tone gone, discouraging further questions, which, in any case, Julia was too tired to ask.
‘Why don’t you give him a call, if you miss him?’ Julia said.
‘Hmm.’
Genevieve remained seated on her bed. Julia wasn’t sure what to say. Perhaps she still wanted to talk about Alan.
‘The thing is …’ Julia said. ‘I mean, if you go into someone’s room at night, they might think …’
‘I’m sorry,’ Genevieve said. She stood up. ‘You have work tomorrow, and I’m keeping you awake.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ Julia said.
‘I’ve been so silly.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Genevieve. Really, any time.’
Genevieve dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. ‘Goodnight then,’ she said.
Julia waited for Genevieve’s footsteps to disappear up the stairs to the attic before going to the bathroom. The landing light had been turned off, but she caught the flash of white gloss on Alan’s doorframe glinting in the streetlight, before the soft shunt of wood on wood.
She was too tired and too drunk to care if he’d overheard her conversation with Genevieve. Julia hadn’t said anything she shouldn’t.
After washing her face and cleaning her teeth, she returned to her room, slipped into bed and lay back with the blinds open, watching the night sky.
Poor Genevieve, she must have been a beauty in her youth, captivating men, not seeking them out in the dead of night, to be rebuffed and humiliated. Not dissimilar to Penelope at work. But Genevieve did not long occupy her mind as wine and exhaustion tugged at her eyelids.
Julia wasn’t concerned with the fading of youth. Middle age seemed as far away as the moon above her. A place to which other people travel but she would never venture herself.
There’s a moment when I wake, still cosy and warm under my duvet, that I forget, and all that lies ahead of me is the Tube and a laptop screen. As I roll over to switch off the alarm, I remember the missing backpacker Brandon Wells, the texts and the phone call.
It’s him.
Better get your story straight.
A warning or a threat? Again, I can’t think of anyone who could have sent the text, who would have sent the text, nor who would have called me. My mind starts whirring – the last thing I need is Audrey coming to stay, but it’s too late to put her off now.
I’m stuck in a meeting all day with Jonathan and Ulrich, who were at university together and are old friends. The only words I speak are an introduction, my name and role in the project. Then I just sit there as they run through figures and statistics. Occasionally, Jonathan asks, ‘Isn’t that right, Julia?’ and I nod without registering the question. My phone lies still and silent. I’m starting to hate the sound of these men’s voices, their charts, deadlines, projections and the occasional aside about uni days – Wasn’t Jonathan a lad, eh?
All I can think about is Garrick’s phone. I’m continually aware of its weight in my pocket, as if it’s calling to me. Has anything new arisen? Will I leave this office to find police officers waiting for me? My fingers tingle with frustration, and still Jonathan and Ulrich go on and on about leverage, bandwidth and accountability.
Eventually, they even bore themselves and decide to dedicate the rest of the day to swapping tales of their riotous youth.
‘We’re going for a quick drink,’ Jonathan says. He looks at me, slightly nervous. ‘You don’t want to come, Julia, do you?’
I’m tempted to say yes just to annoy him. Instead, I tell him I have work to do.
The second they leave I head straight to the toilets.
As always with such torturous waits, they’re in vain – no new information has been reported from Guildford. I’m disappointed, though I should be relieved. I’m becoming over reliant on Garrick’s phone, I won’t be able to keep it for ever. And I worry about my own phone. How would a stranger interpret the anonymous texts? What assumptions would be made about their being sent to me? At some point I’ll have to dump the phones as I did Brandon’s lump of a Nokia, over twenty years ago.
I wonder what happened to it. For how long are phone records kept? Has the Nokia been smashed to pieces or is it fifty feet deep in some Kentish landfill? Does it hold a trace of me, a hair, a fragment of fingernail?
My phone rings. Another false alarm.
‘Hi, hon,’ Pearl says. ‘You didn’t reply to my text. Are you coming round tonight?’
‘Audrey’s coming to stay.’
‘Tomorrow then.’
‘Rudi won’t mind?’
‘’Course not. Come for dinner. We need to catch up with all your shit.’
Pearl thinks my shit is the end of my marriage. She’s been in the States for the past three months. She wanted me to go over there and stay with her when she heard about my separation, but I had to be nearby in case Sam needed me. Which he hasn’t.
‘I won’t be able to get there until eight.’
‘You work too hard – and the girls will be in bed by then.’
‘I can’t get out of it,’ I say, ‘but I need to see you.’
‘I’ll keep a plate of something warm.’
Audrey’s small blue case is in the lounge when I get home. It’s the one she’s had for as long as I can remember. Her efficient packing means that she could easily be staying one night or one month.
She comes in from the kitchen and hugs me. I catch the scent of Rive Gauche. It doesn’t matter how much she irritates me, the waft of perfume and the hug always gives me a moment of inner calm. A memory from childhood, when a mother’s love and home-baked biscuits could shoo away the world’s ills.
‘I’ll take your bag up to the bedroom,’ I say.
‘I really can take the sofa, you know,’ she says.
‘Don’t be silly.’
I put the bag down next to the bed and check Garrick’s phone. Nothing new.
When I come down, Audrey’s poking around in the lounge then follows me into the kitchen.
‘This flat’s much nicer than I thought it would be. I remember that awful place you rented in Archway before,’ she says, looking out of the window. ‘This has a fantastic view. It’s not very big, but you don’t need much space and I suppose it’s only temporary.’
‘Tea?’ I say. ‘How was the exhibition?’
‘Oh, very good, very interesting,’ she says distractedly.
I knew she’d hate it. The trip isn’t about broadening her tastes in art. She’s down here to see me. The first visit since my separation.
‘We’ve got pasta for dinner. Is that OK?’
‘Lovely,’ she says. ‘I suppose this is what they call a bachelor pad – spinster pad doesn’t have the same ring, does it?’
‘No.’
‘Though technically, you’re not a spinster.’
‘Divorcee pad doesn’t sound any better.’