Nikki saw she’d missed a call from Izzy.
She called back and gave her report: “He’s still resting. The doctor says he’s stable. Did you sleep?”
“A bit,” said Izzy. “I’m just getting ready. I should be there soon.”
Nikki protested. “Please sleep in your own bed tonight.”
Izzy’s voice was tight. “He needs me.”
“He’ll need you when he wakes up,” Nikki said. “Rest now. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
—
The nurses arranged for a cot in Preston’s room. Closing her eyes and drifting to sleep, the rigid canvas beneath her, Nikki watched the shimmer of orange flames.
—
Izzy arrived early in the morning, showered and reordered into that familiar graceful style, wearing a soft pale blue sweater and cream-colored slacks. She took her place of vigil at Preston’s bedside, and clasped his hand.
Giving them privacy, Nikki left.
She changed, and brushed her teeth. In the mirror, her eyes and face were puffy, her short hair squashed on the side. She splashed her face, then combed water through her hair with her fingers.
Her neck and shoulder were cramped. She did some stretching, then found her way to an exit, squinting up into the dim sunlight of a clouded London morning.
After the detached isolation of the hospital, the sudden pulse of the world was invasive: a grinding roar of traffic, and a rush of people.
She started to move, jogging along the sidewalk and into the blocked-in maze of shabby-looking apartments around the hospital. She ran faster and faster, sprinting, body warming, until a sore spot in her knee made her stop.
At an intersection, she found a small shop selling cigarettes and sodas and beers, a money-transfer and travel-agency shop, and a dingy café smelling of mildew and grease, floors and tables of pressed wood.
She ordered a flat white and a grilled cheese sandwich and sat at a table to check her phone. Looking at her texts, she was chagrined to realize she’d forgotten her promise to go sailing with Valerio today.
“Shit.”
She texted an apology and explained the situation.
—
There were twenty-six unread text messages from Audrey Lake. She didn’t open them.
—
Nikki scrolled through Instagram without expecting much—Monica and Kami hadn’t posted in days—but the comments had exploded.Stay strong, girl! We love you.andFunny how people are quick to defend her. We all know what a total cunt she is. Money doesn’t buy everything.
Public opinion was rapidly splitting. It was the same over on Facebook. And a fundraiser for Kami’s defense. Her mother’s plea:Help us give her a chance to prove her innocence, and bring her home.
—
Claire’s Facebook page was already filled with tributes, with the Albion Nanny Agency organizing a memorial:Join us for a casual gathering, reflecting Claire’s free spirit, they wrote.In lieu of flowers, bring a story to share, as we honor her together.
The event was tonight at 18:00 in a pub in Gidea Park called the Three Horseshoes.
—
As she slowly ate the cheese sandwich and drank the watery coffee, Nikki thumbed through the images of Claire: pictures of her caring for children, those big brown eyes and that shy smile. There was a soft brightness, a sweet sincerity to the nanny. She’d been, what? Twenty-two, twenty-three? Impossibly young. It struck Nikki that she had been younger than this—only twenty years old—when Izzy and Preston had taken her into their home, kept her sane when she should have gone mad with despair and grief; loved her when she loathed herself.
She felt a strange light shining back on the person she’d been then, the memories more accessible in this moment than they’d been for a long time—as if this city had unlocked a cupboard where she kept that other self.
