The House Swap(14)

‘Hi. How are you doing?’ I hear the words coming out of my mouth with a kind of detached incredulity, unable to pinpoint exactly what nuance of social nicety has compelled me to say them.

She smiles brightly at me, seemingly delighted. ‘All right, thanks,’ she says, stopping dead opposite me, in a way that makes it impossible to nod and hurry on by. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine, fine,’ I say, and suddenly I’m talking fast, conscious that I am going to do this, and seeing no point in delaying. ‘Listen, sorry if I was a bit rude yesterday. I’m not used to strangers being friendly.’ I laugh in what is meant to be a self-deprecating way, although, to my ears, it sounds positively unhinged. ‘I live in a city, you know; not much interaction between the neighbours.’

The woman nods, and I see her eyes flick over me subtly and curiously. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says. ‘I can see it might have seemed a bit weird. To be honest, I’m just bored. I don’t know many people around here, and I’m not working at the moment. When I saw someone new, well, I got a bit overexcited.’ She gives a short, humourless bark of laughter.

‘I see,’ I say, to fill the silence. I find myself staring at her small diamond stud earrings and the pale pink lipstick she is wearing. I often wear a similar shade, but I don’t think it looks as good on me. She looks put together with that sort of effortless elegance that is as rare as it is artful, as if she has just stepped out of a glossy fashion spread in a high-end fashion magazine. She’s not the sort of person I would expect to be lonely.

‘I was just on my way to a café,’ she cuts in to my thoughts. ‘You don’t fancy a coffee, do you?’

Just as I did the day before, I feel jolted – the directness of the invitation, the oddness of it. Faced with it a second time, it feels impossible to say no. I think of Francis waiting back at the house, but he was still in bed when I left, nowhere near ready to leave for the trip to Greenwich we have planned. I could send him a quick text from the café, let him know I’ll be a bit longer. ‘OK,’ I say.

The woman is already walking briskly on, clearly expecting me to follow. ‘Great,’ she throws back over her shoulder as I hurry to catch up. ‘It’s not far. I’m Amber, by the way.’

‘Caroline,’ I say. ‘Nice to meet you,’ I add lamely.

Part of the reason this feels so strange, I realize, is that I am not used to making new friends. That process of laying my quirks and foibles out for inspection and seeing if they are accepted or not is something you do less as an adult. I can remember doing it only once, in the past few years. As the thought crosses my mind, I wince and dig my fingernails into my palms, trying to fend it off, but before I can slam the door on it I’m back in your bedroom with you lying next to me, watching you watching me with my heart in my mouth, and that look in your eyes that tells me you see me. You know me.

I am following Amber blindly, with no idea of where we are heading. We are turning on to a bijou little high street: a collection of small independent stores and charity shops, and a green-fronted coffee shop towards which Amber walks, pushing the door open and elbowing inside. ‘What do you want?’ she asks.

‘Oh, I’ll get it …’ I start to reply, but she shakes her head.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she says. ‘I invite you out, I pay. You can repay me another time.’ She is looking at me teasingly, almost coquettishly. There is an indefinable charisma buzzing around her that I can’t help but be attracted towards, perhaps all the more for its slightly manic edge.

‘OK, thanks. Just a filter coffee, then,’ I say, sinking into one of the armchairs arranged by the window as she heads for the counter. While she gives the order, I rummage in my handbag and realize, with a sinking feeling, that I have left my mobile back at the house. Francis won’t like not being kept informed, and I feel a pang of compunction that makes me wonder if I should make my excuses and leave.

Before I can decide, Amber brings the coffees over and sets them down with a flourish, gesturing at the intricately piped pattern of white foam that spirals out geometrically. ‘Pretty, eh,’ she comments. ‘It’s the little things, right?’ Her left eye flickers in what might be a wink, but it’s over so fast I don’t have time to react. ‘So,’ she continues, settling down opposite me, ‘what brings you to these parts, then? Seems like a funny choice for a holiday.’

‘Well …’ I hesitate, unsure of how much to say, or even of what the answer is. I choose my words carefully, weighing them up. ‘I suppose it is funny, in a way,’ I say. ‘But we wanted a week away, and didn’t want the hassle and the expense of going abroad. I don’t particularly know this area, but it’s pretty close to central London, and, well … the opportunity came up.’

‘Sure,’ Amber agrees, shrugging. ‘Why not. And actually, it is nice round here, of course. I’m just too used to it to notice, most of the time.’

‘Have you lived here long?’ I ask.

She glances up and to the left in the way people do when trying to access a long-buried memory. ‘About … ten months. So, not really, no,’ she adds, grinning. ‘Seems longer.’ She leans forward in her seat, lowering her voice to an intimate murmur, excluding the people around us. ‘Kind of like a prison sentence,’ she says.