“I have to say, as much as I’d thrive with it, we rarely mix. But that’s London for you, isn’t it? Everyone busy, compartmentalized, anonymous—the rat race and such.”
She’s right—it’s what I used to love about the city when I was young.
“Was that you, a few nights ago, at the window?” I ask her. She seems unfazed.
“Yes,” she says, then adds, “I’m just glad he got back in.”
“Who got back in?” I demand, panic spiking.
“The lost cat. I was watching him go along the rooftops. I was so worried for you when I saw the message. I have a white Persian, Mouse. Don’t know what I’d do without the little handful. So I was so glad to see Blue back. He was making quite a racket up there, on the rooftop, that night. Thank goodness for the scaffolding, though. He’s very vocal, isn’t he?” she concludes.
“He is, yep,” I admit, cheeks burning again.
“Who else have you met?” she asks.
“Um, Arabella, and Matt…andyou,” I ramble. “Oh, and Matt’s baby, of course,” I add gingerly.
She frowns and clears her throat.
“Matt’s baby?” she repeats, sounding like she’s testing the idea. “Well, there you go. Every day’s a school day.”
Either she has no idea who Matt is, which seems strange given how friendly he is, or she isn’t aware Matt’s wife, girlfriend, or whatever she is, has given birth?
“Ah, but the lovely Arabella—she’s a trouper, isn’t she?” she continues. “No Greg, though?”
It’s my turn to frown. Which one is Greg?
“I don’t think so,” I say, then ask, keeping dread from my voice, “should I be expecting him?”
“He bid on your house, too,” she confesses, a gleeful smile on her face. “He’s a very sore loser.”
Ah, the mysterious other bidder. I can’t help but think of the man in running gear who clearly wanted to knock on my door the day I arrived. I have a feeling that was Greg.
“Number Twelve. He’s in property, owns the ones either side of yours, here.” Pam points to the houses beside us, the one to our left recently renovated, the one to our right clearly a work in progress. The scaffolding wasn’t there when I first viewed the house. Greg must’ve rushed to put it up before I arrived, to avoid any objections.
“Ah, I see. He sounds industrious,” I comment and am rewarded with Pam’s chuckle.
“Oh, that he is. Well, I’m glad you’re here. Last thing we need is more empty houses.”
Both of the houses that flank me are vacant: echoing rooms, bare floors gathering dust, something about it unnerving.
Pam notes my concern. “Don’t let anything worry you,” she interjects quickly. “It’s a wonderful neighborhood. And I hear the company who renovated yours worked wonders. If you’re ever concerned about anything, or merely at a loose end, my house is right opposite, and I’m in most days. Only really out for the shops or the theater and my wild swimming. And even then, I’m never gone long. God bless retirement. I hope you don’t mind me asking: Am I right in thinking you’re living herealone?”
It’s the first time anyone has actually asked me this in real life—most people have just inferred it—and now it hits me like falling masonry.
“Yes,” I answer with pitch-perfect joviality, in spite of the gut-punch. “Just me, I’m afraid.”
Pam scoffs. “Afraid,my arse. Me, too, yes. I tried having a man in the house—total waste of time. Let’s be honest, it’s extra laundry and terrible television, isn’t it?”
I laugh, the sound, as much as the impulse, surprising me.
“Yes, I had a narrow escape, too,” I confide.
“Good for you, dear. It takes a lot to change everything, to go it alone. And we single ladies have to look out for each other, yes?” she says, more statement than question. “That’s the reason I’ve popped by,” she continues, aware she has my full attention now. “You see, I had a similar police situation a few years back: locked myself out of the house, had to break the side window and crawl back in. Rather mortifyingly the police arrived mid-maneuver, and laid it on thick, the full nine yards. Utterly shaming.”
I want to grab her, hug her.
“Pam, it was awful.”
