When Kate texted me the following morning, I’d just refuelled the car and myself. The Starbucks coffee had worked its magic and I almost felt human.
Sorry, sorry, sorry for yesterday. Lots of love Kx
Kate and I didn’t do touchy-feely very often, but I shouldn’t have snapped at her. Now that she was living in Australia, I missed her desperately. In only another two weeks she’d be flying back again. I could never stay miffed with her for longand at the moment it was even harder. Besides she could always bully me into forgiving her.
Coming off the motorway just outside Derby, I got horribly lost which made me late for my meeting, but I texted Kate back anyway before I went in.
Forgiven, forgiven, forgiven. Love Ox
With the message sent, I switched off my phone. It had been beaten into me by one boss that it was totally unprofessional to have a mobile ring during a client meeting.
The meeting with three burly site managers who smelt of mud and sweat went on and on. I wasn’t offered anything to eat apart from some manky Nice biscuits. Tasty when you’re eight but disappointing when you need lunch.
On the journey home I was also regretting not stopping to go to the loo, but there had only been a men’s Portaloo on the building site and at that point I wasn’t that desperate. By four o’clock my misery was compounded by the traffic lady on Radio 5. I was ready to kill her. Did she really have to be so perky about a major hold up on the motorway? I didn’t need to be told there was a ten-mile tailback. Any fool could see the red brake lights stretching out as far as the eye could see.
Should I send her a rude text message? Less chirpiness, please. Some of us are stuck in said traffic with a bladder the size of a basketball. Then I remembered my phone was still switched off.
Rummaging in my bag, with half an eye on the stationary traffic, I pulled it out and switched it on. It lay silent and still for a second before vibrating into life with great indignation. Three texts and six messages later, the phone shuddered to a halt.
Message one was mild. ‘Olivia, it’s me. I’ve had an email,’ wailed Emily. ‘Can you call me, please?’
Message two a little more agitated. ‘Olivia, call as soon as you get this.’
Message three was a curt ‘Call me now.’
By the sixth message she’d reached full frontal expletives. ‘For fuck’s sake, where are you? What’s the point of having a fucking phone if you don’t fucking switch it on?’
What the hell was going on? I was about to phone her back when I caught sight of the driver behind. He shook his head so slightly that I might have imagined it, except he was driving a police car. I dropped the phone back on the passenger seat, my fingers twitching longingly but there was nothing I could do.
My battery died an hour later. Two minutes after that, on went the blue light and Mr Policeman shot off. Typical.
* * *
By the time I’d crawled off the motorway and through the London rush-hour traffic, I was exhausted. A showdown with Emily was the last thing I needed. Grabbing my briefcase and rubbing the knots in my shoulder, I hurried towards the flat, nearly tripping over Charlie.
As usual, the cat was lurking outside the front of the junk shop below the flat. It was a funny place, crammed full of second-hand furniture and the sort of things that might have been antiques had they not been just a bit too tatty, chipped or broken. Although my flat was directly above the shop, the space below far exceeded the square footage of my lounge, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. It spread out along the street from room to room, none of which could be differentiated by any particular theme or style of products. On my occasional forays in there, I’d never seen a single other customer.
Charlie was probably waiting to follow his owner to the home they shared further down the road. He was a friendly little thing, pure black apart from two white paws, and worea distinctive red leather collar with a little bell. He could be guaranteed to give me a welcome whenever I came home.
I stopped to stroke him, as he wound his way round and round my legs, his tail tickling the back of my knee. I could have done with cheering up, and if it weren’t for Emily I would have smuggled him in for a cuddle, but she said she was allergic to cats.
Although we were on the first floor above the shop, our front door was at street level, which meant you stepped into a long hallway that then led to a flight of stairs. Unfortunately, the stairs rose straight into the lounge. There was no way of sneaking in without being seen.
Brazening it out was the only way. ‘Hi, Em, are you home?’ I yelled. With any luck she might not be in.
‘Didn’t you get my message?’ she said, appearing at the top of the steps, hands on hips in warrior stance.
‘Which one?’ I asked sarcastically, taking the stairs slowly. ‘I couldn’t phone you. The motorway was hell and I had a policeman up my bum nearly all the way back. Then my battery ran out.’ I might as well have been talking to myself.
‘God, what am I going to do?’ she wailed.
Reaching the top, I put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Whoa, slow down, Emily. What’s happened?’
Her mouth crumpled and she looked as if she was about to burst into tears. ‘Disaster. Damn speed-date business... That weirdo... you know, the one with the glasses, has emailed me.’
I sighed, slipping off my jacket, the tension easing out of my shoulders. No one had died then.
‘Which one?’ I cast my mind back.
