What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours(43)

“I’m curious about that too,” Jacob said. “People who end up using Presence may need to be able to travel with it, use it in a new house, and so on . . .”

Two minutes until midnight. She looked around at the pale blue walls, then out of the window and into the communal garden; there was a night breeze, and the flowers were wide-awake.

“Is there a button I press to . . . activate or something?”

“Vi’s going to start it remotely.”

“For both of us?”

“Yes . . . goodnight, J.”

“Goodnight.”

She drew the curtains, switched off the lights, and was knocked down onto the bed by a wave of darkness so utter her eyes couldn’t adjust to it. It felt as if she’d fainted . . . that was what she liked about fainting, the restful darkness that bathed your eyelids. After what felt like an hour (or two?) she held her phone up to her face to check the time, still couldn’t see anything, and decided she might as well just sleep.

—

SHE WOKE UP feeling chilly; her feet were sticking out from under the covers. A head had been resting on the pillow beside hers—all the indentation marks were there. She picked up her notepad and wrote that down. Even though she’d made the marks herself they contributed to a sense of not having slept alone. It was twelve-thirty, the latest she’d woken up in a while, and the room temperature was unusual for an early afternoon in July. She checked the thermometer and wrote the temperature down. Low, but it felt even lower. She put two jumpers on, made tea, plugged headphones in, and called up the first recorded conversation on her computer screen. There was Jacob, smiling at her, speaking. At a much lower pitch she heard her voice answering his: “Your singing makes it cheesy. I love that song . . .” There were strings of words that she remembered in the correct order, and she tried to say them before her recorded voice did, but the cold threw her off balance and she was left just listening and watching instead of participating. She added that observation to the others in her notepad.

—

A VISIT TO HER greenhouse in Sevenoaks yielded a discovery: She hadn’t woken up at twelve-thirty. Twelve-thirty was still two hours away. When she checked her phone on the train the time changed, and she asked five other overground passengers, six . . . Yes, yes, it really is ten-thirty. Sam and Lena were at the greenhouse, tending to the tea plants beneath swiveling lamps. They were wearing matching floral-print wellies and Sam preempted her derision: “Yeah I know, we deserve each other.”

Jill hesitated before she told them about Presence. What if they said Jacob? Who’s Jacob? or reminded her in voices full of pity that Jacob had been “gone” for months now? She couldn’t be confident in what she said to them when she’d just stepped out of an icebox into a sunny July day and the time outside wasn’t the same as the time in her flat. Well, they were her friends. If at all possible your friends have a right to be notified when you’ve downright lost it. But it seemed she was still sane. Lena and Sam had a lot of questions, Lena kept checking her pupils, and they both wanted to come over to the flat and verify her experience. Lena was most intrigued by the wall clocks

(“They all read twelve-thirty? Did you hear them ticking?

“Come to think of it, no—no ticking.”)

and Sam wondered about the cold.

“Talk to Jacob . . . maybe he’ll test the next phase on you two . . .” They said they’d like that. She didn’t think she’d told them anything that made Presence seem like good fun, so it was most likely that they were just being supportive. Sam gave her a pouchful of Assam leaves: “Let me know what you think . . .” On the way home she stopped at a supermarket and bought winter groceries. Lemsip, hot chocolate, ingredients for soup and for hot toddies. She put it all through self-checkout so she wouldn’t have to make any small talk about summer colds. Then, wondering how Jacob was doing, she checked their joint account and saw that he’d made a card payment at a Waitrose about an hour ago, for more or less the same amount as she’d just spent. She wouldn’t mention this in her notes; it was cheating. She shouldn’t be able to guess whether or not he was cold too.

—

SHE’D FORGOTTEN to lock the front door. Just like waking up at twelve-thirty, it’d been years since she’d last done that. People told horror stories about Catford but she would’ve been more worried about going in if it was the Holland Park front door she’d forgotten to lock. The stakes were higher over there. She dumped her shopping bags in the kitchen and went back to the front door, locking it behind her with exaggerated care. Jacob came out of the room filled with puppet stages and looked around him, nodding. “Not bad,” he said. According to the clock just above his head it was still twelve-thirty. He took a step toward her and she took a step back.

“What are you doing here?”

“Why are you shivering?” he asked back.

“Er, because it’s bloody cold in here?”

He held out his hand for her to touch; he was warm, and she closed both her hands around his palm. He winced, removed his hand from hers, and brought her two more jumpers to put on. He didn’t need to be told where to find the jumpers. She went back into the kitchen, found her notepad, and made a note of that. Then she put the kettle on, and Jacob asked if he should do the same with the central heating.