‘Obviously not as close as I thought.’
‘I’m sorry. OK, the crux of it is this: about a month ago she started seeing this guy who she met at the pool. I take her swimming a couple of times a week.’
‘That’s Jonathan? Is he disabled too?’
‘Yes – he’s an ex-soldier, lost his leg beneath the knee when he stepped on a mine in Iraq. Anyway, Tilly was completely smitten with him. She talked about him all the time.’
Not with me, I thought.
‘He dumped her a couple of weeks ago. Out of nowhere. She thought everything was going brilliantly. She’s been distraught ever since.’
I drummed my fingers on the table. The pub was empty and silent apart from the burbling fruit machine in the corner and an old man talking to his dog.
‘Are you sure this is nothing more than her being heartbroken?’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m not saying heartbreak isn’t serious. But everyone gets down after they split up with someone they really liked.’
‘It’s more than that,’ Rachel insisted. ‘She keeps talking about how she’s got nobody, how shit her life is, saying she’s got nothing to live for. I think you should talk to her.’
What she had told me turned the blood in my veins to ice.
‘But without giving away that you talked to me?’
‘That would be ideal, yes. Like I said, she’d be really angry. If you could do something to cheer her up . . . show her she has got something to live for. What with you being so far away—’
‘I’m only up the road in London.’ It was seventy miles away.
‘I know. But you don’t see each other very often, do you?’
If I hadn’t been so concerned about Tilly, I might have felt affronted by this woman, whom I barely knew, hinting that I was neglecting my sister. Instead, along with the chill of concern, the main emotion I felt was guilt.
‘I need to think about what to do,’ I said, after contemplating Rachel’s words for a while. Part of me wanted to go straight back to Tilly’s and talk to her, but I agreed with Rachel’s planned approach. It would be better to be subtle. Plus I was so surprised by what I’d heard that I needed time for it all to sink in.
‘That sounds wise,’ Rachel said, displaying a rare smile. ‘Thanks, Andrew.’
‘No. Thank you. Tilly’s lucky she has someone who cares about her so much.’
Rachel picked up her crash helmet and ran a palm over its smooth dome. ‘If only she realised that.’
Back in London, I stopped for a coffee then headed for my connecting train.
My phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognise. My hopes surged – was it her?
‘Hello?’
The call disconnected.
Annoyed, I switched my phone off. I needed to forget her. Get over it. I hadn’t been dumped, like my poor sister. It hadn’t even begun.
My flat is on the fourth floor of a Victorian terrace. Once upon a time, I guess it would have been an attic. It was cramped and the climb up the stairs was exhausting, but the view was fantastic. I could see the shining great transmitter in Crystal Palace, plus, in the other direction, I had a clear view across the park towards the Gherkin. The neighbours were nice. And it had been all I could afford. Both Mum and Dad had been insured and the money was put into a trust for Tilly and me. On my insistence, most of the money went to Tilly, to buy her apartment, but I’d had enough to put a deposit on this flat and pay for my education.
I carried my luggage up the stairs, chucked it on the bed and ran myself a bath. I thought about calling Sasha, see if she wanted to meet up, but remembered she was in Cornwall visiting her family. So I had a typical boring evening: I surfed the net, watched some TV, nuked something out of the freezer, played a bit of online poker.
At around eleven, I got undressed, ready for bed. My phone fell out of my jeans pocket and thudded on the floor. It had been switched off all evening.
As soon as I turned it on, it vibrated twice. I had a missed call and a voicemail. Both were from an unknown mobile number, though not from the number that had hung up on me earlier.
I listened to the voicemail.
It was her.
‘Hey, Andrew . . . just going to wait a sec in case you’re screening. No? Or maybe you are and you don’t want to talk to me because I’ve been such a flake. Or maybe it was the kiss. Maybe you didn’t like it. Though I thought it was a good one. Very good, actually. Oh God, I’m rambling.’
A smile spread across my face.
‘So, yes, this is what happened: I lost my phone. I know, I know. Sounds like the oldest excuse in the book. But it’s true, I swear to God. I lost it and didn’t have your number because it was saved to my phone and not the thingy. I don’t know the technical word for it. The cloud, or whatever. So, anyway, I thought that was it, that you’d hate me forever, or maybe be hugely relieved that this annoying girl who picks fights in pubs was leaving you alone. And then I was back at work today – no rest for the wicked – and did something a bit naughty. I looked up your details on the NHS database. Um, hope you don’t mind.’
Mind? I was ecstatic.
‘Give me a call. If you want to. I had fun the other night. Lots of fun. I’ll probably be up late so call me whenever. Wake me up, I don’t care. Bye!’
I punched the air.
Four
Charlie had arranged to come round at six. ‘Don’t worry about cooking me dinner or anything like that,’ she said when I called her back. I probably should have waited till the next day, or even the day after. Make her sweat a little. But I’m not very good at playing it cool.
I wished I was cooking for her, even though I am hopeless in the kitchen, because it would have given me something to do to distract me. Instead, I spent the day prowling like a polar bear at the zoo, watching the minutes tick by. I showered, agonised over whether to clean shave or trim my stubble, spent ages trying to decide what to wear, tidied the flat three times, tried to work out what music should be playing when she arrived.
I had never acted like this before. Halfway through the afternoon I sat down and gave myself a silent talking to. This was ridiculous. She was just a girl. I’d only met her once. Then I started worrying. What if we didn’t get on? What if she saw me and realised she didn’t like me after all? Or vice versa, though that seemed highly unlikely.
The doorbell rang at five minutes past six, after I had convinced myself she wasn’t coming.
‘Hello,’ she said, beaming at me and stepping forward to give me a hug. She smelled of expensive perfume and looked delicious, wearing a soft black dress and knee-high boots. ‘It’s freezing out here. Are you going to invite me in?’