“Maybe. Well, yes, it will, but when would a bookshop opening not be? Harriet’s library opening in Stratford will be even weirder. Do you think we’ll be invited?”
“Won’t you be writing an article about it for your magazine? It would fit, wouldn’t it?” Erin wrote for a high-end cultural magazine that covered interiors, fashion and culture. She loved her job almost as much as Harriet did, which contrasted nicely with me and Fallon moaning about how underfunded the NHS was.
“Possibly. I’ll suggest it to the editor, but Harriet said it would be another eighteen months before they were even ready for opening. Right, I’m going to head off. I’m meeting the owner of a new art gallery for coffees. Let me know how it goes with Carter.” She pulled on her coat and caught sight of herself in the mirror, neatening her French bob that was her trademark.
“I won’t. Don’t tell the others I’m going to call him. The peer pressure will be too much.”
Erin laughed and put a hand on my shoulder. “If you haven’t called him by this time tomorrow, I’ll tell them.”
“Fine. I’ll take that.” A bit of time pressure would be helpful because I was insanely good at procrastinating.
I locked the door behind her, checking the time. Harriet was at a late meeting, and I wasn’t expecting her back much before midnight because the meeting involved a meal and drinks after. I had nowhere to be, apart from in the city of my current read, and I knew Carter had finished his shift.
I made myself a mug of tea, got changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt and sweater, abandoning my bra. I sunk into the sofa and pulled a weighted blanket over me, one of several Harriet and I had dotted about the flat, clutching my phone.
My pulse was up and I was definitely nervous. I’d never been nervous about phoning Carter before. Now I was overthinking it – what if he was out with Laurie and she saw my name flash up? What if he sent the call straight to voicemail, or what if he didn’t answer, just let it ring out like I’d been doing.
I pressed his name and called him anyway.
It didn’t go straight to voicemail. He answered.
“Rose, I’m glad you called.” His voice sounded rough, as if he had a sore throat.
“You don’t sound well.”
He laughed. “Got the cold that’s been doing the rounds, but it’s almost gone. Didn’t last long. Bloody English winters. California would’ve been a better idea right now.” He coughed, holding the phone away.
He’d managed to make me smile and some of the nerves had flown away. “I was going to say do you want to come over tomorrow and we can talk. I’m sorry I’ve avoided you.”
“Yeah, I do. I’d say I don’t want to pass this onto you, but I think I caught it off your ward, so you’re probably already resistant.” Another cough, but not as bad this time.
“I had that bug in November and it took me out for a whole week if it’s the one where you feel like you’ve lost a lung each time you cough.” It felt strange talking about something so banal. “Come over if you feel up to it.”
“I’m going to feel up to it.”
I felt a rush of warmth fill me. “How’s Laurie?” And like that, I ran cold.
“Okay, I think. I’ve barely seen anything of her – she’s been at the bookshop pretty much all the time. Are you still going on Saturday?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“At the end. I’m on shift until eight, so I said I’d drop by afterwards. I’ll see you there.”
“Laurie seems nice.”
“She is. She reminds me of Fallon apart from the book thing.”
“She had your hoodie on when I saw her. Your old university one.” I tried to laugh but even Carter would know it was forced.
“I left it at the bookshop because I’d spilled paint on it and told her to throw it away. I think she decided to finish it off before she chucked it.”
“Oh.”
Silence, treacle thick, coated the airwaves.
“Did you not like the idea of Laurie wearing my clothes?” I could hear him trying not to laugh.
“No. I did not.” Psychologists have a theory that as adults we move between our child, teenager and adult, our nervous system dictating how we responded to different situations, pre-programmed by our early childhood experiences and key moments of stress after.
