The Switch(22)

I must say it’s crossed my mind that it would be a little easier if I weren’t on my own – if I had Wade with me, say – but Wade would never have come to Oxford Street. I don’t miss him, but I sometimes miss the idea of a husband, someone whose arm I could lean on for a tricky step down off the bus, who might take hold of my umbrella while I paid for my cup of tea.

I must stay positive, though. My adventure is only just starting, and it was bound to feel difficult at first. I just need to keep busy. Tomorrow night, Leena’s friend Bee is coming to the flat to help me with my ‘online dating’. Leena says Bee is a real expert. Who knows, perhaps by Thursday I’ll have myself a date.

The milk in Leena’s fridge has begun to coagulate; I pour it down the sink with a sigh, and get my handbag for another trip out. This time, without the distraction of rude neighbours in socks and sandals, I take a proper look as I get to the bottom of the stairs. There’s a large open area between the stairway and the door to the building; it’s got three sofas at strange angles, one stained with something suspiciously dark, the others with something suspiciously light. The carpet is worn, but there are two lovely big windows sending sunlight streaming in. It was designed as a communal area, I expect – what a shame nobody’s done anything with it.

When I get back from the shops, the feral tabby hops off the dark-stained sofa and pads over to rub its head against my legs. It’s not quite walking straight. I hope it didn’t give itself some sort of brain injury with that banister incident. I spotted the cat’s owner this morning, heading out of the building with her trolley bag. She’s a hunched old lady, going bald. I hesitate, watching the cat meander its way to the stairs.

If it was Ant or Dec, I’d want someone to tell me. Things may be done differently around here, but a good neighbour is a good neighbour, wherever you are.

I head up the stairs and knock on the cat-owner’s door, setting my shopping bag down between my feet.

‘Yes?’ comes a voice.

‘Hello!’ I say. ‘I’m Leena’s grandmother.’

‘Who?’

‘Leena’s grandmother.’

‘Whose grandmother?’

‘Leena. Your next-door neighbour,’ I say patiently. Perhaps the lady is losing her marbles a little. It’s started happening to Penelope – terribly sad, though on the plus side she seems to have forgotten that she can’t stand Roland. It’s been something of a second honeymoon for the two of them.

‘Which one’s that?’ the woman asks. Her voice grates as if her throat needs clearing. ‘The lesbian or the natty dresser or the other one?’

I blink. Martha’s definitely the lesbian – she told me all about her girlfriend after I rather put my foot in it asking who the baby’s father was. And, as much as I love my granddaughter, if she’s not wearing a suit, she seems to be wearing something with an iron-on picture of a television star on the front. Not exactly a natty dresser. Which leaves …

‘The other one?’ I hazard.

‘The woman with all that mousey scraped-back hair? Short, runs everywhere, always frowning?’

‘Leena’s hair is lovely,’ I say sharply, and then bite my tongue. ‘But … yes. That’d be the one.’

‘Oh. Well. Thank you, but I’m not interested,’ says the lady, and I hear her shuffling away from the door.

‘In what?’ I ask, startled.

‘Whatever it is you want,’ the lady says.

I frown. ‘I don’t want anything.’ I’m beginning to understand why Arnold gets so cross when I don’t let him in the house. This is not a comfortable way to have a conversation. ‘I came to talk to you about your cat.’

‘Oh.’ She sounds warier than ever, but I hear her shuffle back to the door, and then it clicks open by an inch or two. Two large brown eyes blink at me through the gap.

‘I’m afraid she had a run-in with the banister,’ I say apologetically. ‘That’s to say, well, she ran into it.’

The eyes narrow.

‘Kick her, did you?’ the woman asks.

‘What? No! I’d never kick a cat!’ I say, aghast. ‘I have two of my own, you know. Two black cats called Ant and Dec.’

The eyes fly open, and the door inches wider. ‘I love black cats,’ the lady says.

I smile. ‘Well then, I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends,’ I say, sticking my hand through the gap in the door to shake hers. ‘I’m Eileen.’

She takes such a long time to take my outstretched hand that I almost drop it, but then, at last, her fingers close around mine. ‘Letitia,’ she says. ‘Would you … I don’t suppose …’ She clears her throat. ‘I don’t suppose you want to come in? Just to tell me about the cat,’ she adds hurriedly.

‘I’d love to,’ I say, and step inside.

*

Letitia’s home is just as peculiar-looking as Letitia, but not at all as you’d expect. She has a rather … homeless look about her, but inside her flat is an altogether different story. The place is full of antiques and curiosities. Old coins, arranged in spiralling patterns on the tops of oak tables; feathers in glittering gold and peacock blue, hanging from pegs along a washing line; delicate china bowls stacked carefully inside cabinets with spindly legs and wrought-iron handles. It’s quite extraordinary. A cross between an antique shop and a very cramped museum – and, perhaps, a child’s bedroom.