I smiled. ‘We played that alot.’
‘And who knew metal was so big in Scandinavia?’
‘I did, actually.’
He grinned. ‘You don’t count.’
He left by 10.30. I’d offered him the sofa bed, but he’d insisted he leave.
‘I’ve got to be up in...’ He checked his watch. ‘Four and half hours. No need to wake you up too. Sleep tight, Frixie.’
Over the next couple of days I wrote two obits for Patrick – one for a trade paper and one forRe:Sound.
Then, on Tuesday morning, as I arrived at work, I received a text from Nick:
Marcie can see you today at 6pm – can you make it?
Holy cow.
I typed back a feverishYESand stared at my computer screen, trying to decide what to do. I opened a document I’d created months ago with possible questions to ask Marcie. Was it finally going to happen?
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed with another text from Nick. It was an address in St John’s Wood – her home, as far as I knew. This was getting more and more surreal.
Then a third text:
Will text you today’s password protocol later.
When the rest of the team arrived, I stood up and called for their attention.
‘Guess who’s got a hot date with Marcie Tyler?’
Gavin frowned. ‘One of theLove Islandguys, according to the tabloids.’
Lucy gave the back of his head a friendly thump. ‘Oh my God, Zoë. It’s you, isn’t it?’
I nodded and the room erupted into whoops and cheers. It brought Mike running to join us, which saved me a trip to his office.
‘I’m going to sleep well tonight,’ he said, before slipping out again.
*
By 4.30, I’d checked and rechecked my dictaphone was fully charged and had enough available memory. I printed out my questions, then headed off.
I got to St John’s Wood at 5.30. Every other house was being renovated; architects’ boards hung from wrought-iron gates while diggers shifted earth to carve out basements. Paul McCartney was rumoured to have a house around here. Did he and Marcie ever bump into each other at the corner shop that charged £3.60 for a small bottle of water? Of course, Marcie probably had assistants to nip out for her when she ran out of loo roll. But famous people are like everyone else. I once bumped into Jerry Hall buying Häagen-Dazs in a Richmond convenience store at midnight. A sweet tooth is a great leveller.
I kept checking my phone, paranoid that Nick was going to cancel, or that he’d forget to send the password. However, at ten to six I got a single-line text from him:
You’re Bonnie – ask for Clyde.
I texted back a thank you, then turned my phone to silent.
From what I could tell, Marcie’s house was surrounded by an eight-foot-high red-brick wall. It was innocuous enough, until you noticed the security cameras angled high above. It wasn’t the biggest house in the street, but then again, you couldn’t really see it from the street. A black wooden door in the wall was the only point of entry, and even then, it would only grant you access to the front garden.
I pressed the button on the entryphone at exactly six. It made no noise; it simply flashed blue.
Seconds passed and nothing happened. My finger hovered over the chrome box, poised to press again, but then I heard a crackly voice. ‘May I help you?’
It was a male voice, which threw me. But had I really thought Marcie would answer her own bell?
