We chat and laugh as Nick gets gradually tipsier. The dogs need regular assurance that the bangs outside aren’t going to get them and it’s not long before I have Judge and Billy resting themselves across me on the sofa.
We’ve been chatting for a while when Nick’s phone rings. He’s been checking it intermittently and his features darken when he says ‘I’ve got to take this’, before nipping into the corridor. I suddenly get the sense he’s been expecting whoever this is to call through the evening. Part of the reason he’s invited me over is for moral support after whatever happens.
The dogs are both asleep and I’m somewhat trapped, so take out my phone. It’s as I’m reading Harry’s texts that I realise I’m a little tipsy, too. Rather than being a concern, it suddenly feels hilarious that he might be stalking me.
I have a strange sense of self-awareness in that I know it’s a bad idea to contact him and yet the booze on an empty stomach makes me wonder if it is, in fact, a terrific idea. They say there’s a fine line between genius and lunacy and I feel like walking it.
My first message is as direct as can be:
Can we meet?
Harry’s reply doesn’t take long:
Sure! When were you thinking?
The excessive exclamation points are really becoming quite the plague. It’s a bit like herpes: a person should remain single until they’ve got rid of it.
I type out ‘later?’ and then delete it, before going for:
Tomorrow?
Even in my tipsy state, I realise that this evening would be a bad idea. I’m going to need to plan what to say and to be a good eighty per cent less giggly than I currently am.
I down what’s left in my glass and refill it with Nick’s wine. It isn’t even that good – but that isn’t the point. I find myself wondering if Harry is currently sitting in the apartment opposite mine, playing Elton John. Perhaps he already knew about Ben – and then stole Melanie’s coat to throw me off the scent?
The madder my thoughts, the funnier I find it all – and then I’m texting again, before he’s had time to reply:
How are you?
I picture him in the hospital, his head dented from when he was hit.
His reply comes almost immediately:
The painkillers help! Self-medicating with Jack Daniel’s! Looking fwd to seeing you! What time?! Where?!
Give! It! A! Rest!
It’s the alcohol, I know, but I wonder if he was really attacked. If this was all some massive ruse to woo me. Give me money to get me off guard, convince me he likes everything I do and, if things aren’t going perfectly, concoct some sort of attack to make me feel sorry for him. When Harry was in hospital, it was me he called. Not family or friends – a woman he’d only met twice.
It doesn’t add up.
At Chappie’s Café? 11 a.m.? Do the police have any leads about who attacked you?
I’m not sure what I expect back, but the reply is straightforward enough:
11 is good. Haven’t heard from the police. CU2moz!
The biggest problem I have with all this is why would anybody bother with it all? If Harry is trying to con me into a relationship, am I that desirable? Do I offer something that another person couldn’t? Or is he after something else?
I leave the text messages there and it’s only a few seconds later that Nick returns. He seems shattered and pours himself the rest of the wine, downing half a glass in one.
‘It’s Ravi,’ he says. ‘He wants to break up.’
I let Nick talk and offer the odd consoling word. Alcohol gets me giddy, but it’s all tears for Nick as he tells me everything that’s been going on in his relationship for, seemingly, the past two years. He opens a second bottle, but I wave it away, worried I’ll have a thick head in the morning.
It’s possibly because he’s been talking for so long, but I almost miss Nick’s throwaway line. I have to stop him with, ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
He pauses mid-sentence and then repeats what I thought he had. ‘I said perhaps I should cry on the shoulder of the guy across the hall from you.’
‘You’ve seen the person who lives opposite me?’ I reply, suddenly feeling sober.
Nick shrugs as if this is a perfectly normal thing. ‘He was on his way out one day. We nodded to each other on the stairs.’
‘You nodded?’
He breaks into a boozy giggle. ‘Is it that hard to believe?’
My thoughts suddenly feel very focused. It’s not Melanie who’s been across the halclass="underline" it’s a man. Perhaps it is Harry…?
‘What does he look like?’ I ask.
Nick purses his lips and holds his arm up. ‘Tall and dark. A bit stubbly. My type.’
I dig for my phone and swipe through the pictures until I find one of Harry. ‘Like this?’ I ask, flipping the screen around.
Nick shakes his head. ‘It’s not like I was staring – but I’m pretty sure that’s not him.’ He pauses and then adds: ‘Why? Do you think you know him?’
‘I don’t know.’
We sit for a moment and I’m almost disappointed. There’s a huge part of me that wants to be wrong about Harry – but things would’ve been so much clearer if Nick had said yes.
I keep scrolling through photos, flicking further and further back in time. There are so many of Billy. He’s in the park, chasing around with another dog; he’s at Parkrun; he’s on the beach barking at the ocean; he’s pounced on an ice cream that I dropped. The years flash by until it’s before Billy came into my life. There’s an enormous gap that means only desolation and acceptance. My life changed for the worse and I didn’t feel the need to catalogue it. Back further and there he is. It’s Ben and me at a festival the summer before the train crash. I’m in a pork pie hat and he’s giving the camera a thumbs-up. Memories never die in these modern times.
I’m not sure why I do it, but I zoom in on Ben’s face and then turn the phone for Nick to see.
‘How about him?’ I ask.
I expect a shake of the head, an instant ‘no’, but that’s not what happens.
Nick pouts out his bottom lip and squints.
‘Maybe… he was sort of similar, but this guy had longer hair. He was wearing a cap. It’s hard to say.’
I have no idea how to reply and Nick follows up with, ‘Do you know him?’
‘Perhaps…’
Nick reaches for the phone and has a closer look. He leans in and pinches the screen before handing the phone back with a scratch of the head. ‘This guy is a bit different. I can’t explain what I mean. The same but not the same.’
‘Like a brother?’
He clicks his fingers. ‘Yeah,’ Nick says. ‘Like a brother.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I have no idea what people with no job fill their time with. After waking up, I decide I’m definitely going to do some university work, but then resolve that I won’t be able to concentrate until I’ve had my showdown with Harry. I try television, but Piers Morgan’s face is as appealing as a yeast infection. After that, it’s the radio – but there’s a phone-in and Steve from Basildon is arguing with a Nobel prize-winning economist about how finance works, so that goes off, too.
I take Billy for a walk that’s as long as he can handle and, as best I can tell, he’s back to his old self. He dives off into the nooks and alleys, wanting to explore, though I keep a close eye on anything he tries to pick up from the paths. I think about last night and Nick partially recognising Ben… but I wonder if it was because he’d had too much to drink. Not that I’m one to talk.