The Switch(52)

‘I know it was you who got the council to fill in these potholes,’ she says eventually, nodding to the pavement ahead.

‘Oh, yeah, it was no big deal. They should have done it ages ago. I just made a few calls.’

‘It hasn’t gone unnoticed,’ she says stiffly, as we part ways.





18


Eileen


It takes me five attempts to pin down the uncharitable woman who lives in Flat 6. She’s so rarely in, goodness knows why she gets uppity about what people do in the building.

The advantage to the lengthy delay before meeting her is that by the time we are face to face, my irritation has cooled, and it’s not nearly as much effort to pretend to be polite.

‘Hello,’ I say, when she answers the door. ‘You must be Sally.’

‘Yes?’ Sally says, in an aggrieved sort of way. She’s dressed in a suit and not wearing any make-up; her black hair is pulled back in a lopsided ponytail. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Eileen Cotton. I’m living with Fitz and Martha, over in Flat 3.’

Sally does a double take. ‘Are you?’ she says, and I get the strong impression that she thinks I shouldn’t be.

‘I’m here because I hear you objected to our idea of running a small social club in the unused downstairs area of the building. May I come in so we can have a chat about it?’

‘I’m afraid not. I’m very busy,’ she says, already moving to close the door.

‘Excuse me,’ I say sharply. ‘Are you really going to shut the door in my face?’

She hesitates, looking a little surprised. As she stands there, with her door half open, I notice there are not one but three locks on its side.

I soften. ‘I understand your concerns about letting strangers into the building. I know it can be frightening living in this city. But our lunch clubs will be for very respectable old ladies and gentlemen, and we will still keep the front door shut when the club is going on, so any Tom, Dick or Harry won’t be able to walk into the building. Only elderly people.’

Sally swallows. I think she may be younger than I’d assumed – I find it tricky to tell people’s ages, these days, and the sternness and the suit have thrown me off.

‘Look,’ she says, in a brisk, no-nonsense tone, ‘it’s not that I don’t like the idea. But just because a person’s elderly doesn’t mean they can’t be dangerous. What if someone comes in, and doesn’t leave when everyone goes, and then they’re just lurking in the building?’

I nod. ‘All right. How’s about we make sure to take names, then, and count everyone in and out so nobody lingers?’

She tilts her head. ‘That’s … Thank you,’ she says stiffly. ‘That sounds sensible.’

There’s a somewhat steely silence.

‘So you’ll give your permission for the club to go ahead?’ I prompt. ‘You’re the only person we’re waiting for.’

Her eyes twitches. ‘Fine. Yes. Fine, as long as we count everyone in and out.’

‘Of course. As agreed.’ I shake her hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Sally.’

Pleasure is a bit of a stretch, but needs must.

‘You too, Eileen.’

I march back to Leena’s flat.

‘All sorted with Sally in Flat 6,’ I tell Fitz, sweeping past to Leena’s bedroom.

Fitz watches me go by with his mouth hanging open.

‘How do you do that?’ he says.

*

A few nights later, Tod and I are side by side in the bedroom of his very grand townhouse, propped up on the pillows. Lying tangled in each other’s arms becomes slightly less practical when you’ve both got bad backs. That’s not to say this isn’t delightfully intimate: Tod’s arm is pressed against mine, his skin warm from lovemaking, and he’s shifted the blankets over to my side because he knows how chilly my toes get.

It’s dangerously intimate, in fact. I could get quite used to this.

A phone rings; I don’t move, because it’s always Tod’s, and it’s usually somebody very important on the other end of the line – a producer, or an agent. He reaches for the phone on the bedside table, but its screen is black. I glance over at mine: Marian calling.

I scrabble to reach it.

‘Hello?’

‘Mum?’ says Marian.

She starts to cry.

‘Marian, love, what is it?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’ve been trying so hard to give you some space. But … I just … I can’t …’

‘Oh, love, I’m so sorry.’ I slide my feet out from under the covers and try to reach for my clothes. ‘You’ve not had …’

‘No, no, nothing like that, Mum. And I’ve been looking after myself, I promise – I’ve been eating properly, doing my yoga …’

I breathe out. It’s not for me, all that standing on one leg and bowing, but yoga has helped Marian enormously. It’s the one fad that’s stuck, not just for months but for years – she started when Carla was first diagnosed. When Marian stops doing yoga, I know things are bad.

‘That’s good, love. Has something happened with Leena, then?’