‘What about it?’
‘I called Bright White Enterprises and nobody knew you?’
The silence is worse than the incredulity. I can hear a spoon clinking on a mug across the room and there’s a vague rattling coming from the kitchen. Other than that, everyone is quiet.
‘You called my office?’ Harry says after an excruciating pause.
‘Yes. The guy said there’s no Harry Smith working there.’
‘That’s because nobody there calls me Harry. It’s “Haitch” or “Aitch”. That’s what people called me at school and it’s continued. Everyone calls me that – but I didn’t want to say that to you because it sounds a bit silly.’
Harry pushes himself up and takes the jacket from the back of his chair. He puts it on and does the keys, wallet, phone check. He takes a step away from the table and then moves back, leaning in close so that nobody can overhear.
‘I don’t want to be mean,’ he says, ‘but I can’t think of a nicer way to say this. You’ve got problems, Lucy. Serious, psychological problems. This is not normal. I hope you know that.’ He stands straighter, thinks about it and then crouches once more. ‘Also, I don’t think we should see each other again.’
With that, he stands, drops a ten-pound note on the table, nods to the waitress and then strides out of the café and out of my life.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Billy senses my mood when I get home. He follows me around the apartment and then snuggles into me on the sofa. He doesn’t even beg for food.
‘Well, Bill,’ I tell him. ‘I’m an idiot.’
He looks up to me and doesn’t disagree. It takes an incredible degree of obliviousness to think someone else is a stalker – and then pay for CCTV photos that end up proving the person with a problem is me.
I flick through the pictures once more and, in frame after frame, I’m ignoring the world around me. The truth is that anyone could have dropped that envelope into my bag; the music across the corridor could be a coincidence and Mark might have poisoned Billy and Judge.
That leaves one thing that’s harder to resolve – why Melanie’s jacket was in Jade’s old apartment. Was the door left open by accident, or was I meant to find it? I suppose it could be a coat like Melanie’s – and hers was stolen from the line at the same time. It would be taking flukes to a new level, but I suppose crazier things have happened.
I spend a few hours doing little other than not really watching television, while cringing every time I think about the way I embarrassed myself. It’s only as the clock ticks around to six that I remember it’s Karen’s big night.
I’m not in the partying mood – but that’s something I could have said on almost every day of my life. It’s only my specific birthdays up to the age of about eleven or twelve on which I might have felt differently. After that, it’s been a consistent lifetime of not being in the mood for revelling.
That said, I do have enough self-awareness to realise that tonight is not about me. Karen’s never had a birthday party, so the least I can do as her friend is actually go to this one.
Even with the money I’ve spent, I’ve done very little to expand my wardrobe, so there’s not a lot of choice when it comes to what to wear. Karen never mentioned fancy dress to me, even though Nick says he’s going as a sexy zombie. If he’s the only one, there’s going to be quite the clash of style… although if an attack of the undead does ever happen, they could launch it at Halloween and it would only be the morning after that anyone would notice a problem. Either way, I go for jeans and a warm blankety top. It’s November after all.
The Rec Centre is a council-run building that’s used for everything from Sunday-morning yoga classes, to drop-in citizens’ advice sessions, to a polling station every time the government decides to call an election or referendum. That seems to happen with alarming regularity at the moment. It’s the type of council resource that will be cut sooner or later – and then disappear for good. Considering the building is literally on our doorstep, it’s probably to my shame that I never use it for anything. When it is cut, it will be because of people like me.
Billy and I head down to the party at almost eight o’clock. The posters say seven – but only nutters will show up that early. Half-past is still dicing with trouble at being one of the first to arrive. It’s an awkward time in that there might be a high strangers-to-friends ratio, which means talking to somebody unknown is a real possibility. Not only that, but it’s hard to know if going to the buffet that early is acceptable. Nobody wants to be the first. Waiting an hour seems the most sensible option.
The party is being held in the room at the back of the centre. There are handwritten signs with ‘party’ over the top of an arrow stuck to the glass doors at the front. I follow the building around until I’m at the back where there’s a large expanse of grass and a children’s play park. Sulphur hangs in the air and there’s a cloud of smoke clinging to the trees at the furthest end. There is the faintest orangey haze beyond the hedge line, so there’s either a bonfire, or something’s ablaze at the back of the industrial park. Tonight must be a pyromaniac’s dream.
Intermittent whizzes and bangs from overhead have Billy on edge and he keeps close to my legs, to such a degree that I almost fall over him twice on the way to the doors at the back of the Rec Centre.
There are floor-to-ceiling windows attached to the hall, with patio doors that are wide open. A song I vaguely recognise is seeping through, while spinning coloured lights are flickering back and forth.
When we get inside, Billy seemingly forgets the trauma of the fireworks outside – largely because there are almost as many dogs present as people. The floor is the same type of varnished wood that was in the gym when I was at school and Billy tugs at his lead, scratching and sliding his way across it until he’s in a clutch of wagging tails with all the other pets. I let him off his lead and he darts in small circles, as happy as I’ve seen him. He sniffs around Judge – and then moves onto the others. Someone’s Yorkshire terrier is dressed as a pumpkin, while a French bulldog is wearing a ninja turtle outfit. I wonder if the other dogs feel underdressed.
Karen spots us straight away. She’s in a sparkly black dress and, from the speed at which she’s talking, already tipsy.
‘You’re here!’ she says excitedly before gripping me in a hug that’s borderline assault. I gasp for breath until she releases me. ‘I’m so glad you came.’
‘Of course I was going to be here.’
She crouches and strokes Billy’s back – although he’s unaware because he’s busy flirting with the ninja turtle. He always was more sociable than me.
‘Good showing, isn’t it?’ she says.
I turn and take in the room. There are birthday banners across the doors and three disco balls hanging from the ceiling – but, more importantly, a good forty to fifty people mingling.
‘There’s a pound off at the bar for people who live at Hamilton,’ Karen says. ‘Just tell them your flat number. Jamie’s on top of it all.’
Karen waves across towards the bar, which is set up in one of the corners. There are two smartly dressed barmen in waistcoats and the taller of the two waves back at her.
Karen nods across to a speaker on the edge of the stage: ‘The DJ wanted £200, so I set up a playlist on my phone,’ she adds. ‘It’s all eighties, nineties and two-thousands stuff. None of the new rubbish. If you want a request, I can add it to the playlist if I’ve got it on my phone.’
‘I think I’ll leave the music to you,’ I say.