‘We won’t get anyone else to do it for a hundred and fifty pounds,’ Imogen had said, her face flushed from standing over the hot pot of soup.
‘Thanks for the tea, just let me know what you decide.’
Jim had drained the mug, nodded at Imogen and started for the door.
‘Well …’ Henry had conceded. ‘If you could start right away …’
‘Sure,’ Jim had said, and Imogen had sighed with relief.
That was the only time Henry had seen Jim, until his funeral. He’d done a good job; Henry couldn’t complain about that.
But what else had he been working on? Henry thought crudely, his heart pounding. He fell back onto the lumpy bluebell-fragranced pillow and clenched his fists. He ought to have it out with the rough diamond.
‘Great idea,’ mumbled Henry. ‘How do you propose to do that when the rough diamond won’t be able to see you?’
Henry laid a hand on his painful stomach. Surely if he were dead, he wouldn’t still be getting dyspepsia.
Just how many secrets did Imogen have and why hadn’t Henry ever been aware of them?
Stillness descended over the room and Henry realised that Billy had turned off the television. Rita was breathing gently, and Henry wondered if it was fair to involve her in this. But what choice did he have? He’d get some sleep, he decided. That would be the best thing. In the morning, this whole business may well have been sorted. He’d have to go home to get his briefcase but that was no hardship. A good night’s sleep and he’ll awake with all this behind him. Maybe it was just a bad dream and he’d wake in his own bed with Imogen beside him, all thoughts of Jim forgotten. Of course, it was ludicrous; Imogen having an affair. What nonsense and with Jim, the builder. It was quite laughable. When he looked at things logically, it was obvious he was in the middle of a dream. He closed his eyes in the knowledge that in the morning all would be well.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rita’s arm was tingling from where she had lain on it. It was chilly in the bedsit and she watched as her breath vaporised in the cold air. A shimmer of light from behind the curtains bathed the room in a warm glow and for one cloudy moment, Rita struggled to remember why there were bedcovers on the sofa. Then she heard Henry’s gentle snoring, and everything came back to her. Rita had never had a man stay overnight in her room before. If only she could tell her girlfriends, but then they’d want to meet him and that’s when things would get complicated. It would be quite difficult introducing an invisible man.
She carried her clothes to the bathroom and huddled by the barely warm radiator before splashing her face with water. It was early. No one else would be up yet. Rita didn’t want the other tenants banging on the bathroom door. She figured she had a good hour before the rest of the house awoke. It gave her enough time to shower, fix her hair, and apply some make-up.
She hated sharing a bathroom. No one ever thought to clean it when they’d finished. She grimaced at the congealed toothpaste in the sink and pulled at some toilet roll to clean it. Perhaps tomorrow she’d bring a cloth and a bottle of disinfectant. She was the only one that did. No one else seemed to care about the tidemark around the bath or the towel rack that hung off the wall. With a sigh, she wiped the toothpaste-splattered mirror. The mirror had that discoloration of age. The surface of the glass splotched black in places. Rita, as usual looked at her distorted image. Funny how used to it she’d become, that when she looked in other mirrors she never ceased to be amazed at how clear everything looked.
*
Henry realised things were far from well as soon as he awoke. He was more disorientated than ever. He couldn’t understand why the window was on the left. It had always been on the right. He turned over to face Imogen and almost fell off the sofa. He then saw Rita sitting at the small table eating breakfast and his heart sank. Nothing had changed.
‘I’m still here,’ he said miserably.
‘Yes,’ said Rita, evidently pleased.
She looked different again. Her hair was all wavy like when he had first seen her yesterday and she had on lipstick the colour of pomegranate seeds.
‘Would you like breakfast?’ she asked. ‘Only I have to leave for work soon.’
‘I thought we could talk,’ said Henry, feeling a sharp pain in his neck. Sofas weren’t for sleeping on, he decided.
Rita looked anxiously at the little clock by her bed.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry but I don’t think I have time,’ she said apologetically.
Time was a funny thing, thought Rita. Some days she had so much of it and then there were days like today when she wished she had more. If only she could save time, like she did the coins she kept in the jar. She could have used some of that time now to help Henry.
‘I’ve got an hour saved,’ she could have said.
Henry thought he didn’t have much time either. This was most certainly not a dream, he now realised. Rita didn’t want to miss her bus but at the same time she felt an odd sense of responsibility to Henry.
‘I get an hour for lunch,’ she said.
‘Could you meet me in the park?’ he asked, standing and stretching his sore muscles.
‘I could be there at one,’ said Rita, glancing at the clock. She would surely miss her bus if she didn’t hurry.
