“I’m missing a file,” I say, holding a hand to my head, willing myself to think where else it can be. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Well, it must be here somewhere,” he says. “Do you need it urgently?”
“I’d just like to know where it is,” I say. “I can’t bear to lose things. What are you doing here anyway?”
“There’s been a mistake on the lanterns for the concert and they’re not going to get here in time, so I’m going to take the van and pick them up myself.”
“Where have you got to go?” I ask.
“Birmingham,” he says.
I look at my watch. “But it’s three o’clock already—you’re surely not going to get there and back tonight.”
He grimaces. “No, it’ll be too late, so I’ll stay over and head back first thing in the morning.”
My chest tightens at the thought of spending tonight on my own. What if whoever broke into my office last night didn’t find what they were looking for and comes back again tonight? Might they try the house this time?
I’m already dreading the hours stretched out ahead of me, knowing that as soon as night falls, I’ll be imagining what could be done to me, without anyone else in the world being aware of it until the morning. I’ll count down those minutes and seconds while lying there, my eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling rose above our bed and my ears ever alert to the tiniest of creaks and things that go bump in the night. My sane brain reminds me that exactly the same things go bump in the day too, but it’s easy to forget when you’re in the grip of fear and anxiety.
I hate that I’ve turned what is likely to be my own mistake into something more sinister. Though a dead bird doesn’t help.
“Have you been to the flat recently?” asks Leon, blindsiding me.
“No,” I snap, far too quickly. “Why?”
“It’s just that we really should start to think about getting it decorated, if we want to rent it out over the summer.”
“There’s no rush,” I say. “And besides, it’s good enough as it is this year.”
“Yeah, but still, there are some odd jobs that are going to need doing. I might try and pass by today or on my way back tomorrow morning.”
My heart stops and my vision blurs as I aimlessly rifle through a pile of paperwork I’ve already looked at.
I picture Leon letting himself into what he thinks is an empty flat, only to be confronted by Jacob’s belongings, or worse, Jacob himself. I have to stop him from going, or else come clean and tell the truth. But I don’t even know where to begin.
I try to convince myself that he’ll be happy I’ve used my own initiative, be glad of the extra money that will be coming in every month, but if I truly believed that, I would have told him by now, wouldn’t I?
“I … I…” I stutter, as he looks at me expectantly.
“What?” he asks, with raised eyebrows.
“I’ll go and take a look,” I say quickly. “You’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll start making a list of what needs doing, then we can take a look together, once you’ve got the concert out of the way.”
“Is your client still looking for somewhere to live?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I say, looking anywhere but at him. “Why do you ask?”
“Is it the guy who was here this morning?”
Heat travels up my neck; I can only hope and pray it’s not leaving its mark on my skin.
“Yes,” I say, my voice sounding more high-pitched than normal, or maybe that’s just my imagination.
“You seemed nervous around him.”
I instinctively tighten my ponytail and brush imaginary hair away from my eyes, in a pathetic attempt to divert Leon’s attention, though by the intense look on his face, I’ve done the exact opposite.
“Are you OK?” he asks, coming toward me. “Is this guy a problem?” He takes hold of my elbows and looks into my eyes. He may as well be staring into my soul.
“Of course not,” I say, shrugging him off.
“So what was the deal this morning then?” he asks, following me to the sink. “Neither of you could look me in the eye.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I say, forcing a laugh.
“Am I?” he asks. “Because to me, it felt like I was interrupting something.”
“What, just because it was a man?”
“No, because of the way he looked at you.”
There’s nothing I can do to stop my cheeks from blushing and the more I try, the hotter they burn.
I can’t deny that it feels as if Jacob and I have crossed an invisible line; the one that makes you feel as if it’s just a matter of time before it’s either re-drawn or erased altogether.
“He’s a client, who happens to be vulnerable right now,” I say. “He’ll anchor himself to anyone or anything that gives him stability.”
“And that’s you, is it?”
“Once a week, yes,” I say impatiently, omitting to tell him that at Jacob’s request, it’s now going to be twice. “Are you sure you’ve not seen one of my folders? Might you have picked it up with your stuff?”
“I’ll check, but I doubt it,” he says. “Can it wait until the morning?”
No! I want to scream. I need to know now, so that I don’t spend the night fretting unnecessarily. At least if Leon has picked it up inadvertently, then my imagination only has an open door and a dead bird to work itself up over. But if Jacob’s folder is missing…? That ratchets the likelihood of it being something more ominous up a notch.
“Yeah, sure,” I say casually. “It’s no big deal.”
“Will you be OK?” he asks, leaning in to kiss me.
“’Course,” I say, though my stomach is tied up in knots. “Drive safely.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, with a tight smile.
* * *
I want to make myself a cup of coffee before my next client arrives, but I need to know if there are more files missing first. So I fill a jug with water and head back down the garden.
The promised sun is peeking through the clouds, and the buttercups that line the window boxes of my office shine a bright yellow, going some way to lifting my darkening mood.
But it doesn’t last long, as all five of the clients I randomly select have files matching their names, in perfect alphabetical order. I put Anna’s parchment-colored folder on my desk, ready for our appointment, and try to force myself to remember what I might have done with Jacob’s.
“Hey, how you doing?” Anna’s head pops around the door, her familiar American accent instantly wrapping itself around me, making me feel closer to home, even though it’s not been home for a long time.
I’d recognized it as soon as she introduced herself at our first appointment and I immediately felt an affinity with her; an unseen tie that bound us together by our shared nostalgia for a time and place gone by. Though having been here for a little longer than I have, she’s definitely picked up more British traits; her vowels are softer than mine, her duty is dewty, whereas my duty is still dooty. Her dance is darnce, whereas mine is danse. I’d order the check where I’m sure she’d ask for the bill, and I most definitely still wear sneakers while she wears trainers.
I’d hazard a guess we’re about the same age, and just knowing that we’d walked the same streets, smelling the same smells and seeing the same sights, had taken me straight back there.
It was bittersweet, of course—it always is when I take myself back across the pond, both literally and metaphorically. Because as much as I try to remember the happier times, I only ever have a few seconds, a minute at most, before my world comes crashing down around me again.
“Hey,” I say, ushering her in. “How are you today?”
“Oh,” she says, shrugging her shoulders despondently. “You know…”
“Here, sit down,” I say, conscious that she sounds even more troubled than she normally does. “Is everything OK?”
She falls down heavily on the sofa and the world feels like it’s falling with her. “I just don’t know how much longer I can carry on like this,” she says meekly, as if she’s frightened of her own voice.
“What do you mean?” I ask, leaning across the coffee table to steady her shaking hands.