‘Hello, my Gert,’ he says, brushing his soft brown hair across his forehead. He’s strolling down a busy street that I recognise as being somewhere in Mayfair. That’s where his best friend Jim lives.
‘Have you been to see Jim?’ I ask. ‘How’s he doing?’
‘Oh, yeah, yeah. Jim. He’s great. Birthday party prep,you know. It’s going to be quite the weekend. Apparently there’s an alpaca farm next to the hotel and Jim’s having them wear bow ties like him.’ Henry chuckles. ‘So extra.SoJim.’
I laugh, feeling gutted that I won’t be going. I love a birthday party. I love alpacas. And I expect I would really love alpacas in bow ties.
‘I’m glad you answered,’ I say, trying to contain the wobble in my voice. ‘I didn’t expect—’
‘Josie’s birthday—’ he cuts in.
‘You remembered.’
‘Twentieth of August. Same day I got my first book deal. How could I forget? How are you holding up?’ He gazes right into the camera, big blue eyes tender behind his tortoiseshell glasses. I wish more than anything else that I could reach into the phone and touch him. Feel the familiar comfort of his warm neck beneath my palm, inhale the fresh fabric conditioner smell of his linen shirt. Bury myself into him and press pause on my despair the same way I buried myself into him in the weeks and months after Josie’s death.
‘I … It’s … It’s tough,’ I say. ‘I tried to go to the cemetery again, but—’
‘Oh shit, Gert. Hang on. I’m so sorry.’ Henry pulls pack from the screen, suddenly distracted. ‘Someone’s actually trying to get through on the phone. Shit, terrible timing. It’s, uh, my publisher. I’ve been waiting for her to call. Can I ring you back later? Sorry, Gert. I’ll call back asap. Shit. Stay strong, okay! You’ve got this! Lots of love.’
And then with a beep the screen goes black, nothing but my own despondent face reflected in the glass.
A coil of something uncomfortable unfurls in my stomach. I mentally try to elbow the sensation away, reminding myself that Henry probably had no choice but to answer another call in the middle of our conversation. After sales of his second book tanked, a call from his publisher, rather than an email, probably means it’s something urgent. Of course he had to answer. I slip my phone back into my bag and nod to myself. Henry knows how important Josie was to me. If I hadn’t met him right then, right after she died, God knows where I’d be now.
He’s going to call me back later. He said that. I’ll get to talk to him properly. That’s a good thing. A good sign.
The thought of speaking to Henry again gives me enough energy to pull myself up off the grubby floor and back onto my feet. I plug my headphones in, turn the music up full blast and set off back to the car park.
At home, after a restorative bath, in which I proudly manage not to cry too loudly, I realise that all my clean towels are still in the tumble dryer. Popping my glasses back on, I make a naked dash across the flat to grab one, when mid-jog it occurs to me, as if in slow motion, that there is a strange man sitting on my sofa.
More specifically, a cowboy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A cowboy.
Ashirtlesscowboy, no less – thick, sun-burnished muscles on full display, marked with bruises and what look to be smudges of charcoal.
I don’t scream. I always thought I’d scream in a scenario such as this (i.e. home intrusion, sudden appearance of cowboy in living room, possible upcoming murder of self). Instead, I grab hold of the nearest thing I can to cover my own nakedness. Of course, it’s the red spider beret I just purchased from Mrs Casablancas. One of the spindly pipe-cleaner spider legs stabs my inner thigh. Ow.
‘Get out, please,’ I say to the stranger, my trembling voice a good two octaves higher than usual. ‘I … I don’t know what you’re doing in my house, or what you came here for, but you’re in the wrong place and you need to leave right now.’
How did he even get in here?I glance at the front door, closed and locked from the inside, as always. The window is open, but my flat is on the fourth floor of the building. Did … did he scale the wall?
The man’s eyes meet mine, unreadable beneath the shadow of his Stetson. He blinks like he just woke up, quickly averting his gaze from my naked form, which strikesme as an unusually respectful move for a home intruder with murder in mind. Maybe he’s not a murderer … perhaps he’s a burglar?
‘If-if you’re a burglar then you’d have much better pickings about a mile down the road,’ I blurt, my words tripping over each other. ‘I’m just a writer. Everything of value that I own is purely sentimental.’ I point at my TV. ‘You can have my television if you like? It’s pretty old, though. No OLED capabilities. They probably have much higher-spec electrical equipment at the houses over in Marylebone. Lots of jewellery too, I bet. Silver tableware, genuine Birkins, if that’s what you’re after. There’s this one very fancy looking house on—’
I clamp my mouth shut as it occurs to me that this is not the time or the situation to try to be the most helpful person in the room.
The cowboy stares down at his dusty boots, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. He rubs a hand across his stubbled jaw and I can’t help but notice that it’s an excellent jaw, as jaws go.
Get it together, Gertie.
‘If you leave right now, I promise I won’t call the police,’ I try, my voice attempting and failing to hold some degree of gravitas.
I’m totally lying. I definitely will be calling the police. At the very least the residents of Marylebone now need to be warned to double-lock their doors.
The man stands up from the sofa, conker-brown Stetson almost grazing the ceiling.
