We wouldn’t normally have had the ingredients to mix a recognizable cocktail, but I had the foresight to stop at the off licence on the way home. A Google search while browsing the spirits turned up a list of about two hundred recipes to choose from. I made a shortlist of cocktails with names I liked, then whittled this list further by eliminating anything too complicated, too boring or that involved raw eggs, and eventually settled on Death in the Afternoon – a shot of absinthe served straight up with chilled champagne. It had been invented by Hemingway, and while I was not a huge fan of Hemingway’s writing, I certainly admired his willingness to push the alcohol envelope. Unfortunately, it transpired that the off licence only had cava, but the result was still pretty much as Wikipedia suggested it should be: the mixture frothed, emulsified, and within a few seconds had turned opalescent.
When Beck arrived home, I was waiting for him in the kitchen like a dutiful housewife. He held the tumbler I thrust into his hand in a long, contemplative silence, before saying, ‘Um, what’s this?’
‘It’s Death in the Afternoon,’ I explained. ‘I’m not going to tell you the ingredients because I want you to guess.’
‘No, that’s not really what I meant,’ he clarified. ‘Are we celebrating something?’
I laughed and patted his arm. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I got my interview with Professor Caborn. I went to see him in Oxford. So there’s my next article.’
‘Professor Caborn . . . The monkey guy?’
‘That’s right. The monkey guy.’
‘Oh. That’s . . . good, I guess. I thought he was ignoring you. What changed?’
‘Nothing changed. I had to get creative.’ I gestured with both hands in an expansive flowing motion that began at my shoulders and ended at my hemline. ‘I made myself harder to ignore.’
At this point, I launched into an intricate and engaging account of my day. I didn’t tell Beck about first class as he could be quite uptight about those little indulgences, but other than that, all the details were there. It felt as if I were telling a story full of interesting and amusing twists, but when I’d come to a standstill, Beck just nodded, a strange look of concentration on his face. He took a small sip from his tumbler – his first – and immediately gagged. ‘Jesus Christ! Is that Pernod and champagne?’
‘No, it’s absinthe and cava. The off licence didn’t have champagne. Don’t look at me like that; it’s a recognized cocktail. Hemingway invented it, hence the name.’
Beck set his drink back down on the table. ‘Abby, listen. How are you feeling?’ He said it in a slightly ominous way that made me want to laugh.
‘I’m fine. I’m more than fine: I’m great.’
‘Okay. But this is all . . . I mean, champagne, sudden trips to Oxford – it’s all a bit—’
I clamped my hands on his cheeks and kissed him on the lips, as this seemed the most efficient way to shut him up. ‘I’m fine,’ I repeated. ‘It’s cava, not champagne. And it wasn’t a sudden trip to Oxford. I’ve been trying to set up this meeting for a month. Conventional means failed so I took a punt. And it paid off. Jess has already said she’ll buy the article – she’s even mentioned the possibility of a column. I feel good and I have every reason to.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ Beck unconsciously reached for his tumbler, raised it to his lips, wrinkled his nose, and set it back down again. ‘I just don’t want you to overdo things. It’s been a difficult month; you need to take things slowly, at least for the next couple of days. Rest. Try to get a full night’s sleep.’
I rolled my eyes indulgently. He was being a little patronizing, but I had no intention of ruining the day with an argument. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll slow down. I’ll make sure I get plenty of sleep. And in return, I want you to relax a bit. Drink your cocktail. Trust me: it’s an acquired taste but definitely worth the effort.’
Beck frowned again at his tumbler. He did not look convinced.
The problem, of course, was that it was all very well saying that I’d try to get a full night’s sleep, but I couldn’t just flick a switch and make it happen. I got up as soon as Beck had drifted off, around midnight. It felt ludicrous to be creeping around in the darkness again, but never mind. It was far too difficult to make him understand. Being awake half the night was only an issue if you chose to make it one. If I slept for three to five hours and it was deep, refreshing sleep, then surely that was enough? It seemed enough. I would only ‘suffer’ with my sleeplessness if I spent too much time in bed worrying about not sleeping. It made far more sense to stay up until I was actually tired and had some chance of sleeping through for a decent stretch.
This turned out to be impeccable logic. I worked until 3.30, went to bed as the sun was coming up, woke at 8.32, and set about taking down the curtains. Beck had already left at this point – presumably, he hadn’t wanted to wake me – so there was no reason not to get straight to work. My sleeping hygiene needed a complete overhaul, especially now that I’d decided to focus on quality rather than quantity. And Professor Caborn was right: the curtains were the obvious place to start. I’d put up with them for over two years, but now their number was up. I yanked them down and stuffed them into a large refuse sack which I tied with a triple knot. It felt wonderfully liberating, like walking out on a failed relationship with no thought of keeping in touch.
An hour later, I was washed, dressed and on my way to the shops. I had dispatched the curtains to the bottom of our wheelie bin with not a moment of regret. Since they were not fit for purpose, I didn’t even think of taking them to a charity shop; it would have been an extremely irresponsible thing to do, like passing on that cursed video tape from The Ring.
The replacement drapes I had in my head were so clear and vibrant I felt as if I could already reach out and touch them. They were essentially the curtains from Jane Eyre’s childhood: a heavy cascade of velvet, the red of clotted blood and so thick they could have stopped a bullet. But when I got to Shepherd’s Bush Market, I found that the soft furnishings store had no such fabric. Furthermore, the vendor was far from helpful in dealing with my request.
‘It can’t be that difficult,’ I told him. ‘I want dark red velvet curtains to cover a window one hundred and twelve by one hundred and thirty centimetres. There must be somewhere in London I can get them.’
The vendor snorted. ‘Try Knightsbridge.’
He was trying to be rude, of course; but actually, this didn’t seem like such a ridiculous suggestion. The best alternative I could come up with was to try all the home stores in Westfield. But it was another glorious summer’s day, and the thought of being cooped up in a shopping centre made me want to howl.
So a couple of Tube rides and Google searches later, I found myself in Laura Ashley Home, where I bought the perfect set of deep-pleated velvet blackout curtains in maroon. They cost £229, which seemed reasonable given that I’d never bought curtains before, and assumed that a good pair should last me a lifetime. I arranged to have them delivered by courier after five o’clock – since now I was in central London, I intended to spend the day there. I figured it would be a crime to come to Knightsbridge and not at least look in some of the clothes shops.
First, though, I sent a text message to my sister asking if she wanted to meet for lunch. I’d ignored three texts and a voicemail since Monday, but now I thought she’d suffered enough. I wasn’t a million miles from her work, and it felt like a day for new beginnings. Plus I didn’t feel like lunching alone. After a rapid SMS negotiation, she agreed to meet me at one. Then I headed up the road to Harvey Nichols.