The Switch(83)

So instead, I send her a text message.

Thinking of you, I write. And then, on impulse: You are a brave and wonderful friend. Lots of love, Eileen xxx

I open Arnold’s message again, but I’m not sure quite how to reply. It was so thoughtful of him to send me the news about Betsy. In a strange way, Arnold has been a comfort, these last few weeks, with his silly cat videos and his news from Hamleigh.

‘Eileen?’ Fitz calls. ‘They’re here!’

I turn to the door. He’s right: the Silver Shoreditchers are coming, some with walkers to help them, some briskly strolling, but all blinking bright, curious eyes at the new communal area as Sally and Fitz help them through the doorway. I see it afresh through their eyes, the sage-green walls, the beautiful bare floorboards, and I beam with pride.

‘Welcome!’ I say, spreading my arms. ‘Please, come on in!’

*

I asked myself, when I first met Letitia, how many other fascinating people might be pocketed away in little flats across London, never saying a word to anybody.

And now here I am, with a whole roomful of Letitias, all so different, all so extraordinarily interesting. There’s Nancy, who used to play the flute in the London Symphony Orchestra. There’s Clive, who’s spent his whole life driving trucks at night-time, and now can only get to sleep if it’s light. There’s Ivy, who beats everybody at Scrabble and eats sausage rolls in two mouthfuls, then rather guiltily admits that she is, technically speaking, a genius, and probably ought not to be allowed to join in with the board games.

Rupert does a little half-hour art class – he had the foresight to put down a tarpaulin, which was very wise, because more paint seems to go on the floor than the canvases. Then there’s food, and now music – Fitz’s idea. Ivy and Nancy even get up to dance. It’s glorious. I never want it to end.

‘What a wonderful thing you’ve done, here, Eileen,’ Martha says, kissing me on the cheek as she passes.

I take a breather on the sofa, watching Nancy and Ivy try out a slow foxtrot, dodging rummy tables as they go. Tod sits down beside me. I’m surprised to see him – he’s spent most of the afternoon up in Leena’s flat, taking calls. ‘I guess this isn’t really his crowd,’ Martha said diplomatically when I complained about him not joining in.

It’s true that he seems out of place here. Nancy and Ivy and Clive, they’re all ordinary people, like me. It dawns on me that all the time I’ve spent with Tod has been in his world: his enormous house, his favourite coffee shops. This is the first time he’s stepped into my world, and it’s suddenly very obvious that it isn’t a place he wants to be.

But then Tod takes my hand and runs his thumb to and fro across my wrist, the way he did on our first date in the café, and just like that, my heart jumps.

‘It’s goodbye today, isn’t it?’ he says. His voice is deep and smooth; that voice has given me shivers more times than I can count, these last two months.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s goodbye today.’ If I didn’t know it before, I know it now.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with a man like Tod. I want to spend it with somebody who understands the things that matter to me, who’s had a life with dark patches, like mine. I can’t imagine Tod gardening with me or reading by my log-burning stove at Clearwater Cottage or helping out with Neighbourhood Watch business. He’s part of my London adventure, and London is where he belongs.

‘I have to go back to the theatre,’ Tod says, his voice so low I can barely catch the words. ‘But I could come back tonight. One last night. For old times’ sake.’

That warm, butterfly feeling grows, and the rhythmic brush of his thumb on the skin of my wrist becomes more distracting than ever.

Well. Is it really an adventure if you don’t make at least one rather ill-advised decision?





29


Leena


I do love a good bit of crisis management, but when I get back from Nicola’s, I am a little bit apprehensive at how much has been left unattended in my absence. I mean, the fete is already officially open, now, and I’m not sure anyone’s checked whether there are toilets yet.

But when I pull up in Peewit Street, I can hear the charity auction underway, I can smell hog roasting, and I can see the falconer setting up with his birds. It looks amazing. Someone’s got the maypole up in my absence – it’s nearly straight and everything. We’ve got lucky with the weather, too: it’s that lemony pale sunshine you get when spring is just warming up, and the sound of chatter and children laughing carries on the light breeze.

I head straight for the Portaloo zone and am delighted to discover there are indeed toilets. Otherwise I was going to have to tell everyone to leave their doors unlocked and let visitors in if they needed a wee, and I had a feeling that was going to be a hard sell with the villagers.

‘Oh, good, there are toilets,’ says my mother from behind me.

I turn, surprised. She looks well – she’s dressed in a long flowing skirt and a bell-sleeved blouse, and as she leans to kiss me hello I feel a little peculiar. It takes me a moment to clock: there’s no wave of emotion, no follow-up panic, no fight-or-flight. I’m pleased to see her. That’s all.

She pulls a list out of her skirt pocket – my list. I pat my own pockets, as if I might find it there even though I can literally see she’s holding it.