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Ah.
The sixty grand.
My new set of wall splashes.
“Marianne,” I say. “Lovely to hear from you. Alice Rose Parker’s pieces were true masterpieces. I could never resist them.”
“Yes, indeed,” she says. “I’m calling to confirm delivery arrangements.”
It’s clear she hasn’t seen them. She doesn’t really give a shit, just a woman clicking through purchase details.
“We have your address from the payment form as Chelsea Tower, West Corner. Is that where you’d like the pieces delivered?”
I look around my apartment.
The big empty wall to the side of me is practically screaming for something with colour. Alice was right about this place. It’s all sharp clean edges, mirrors, and too much grey.
Soul Girl’s paintings would look good here.
They’d make the place feel less like a show home and more like a real–
No!
Absolutely not.
“They’re not coming here,” I say.
“Oh, really? Ok. Do you have an alternative address?”
There he is again in my mind. Bryce Terrence Maddocks. Empty hooks on the walls from where Sylvia took her 50/50 share of his life and left a string of little wounds behind.
“Yes, I do,” I say. “Send them to Bryce Maddocks.”
“Do you have his address?”
I rattle it off from memory, and don’t even bother being embarrassed that I know it. Haughton Street. Kensington. Converted house. Top floor. No lift. Neat shoe rack. Divorce papers on the coffee table. Good cheese in the fridge. I did love that toastie maker.
A life with a whole load of gaps in it.
Alice could fill every single one of those gaps. And she wants to.
I hear the woman on the line typing.
“Should we mark the delivery as a gift?”
“Absolutely.”
“Would you like a note included?”
I sit forward, elbows on knees, grin spreading.
“Yes. Just two words… you’re welcome.”
A pause.
“That’s all you want it to say? You’re welcome?”
“Yes.”
