Page 34 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘Wow, well done.’

I beam at him as if he’s awarded an A* for my essay, and I’m filled with a rush of warmth for him. If nothing else, the combination of Eva’s wedding and the pike disaster has thrown the two of us together more often lately, like that period when we fell into walking Pip together in the park. I like it a lot, not because I’m possessive of Sam, or that it’s better when Eva isn’t with us. It’s just different.

Now we’ve found ourselves on a quieter road of neatly kept terraced houses. Their front doors are all smartly painted, and the sound of someone practising piano scales drifts down into the street. Remembering Theo’s three years of intense lessons – Bibi being the main driver of that – Sam says he’s pretty sure that’s a melodic minor, followed by a harmonic.

‘I’m impressed,’ I tease, and Sam smiles. I know that, for a spell, he was trying to teach himself piano, partly because it seemed a waste to have one sitting there in the living room, never touched. Because after his mum left, Theo stopped playing. However, I suspect that Sam was a little put off by Theo’s presence – understandably brooding, hardly brimming with joie de vivre – as he plonked away at rudimentary pieces.

We stop briefly to check the map again. ‘Third on the right,’ Sam says, looking around. ‘Not quite so nice here, is it?’

‘No, it’s not,’ I agree. The well-kept Victorian terraces have given way to scruffier post-war blocks. Outside an unappealing pub, a badly peeling sign boasts karaoke and free parking. But its windows are boarded up and heavily graffitied, the celebrated parking area a sprawling mass of buddleia and collapsed metal fencing.

‘Maybe it’s something to do with flipping?’ I suggest. ‘What Dom does, I mean.’

‘What’s that?’ Sam asks.

‘When you buy a clapped-out property and give it a massive makeover, and then stick it on the market again. People make fortunes that way.’

‘You reckon that’s his thing?’

‘Well, maybe. It could explain the whole design-consultancy thing, couldn’t it? Like, there’s a team, and they do up places in a certain style aligned to their brand values…’

‘I guess so, yeah.’ He nods thoughtfully and we turn the corner. ‘You do realise,’ he adds, ‘that this could just be where a friend of his lives?’

The drizzle has eased to a light dampness in the air. ‘Do you write down your friends’ addresses in a little notebook?’ I ask.

‘Erm, no, but… I might?’ He shrugs.

‘You mean you might have in 1992?’

Sam laughs. ‘Y’know, I actually did!’

‘And did you concern yourself with their loo pipe issues?’

‘I might have,’ he says in mock indignation. ‘So, anyway – what’re we going to do when we get there?’

‘I, um…’ I look at him, and notice the pale, late morning light dancing in his dark brown eyes. ‘I’m not sure. What were you thinking?’

‘It’s not me who decided to do this,’ he reminds me.

‘Oh, come on, Sam. Don’t shove this onto me. We’re in this together!’

He laughs, shaking his head. ‘Okay – but what is it? I mean, what is this thing?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say feebly. Then, after a pause, ‘I’m sorry. I’m guzzling up your whole morning when you should be working⁠—’

‘Hey, it’s fine.’ Briefly, he flops an arm around my shoulders, which seems to trigger an all-body tingle and causes my cheeks to flare – but I’m probably just becoming het up as we approach Boggis Road. Already I’m thinking we’ll have a quick look and that’ll be the end of all this snooping. It’ll be a relief, actually – and I know Sam feels the same. He’s felt especially guilty since last night, when he and Eva were visiting what’s turned out to be the replacement reception venue. I dart him another quick look as we pass a grimy mattress propped up against a crumbling brick wall. Behind it, the three-storey terraces are shabby with cracked and stained concrete rendering, and as we arrive at number 29 we stop and gaze at the building before us.

‘Well, this is it,’ Sam announces.

I nod wordlessly, focusing on the top floor, which I’m guessing is flat C. A break in a small window has been roughly fixed with cardboard and thick silver tape. There’s no sign of life in any of the rooms. But then, at 10.20 a.m. most people are out at work, doing normal things, not lurking for no apparent reason⁠—

My breath catches as the front door partially opens at number 29. There seems to be some fumbling behind it, and then a young woman, with two short blonde plaits protruding from a knitted beanie, manoeuvres out her bicycle towards us.

Immediately, I feel horribly conspicuous and that we shouldn’t be here. I glance at Sam, wanting to signal that this is stupid and really, what are we doing? Let’s go, I want to mouth at him. But he seems to be deliberately avoiding eye contact and, as the young woman steers her bike through the gateless space in the low brick wall, I realise I’ll have to say something. Otherwise, why have we come here?

I step forwards. ‘Hi,’ I start.

‘Hi?’ She throws me a quizzical look.