Good Girl, Bad Girl(48)
“Is it for you, sir?”
“No.”
“A child?”
“A young woman.”
“And are you replacing an existing bed?”
“Yes.”
“And does the young lady have a small bedroom?”
“It’s bigger than her last one.”
“Then perhaps she might prefer something larger—a double.”
“OK.”
I’m fascinated by Brad’s hair, which sways in the opposite direction when he moves his head.
“What type do you have in mind?” he asks. “We have platform, panel, sleigh, trundle, poster, canopy, futon, wooden, brass, wrought iron—”
“Just a regular bed. Something standard.”
“May I suggest a mattress-and-base combination—perhaps in our Slumberland range, which is on special?”
He walks me across the showroom and we stop at a row of four beds.
“That one,” I say, pointing.
“Excellent. Now let’s talk about the mattress.”
“Doesn’t it come with a mattress?”
Brad laughs as though I’m being droll. “You get to choose, sir. You can have open spring, pocket spring, memory foam, latex—”
“What do most people buy?”
“Pocket spring is the more luxurious. It’s made from small individual springs each housed in a pocket of fabric. This means the springs move independently, providing more support so that when you roll over, you’re not disturbing your partner.”
“That’s what I’ll have.”
“Soft, medium, or firm?”
Dear mother of God!
“Perhaps you’d like to try the difference,” says Brad, pointing to the mattresses. “Don’t worry about your shoes—we have mattress protectors.”
I’m expected to lie down. I feel like a corpse in a coffin. Brad is still talking.
“Feel how it supports your hips and shoulders and lower back. It’s particularly good when one partner is significantly heavier than the other.”
“We’re not partners.”
“Oh. I see. Perhaps you should bring her along—let her choose. We’re open seven days a week.”
“I don’t collect her until Friday,” I say.
Brad’s smile disappears like a light being switched off.
“I’m getting her room ready,” I say, trying to recover. “She’s getting out, I mean, she’s coming to live with me.”
“I see,” says Brad, although I don’t think he sees at all.
“I’ll take a medium mattress. Can it be delivered?”
“You haven’t asked the price.”
“How much is it?”
“Normally you’d pay well over a thousand pounds, but I can do it for six hundred and ninety-nine.”
The shock must register on my face.
“It’s a very good value, sir. People spend far more money on a sofa that gets used for a few hours a day, whereas a bed gives us a crucial eight hours.”
“Fine.”
“What about a mattress protector?”
“No, thank you.”
“You’ll need linen. And a duvet.”
He takes me to another section of the showroom and begins to list the different cottons and thread counts. The information washes over me and I become aware of how many extra things I will have to buy before Evie arrives: soap and shower gel for her bathroom. Toilet paper. What about women’s things? She’ll need tampons or pads. I’ve never had to buy those. Will Evie bring some with her? I could ask someone; Caroline Fairfax perhaps. No, I’ve had enough embarrassment for one day.
*
I stop for takeaway on the drive home because I have nothing in the fridge except leftovers that are covered in a greenish fur. I’ll need to cook proper meals when Evie arrives. The extra responsibility will be good for me. I’ll make shopping lists and eat better food. Healthy shit. I’ll drink less and won’t put my feet on the furniture or cut my toenails at the kitchen table. I’ll have to share the TV remote and listen to her music. What if Evie wants my favorite chair?
Maybe I haven’t thought this through. Then again, I’m too young to be set in my ways. I’ll learn things about myself. We’ll learn things together.
After rinsing my plate, I carry another beer to the library and search my desk drawer for a foolscap writing pad and a fountain pen. I can’t remember the last time I wrote a proper letter, on paper, with an envelope. I don’t know if this will ever reach Sacha Hopewell, but I have to try.
Dear Sacha,
I hope you don’t mind me using first names. I’m Cyrus, by the way. We haven’t met, but I asked your parents to pass this letter on to you. If you’re reading it, then I thank them.
I trust I didn’t frighten them when I visited. It wasn’t intended. Your parents tried to explain to me why you left home and keep moving place to place. I still don’t fully understand what happened, but I saw the depth of their pain and how much they were missing you.
I’m a psychologist working in Nottinghamshire. Several weeks ago, I met a young woman in council care. I can’t tell you her name because it’s the subject of a court order, but you’ll know exactly who I mean when I say that she was found hiding in a secret room in a house in north London six years ago. She is a remarkable young woman, but also a very troubled one. You appear to be one of the few people she has ever learned to trust, which is why I’m reaching out to you. I’m hoping you might talk to me about those early days with Angel Face. Did she mention having a family? Did she hint at memories of her childhood—a place or a favorite toy or siblings?