I glanced over at Aunt Polly. I’m glad the first session is over, and I hope the side effects aren’t too severe. There was one low point. I asked again about Hilary and whether we should re-establish contact with her. In my defence, I grew up with Hilary being our fourth emergency service. When I see my aunt suffering, I want to call Hilary.
She had a knack for making my aunt smile even in the darkest moments. I remember when Aunt Polly lost her job at the factory office and came home in tears. It was me who called Hilary. Six minutes later, we heard the familiar screech of tyres, the slam of a car door, and heels clattering up the path. Hilary burst into Aunt Polly’s, clutching a bottle of red wine in a bandaged hand and an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. ‘Polly,’ she cried from the hallway, ‘I am here for the night. Let’s get pissed. Sod your job. I never liked your pervy boss. Oh, and before you ask…’ She put the wine down and held her bandaged hand aloft. ‘Lilly slammed the car door and didn’t realise I’d not taken my hand away.’ Lilly is one of her daughters.
‘You still came over?’ gasped Aunt Polly.
Hilary grinned. ‘Polly, my arm would have to be hanging off for me not to come over.’
‘Let’s not talk about Hilary, Nelly,’ muttered Aunt Polly, and shook her head with disapproval, as if I had said the wrong thing.
When I said goodbye, she became tearful at the door. I hugged her and told her I would visit on Sunday. Hilary was still on my mind, and as Aunt Polly wished me a safe journey back, I looked at the photos of the two of them still on the wall. If I wasn’t allowed to talk about Hilary, why did my aunt have an entire wall covered with photos of her?
I’m a few streets away from my flat. My nerves are jangling at the prospect of entering and seeing Oliver. He’s a stranger, and I only have Miranda and Frank’s word to rely on. For all I know, he could have spent the day rummaging through my underwear drawer. Panic blooms inside me. If he’s sitting in my chair or if there are any signs he has been in it, I will be so cross.
I also need to avoid all physical contact with him for as long as possible. He claims he’s single, so there’s a good chance I will see him spending his days sitting at a desk staring at a blank sheet of paper and trying to work through his writer’s block.
In his interview, he claimed he was single, but for all I know, he could secretly have his eye on someone. If I touched him, I could see how that ends. Considering how good-looking he is, I might see anything – from a vision of a furious woman spilling a drink on him in a pub, shouting about his wandering hands and broken promises, to something tragic that happens to Oliver after he leaves a book signing. I would then have to watch him tuck into what would be his last meal and silently groan at the thought of having to find another flatmate.
An elderly man is sitting on the bench near the corner of my street. His crop of white hair reminds me of Mr Ellis and his quest to track downBarbara Plum’s Family Cookbook. I think about the way he held my gaze. ‘It was just a cookbook,’ I say to myself. The look on Mr Ellis’s face comes to the forefront of my mind. There was something about it, and it wasn’t about the chicken casserole. I pause and wait for my brain to unscramble my thoughts. ‘He was holding on to something.’
An uncomfortable feeling takes hold of me. I dismiss it.
As I approach the corner of my street, I hear a man shouting, ‘LENNY.’
My heart comes to a shuddering halt. Oh, God, Oliver has let my cat escape.
Panic takes hold of me as I break into a sprint. Tears prick my eyes as I pump my arms and beg my legs to go faster, even though I haven’t done any cardio for years.
I can’t lose Lenny.
Looking up, I see Oliver with his hands in his hair, standing outside my flat.
The entrance to my flat is at the back of the house, which is away from the hustle and bustle of the cobbled street. It’s quiet and backs onto a private communal garden, which is scattered with mature trees and shrub beds, has a centre patch of grass and is hemmed in by a black ornate railing fence. The garden is kept locked to stop unwanted visitors.
Oliver catches sight of me, and a look of terror takes hold of his face. I’m not sure whether that’s because he’s lost my cat or it’s the sight of me half running, half staggering with a red face, breathless and close to tears.
‘Nelly, I am so sorry?—’
I don’t let him finish. ‘You promised me you wouldn’t let him escape.’
He looks crestfallen. ‘I was cooking us both dinner, and someone knocked on the door. I thought it was you, and it was Gary, the landlord. He’d left the downstairs open, so your cat raced out?—’
I let out an angry yelp. ‘LENNY.’
‘Nelly…’
‘Oliver, please find him.’ My voice crackles.
‘Let’s both calm down.’
My anger spikes. ‘Don’t tell me to calm down when you were the one who lost—’ My words fade as I spot a flash of grey inside the fence. I run to the railings and see Lenny’s silver-striped feline face staring up at me.
‘Lenny,’ I gasp as a wave of emotion crashes over me. ‘Come out of there.’
Oliver rushes to the railings. ‘Oh, thank God.’
To my horror, my little cat sits down and begins to clean himself casually, like he has all the time in the world.
‘Lenny, we don’t have all night. Come here.’ But he turns away and looks at a bird hopping about on a branch above his head.
