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Don’t you have work? What’s going on?
Frock in Farringdon? 10:30?
I look at the time. 9:42.
I’ll be there.
Anxiety rises inside me. This isn’t like Becks at all. She’s always the one who has time for a quick meme or GIF. Meeting during work hours is highly unusual, apart from scheduled yoga on Tuesdays which she only makes an exception for because I teach the class.
Frowning, I open Google Maps to see which way would be best to walk or tube, then realize I have Macavoy to drive me. Going back to the reality of ordinary life is going to suck so hard. I text Henderson the plan so that he doesn’t have to see my morning face, and he gives me a thumbs-up instead of a “yes, ma’am.” I feel we’re making progress.
At ten twenty-five, I arrive at the café. It’s bustling, but I manage to find a table and quickly grab it. Henderson stands guard at the door, as if to protect me from all the paparazzi and hitmen that are after me because I’m so important, instead of what I am: a part-time yoga instructor going nowhere fast. The interior is cozy and unpretentious. It’s filled with diffused natural light despite the overcast weather outside. The scent of the coffee and buttery baked goods would usually make my mouth water. I find myself wishing I had brought a book, but then Becks arrives.
I see her first. She looks a bit frantic, hardly bothering to greet Henderson on the way in. I wave, holding back my smile because I’m not sure what I’m dealing with. I stand to hug her and she launches her body into mine, hugging so tight that I know there is something wrong.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
We sit down, and the coffees arrive. When she doesn’t thank the waiter, I know something is very, very wrong.
She looks at me and takes a breath, then sighs it out in a huff as if preparing herself for what she’s about to say.
“For fuck’s sake, Becks, you’re scaring me.”
Couldn’t she just have given me a clue via WhatsApp? Why the intrigue? I’ve had enough drama for the day.
“You should be scared,” she replies.
I snort, thinking she must be joking, then wishing I could take it back when her face is as stricken as I’ve ever seen it. We’ve had some frights in the past, including her pregnancy scare as a young teen, and when I needed her help getting away from Jeff that night he lost it and punched the wall, breaking three of his fingers.
I pick up my coffee and see that I’m trembling, so I put it straight back down without taking a sip. I swallow hard and wait for her to tell me.
Becks’s eyes are shiny. I’m not sure if it’s panic or sleep deprivation. Perhaps both.
“Did you have to bring the goons?” she asks, motioning at Henderson.
“He’s not a goon!” I whisper. “He’s a wonderful guy.”
“Well, next time can you leave him behind so we can talk confidentially?”
“We can talk confidentially now,” I reply. “He can’t hear us. I can’t go anywhere without Henderson. Alistair insists.”
As the words come out of my mouth, I realize how bad it sounds. Like I’m a prisoner. Well, I wouldn’t be for long.
Becks pulls a strange face, interlaces her fingers on the table, and leans forward. “Ives. I did some digging.”
“Okay,” I reply.
“Alistair Ravenscroft,” she says.
Dread blooms in my stomach. She makes him sound like an entity instead of the very real human I know so intimately.
Becks scratches her eyebrow, grimaces, shakes her head.
My anxiety makes me blurt out, “For Chrissakes, Becks. What is it?”
“Danny’s secretly been working on this huge fucking story for months …”
“Who’s Danny?”
