The spell is broken when the waiter arrives with a bill.
Perhaps Harry’s one of those gentleman-types who wants to pay for everything, or maybe he senses the intake of breath I take.
‘I’m paying,’ he says firmly, reaching for the leather card.
‘I should pay my half,’ I reply.
He picks the paper out from the little booklet and waves the waiter back. ‘I insist.’
I should let it lie. Not everything has to be a tug of X chromosome versus Y. Of feminism against patriarchy. Sometimes, one person can buy another a meal and that’s the end of it. I can’t stop myself, however. I know I’ve only spent fourteen pounds on the pasta, but before Harry can get his credit card out of his wallet, I’ve plucked a twenty-pound note from the envelope in my bag and dropped it on the table.
‘That’s my share,’ I say.
He frowns at the money and then at me. ‘You’re not going to let me pay, are you?’ he says.
‘No.’
Chapter Eight
It’s gone eleven as I make my way down the stone steps of Hamilton House in my socks. I’ve always done my laundry late, mainly because it lowers the chances of running into anyone else. There’s also a strange, melodic peace about the rumble of the machines that makes me feel tired enough to sleep.
I’m not even on the ground floor when the thumping beat of someone’s terrible music infects my ears. Why is it always the people with appalling taste who feel the need to crank up the volume?
It’s coming from the door at the opposite end of the corridor from the laundry room, so I sigh in my very British way and ignore it.
The laundry room itself is more of a large cupboard, with two washers, a single dryer and twine that’s been looped around the light fittings to create something close to a washing line. There’s not really room for more than one person, which is why there’s a small yelp of alarm as I push my way inside.
‘Oh,’ a woman’s voice says, ‘it’s you.’
Vicky is a single mother who lives on the ground floor. She has short blonde hair in a pixie style that I’d never be brave enough to try to pull off, as well as a ring through her septum. She’s so tiny that it’s hard to believe she gave birth relatively recently. We’ve occasionally played cards together or shared well-thumbed paperbacks.
She glances across to where a crib is blocking the dryer. ‘Sorry,’ she adds. ‘I didn’t think anyone would want to do their washing this late.’ She yawns and it’s immediately infectious as I find myself doing the same. We smile through watery eyes to one another.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
Vicky rubs her eyes and fights another yawn. ‘Mark’s having a party next door to me and Yasmine can’t sleep. I brought her in here. I think she likes the hum of the water going through the pipes.
I peep towards the crib, where Yasmine is bundled under a series of blankets, her eyes closed, chest slowly rising and falling. It’s hard not to envy the peace and beautiful unawareness.
‘Do you think she’d mind if I put the washer on?’ I ask.
Vicky laughs and it’s so wholesome, so full of charm, that it’s hard not to join in.
‘You can ask her if you want,’ she replies. ‘But I don’t mind. The clocks go back tonight anyway, so we all get an extra hour’s sleep.’
I take my dirty clothes out of the bag and cram them into the washer, before pushing two fifty-pence pieces into the slot to set it going. The resealed envelope of money is left at the bottom of the bag and I fold the material around it. I don’t like letting it out of my sight.
I’d almost missed what she said but reply with an unsure: ‘The clocks go back?’
‘Mum messaged me on Facebook earlier. I didn’t know. I never know if they’re going forward, back, or whatever.’
I think that’s probably true of everyone. The only thing of which we can be sure is that they’re definitely going back or forward an hour. I nod up to Karen’s party poster that’s stuck to the back of the door. ‘Are you going?’ I ask.
The smile has left Vicky’s face. She’s resting her elbows on her knees and doesn’t look up. ‘I have no money,’ she says, bigger things on her mind. ‘They’ve stopped my benefits again.’
‘Why?’
She holds both palms up. ‘I had to turn down a job because the hours were all over the place. It would’ve cost too much to put Yasmine into care. I’d have ended up losing money overall, plus seeing less of her. I couldn’t afford to take it – but when I turned it down, they stopped the benefits. I was screwed either way.’ Vicky rubs her eyes and sighs once more. ‘Rent’s due on Monday,’ she adds. ‘Do you think Lauren will give me a couple of weeks?’
I want to be supportive but I’ve been living here long enough to know that Lauren is only acting on behalf of the building’s owner. Rent extensions do not come often.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘How short are you?’
‘A hundred. I’ve got the rest. I’m hoping I’ll be able to scramble something together.’ She nods at the crib. ‘Her dad’s behind on maintenance and my Mum’s always saying she’ll help.’ Vicky huffs out a long breath but doesn’t need to say it. There’s defeat in going back to parents, or asking for money – if only in perception.
We’re interrupted as the music from down the hallway is nudged up a notch and starts to battle with the washer for dominance. Yasmine rolls over in her crib and there’s a moment in which it feels as if she’s going to open her eyes. I can sense Vicky holding her breath until her child settles once more.
‘I’ll have a word,’ I say, indicating the corridor.
It takes three separate knocks until Mark opens his door.
It’s not that Mark and I have never got on, more that we’ve barely exchanged anything other than a glance to acknowledge we recognise one another. Sometimes people know when they have nothing in common. When he first moved in, he was carrying a life-sized cardboard cut-out of some semi-naked model under his arm and I knew then we were very different people. He’s tall and broad, the type of person who is intimidating simply because of size. Mark is clinging onto a can of Stella in one hand as he nods towards me. I’m still cradling the envelope that’s wrapped in my dirty washing bag.
‘A’ight?’ he says.
‘Could you turn the music down a bit?’
He stares at me as if I’ve thrown some advanced algebra in his direction. The stench of weed floats out from his apartment and I struggle not to cough.
‘What?’ he says.
‘The music… it’s a bit loud.’
Mark turns between me and the inside of his flat. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. ‘How about you mind your own business, yeah?’
I step away and then turn back and sniff the air dramatically. ‘That’s fine. I’ll call 999 instead. I think there might be something on fire in here.’
His eyes narrow and there’s a moment in which I think the subtlety has gone over his head. It takes a couple of seconds, but it’s almost as if a light bulb goes off behind his stare. His top lip curls and he thrusts a pudgy finger in my direction. ‘You should watch yourself,’ he says with a snarl.
‘I will,’ I say politely. ‘You should turn the music down.’
He stands his ground for a second and then steps backwards, slamming the door behind him. Moments later, the volume dims.
Just another day at Hamilton House.
Chapter Nine