presence on his doorstep. “I just moved in.”
It takes him a second. “To Steve’s place?”
“Yes.”
His smile comes easily. “That’s great.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“So we’ll be neighbors.” He rubs his chin. “Well, how’ve you been? You know—in the twelve hours since I last saw you.”
We chatted briefly in the café this morning, remarking on the two women sitting closest to the counter who’d come in laden with bags of Christmas wrapping paper. Such crassness should be banned until at least December, we agreed, before we realized simultaneously that in fact we do quite enjoy the early onslaught of Easter eggs in February.
Time to confess. “Actually, I’ve locked myself out. I forgot to put the outside key on my key ring.”
“Did the same when I moved in,” he says, in that lovely low voice of his. Still holding the door open, he steps aside to let me pass. He smellsdelicious, of sandalwood and spice. I try not to feel too self-conscious of my moving-day outfit—tracksuit bottoms and an ancient gray jumper with holes in both elbows. At least it’s dark, I suppose.
“Thank you.” On the doormat, I pause. “Listen, I’m not supposed to have Murphy here, but—”
“Won’t breathe a word.”
“Thank you,” I say, my shoulders dropping with relief.Thank God it’s you.
“I know it’s tough to find landlords who accept them.”
I wonder if he’s speaking from experience. Being particularly enchanted by his rapport with Murphy, I asked him once if he had a dog, but he told me no. Perhaps he has done, in the past.
He’s checking his watch. “Listen, sorry to be... I was just on my way out.”
“Not at all. Don’t let me hold you up.”
“The back garden’s all paved, I’m afraid,” he says, “but if you need to take him out last thing, there’s a green at the end of the cul-de-sac there.”
“Oh, I didn’t know. Thanks.”
His mouth remains steady, a fault line in the intriguing geography of his face. “Well, good night,” he says softly, eventually, before striding off down the front path into the night.
12.
Joel
When I get back from walking Bruno, less than an hour after meeting my new neighbor, I stop in the hallway. Glance up the staircase that leads to Steve’s flat.
Not Steve’s. Callie’s. She’s in the flat above me, right now. I picture her moving through it as she makes the space her own. Long hair kissing her shoulder blades, unpacking boxes with that steady self-containment I’ve come to know so well. Maybe she’s lit a candle, put on some music. Something urban but chilled. I noticed her bottle-green nail polish this morning as she set down my coffee. Caught the nectar of her perfume. Felt the strangest urge to cover her hand with mine, look up and say,Shall we go somewhere?
