right before our holiday. It took us so long to find someone Peggy likes that I can’t bear the thought of trying to find a temp. I visit every day, of course, but she needs someone there the rest of the time to make sure she doesn’t get into any bother. She’s still very frail, and can’t do everything for herself.”
I saw where this was going and was filled with dread—mainly because of Madeline, and what had happened on my last visit to Peggy’s apartment. But Pippa misread my thoughts, and added, hastily, “We wouldn’t expect you to do any of the messy stuff—changing sheets and all that. It’s more that she needs companionship. She gets lonely, especially at night.”
“You want me to stay over with her? In her flat?” Just saying the words sent a chill through me.
“Well, yes. You’d have your own room. Either her old one or Harold’s, seeing as she’s moved into mine.”
It didn’t matter which room I was in—I was never going to spend the night there. “Can I think it over?” I said.
“Sure.” Pippa seemed surprised that I hadn’t accepted. “It’s only for a week. We’re all going to Greece after that. Peggy too.”
I glanced over at the café door and saw Caleb scowling in at us. “I’ll call you,” I said. “I think I have a temping assignment next week.”
“Of course,” said Pippa, clearly disappointed. “You’ve got my number.”
After they left, I went for a walk through the Holland Park woods, where I’d often played as a child. My prep school had been nearby, behind a church, and we had walked to the park in crocodile formation, two by two, holding hands, in every sort of weather. The park had been the scene of some of my greatest humiliations, and, when I thought about it, absolutely none of my triumphs. The worst had been my attempt, in front of the entire class, to scale the six-foot-high metal fence that ran down the middle of the park, separating the sports fields from the cycle lane. At the top of the fence, I’d balanced for a moment between two metal spikes, then jumped, only to be snagged by the hem of my gray gabardine skirt. I had hung upside down from the fence, flailing and screaming, for just long enough to wet my pants before the fabric ripped from arse to hem and I fell.
Peeing my pants had been my standard response to any great fear or surprise, and the last and only time I had ever stayed at Peggy’s, at age seven, I’d wet the bed. I had woken in the night, desperate for the loo, but had not been able to leave the room for fear of crossing Madeline’s path. Peggy had been really nice about it, had even said I could stay over again one night, but I wouldn’t even consider it. Even now, I found it abhorrent.
When I got back to Willesden Green, the place was empty, the flatmates all still at work. That morning I’d been in such a rush to get to the park that I’d left my cell phone behind, and it was beeping incessantly, telling me I had two new messages and three missed calls. They were all from the same number, the texts banal: “It’s Mike. Let me know if you get this text,” and because I hadn’t let him know: “It’s Mike. Is this your number? Let me know.” Finally, a voice message inviting me to dinner then changing his mind and downgrading to drinks.
Reasoning that any other action would be false encouragement, I deleted the lot.
I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea before the flatmates got home from work, which was generally when I made myself scarce. Lately, I’d been running out of things to do at night, but a few libraries were open late, and I’d found a local park where you could watch people play floodlit tennis. As I heated water and rummaged for a tea bag I considered where I could go tonight—not too far, in my hungover state. And then I found The Note.
It was in Belinda’s handwriting, but someone else had added to it, and I imagined the flatmates writing it together, perhaps over breakfast. They’d
I saw where this was going and was filled with dread—mainly because of Madeline, and what had happened on my last visit to Peggy’s apartment. But Pippa misread my thoughts, and added, hastily, “We wouldn’t expect you to do any of the messy stuff—changing sheets and all that. It’s more that she needs companionship. She gets lonely, especially at night.”
“You want me to stay over with her? In her flat?” Just saying the words sent a chill through me.
“Well, yes. You’d have your own room. Either her old one or Harold’s, seeing as she’s moved into mine.”
It didn’t matter which room I was in—I was never going to spend the night there. “Can I think it over?” I said.
“Sure.” Pippa seemed surprised that I hadn’t accepted. “It’s only for a week. We’re all going to Greece after that. Peggy too.”
I glanced over at the café door and saw Caleb scowling in at us. “I’ll call you,” I said. “I think I have a temping assignment next week.”
“Of course,” said Pippa, clearly disappointed. “You’ve got my number.”
After they left, I went for a walk through the Holland Park woods, where I’d often played as a child. My prep school had been nearby, behind a church, and we had walked to the park in crocodile formation, two by two, holding hands, in every sort of weather. The park had been the scene of some of my greatest humiliations, and, when I thought about it, absolutely none of my triumphs. The worst had been my attempt, in front of the entire class, to scale the six-foot-high metal fence that ran down the middle of the park, separating the sports fields from the cycle lane. At the top of the fence, I’d balanced for a moment between two metal spikes, then jumped, only to be snagged by the hem of my gray gabardine skirt. I had hung upside down from the fence, flailing and screaming, for just long enough to wet my pants before the fabric ripped from arse to hem and I fell.
Peeing my pants had been my standard response to any great fear or surprise, and the last and only time I had ever stayed at Peggy’s, at age seven, I’d wet the bed. I had woken in the night, desperate for the loo, but had not been able to leave the room for fear of crossing Madeline’s path. Peggy had been really nice about it, had even said I could stay over again one night, but I wouldn’t even consider it. Even now, I found it abhorrent.
When I got back to Willesden Green, the place was empty, the flatmates all still at work. That morning I’d been in such a rush to get to the park that I’d left my cell phone behind, and it was beeping incessantly, telling me I had two new messages and three missed calls. They were all from the same number, the texts banal: “It’s Mike. Let me know if you get this text,” and because I hadn’t let him know: “It’s Mike. Is this your number? Let me know.” Finally, a voice message inviting me to dinner then changing his mind and downgrading to drinks.
Reasoning that any other action would be false encouragement, I deleted the lot.
I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea before the flatmates got home from work, which was generally when I made myself scarce. Lately, I’d been running out of things to do at night, but a few libraries were open late, and I’d found a local park where you could watch people play floodlit tennis. As I heated water and rummaged for a tea bag I considered where I could go tonight—not too far, in my hungover state. And then I found The Note.
It was in Belinda’s handwriting, but someone else had added to it, and I imagined the flatmates writing it together, perhaps over breakfast. They’d
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