Page 23 of Too Busy for Love

‘Absolutely. As soon as we’re finished here, DS Hollis will escort you back to the desk, and the custody officer will return it. Anything else?’

‘No. Not that I can think of.’

‘Great. Thank you for being so co-operative, Beatrice, and I’m sorry you had to go through this.’ She picks up the folder of papers and gets to her feet. ‘There’s a toilet by the front door if you need to sort yourself out a bit once the paperwork is complete. Oh, and I’m going to give you my card. If you need to speak to me for any reason, it has the number of my direct line.’

I take the card she’s holding out and put it in my purse, although I can’t think what would make me want to call her. I’m still trying to process what they’ve said as I follow DS Hollis back through the door to the desk. How can something as enormous as telling me I’m a free woman be made to feel so mundane?

When we get to the desk, I’m relieved to see that Jock is already there, waiting for me. My hands are still shaking as I sign the forms and the custody officer hands my phone back. I try to turn it on, but there’s no charge, unsurprisingly.

‘What happened to you?’ Jock asks, his voice full of concern.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You look like you’ve just stepped out of a boxing ring.’

‘He’s not wrong,’ the custody officer agrees. ‘Toilets are just behind you if you need them.’

I don’t really want to go into the toilets. I want to go through the front door and get as far away from here as I possibly can, but the look of concern on both men’s faces convinces me that I ought to take a look at least. As soon as I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror, I can see what they mean. My eyes are red and puffy from crying; my face is blotchy and there’s a nasty shiny track from my nose down to my mouth. I turn on the cold tap and splash my face with water to try to get rid of the worst of it. By the time I’m done, I’m still no portrait, but I’m unlikely to frighten children in the street.

‘I’ve called a taxi,’ Jock tells me when I reappear. ‘It should be here in ten minutes or so.’

‘Great. Can we wait outside?’

‘Of course.’

‘What happened?’ Jock asks again once we’re through the door and out of earshot of the police.

‘I had a bit of a meltdown when they shut me in the interview room,’ I explain.

He pulls me into a tight hug and kisses the top of my head. ‘It’s over, Beatrice,’ he says. ‘We’re free.’

I’m still trying to process that information as we head back to the hotel. He’s right. It’s over, and I can start planning for the future again. I feel light-headed with relief as the taxi pulls up outside the back door and we clamber out.

‘I’ve got a few things I need to sort out,’ Jock tells me once we’re inside. ‘I’ll see you in the bar at seven, OK?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Our celebration.’

‘Oh yes. Sorry. Best dress.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that and I’ve decided to make a change. Dress warmly instead.’

‘How formal?’

‘Jeans and hoodie are fine, but make sure you’ve got a coat. We’re going to be outdoors.’

As soon as I get into my room, I plug my phone in to charge before sitting on the bed and reflecting on everything that’s happened in the last week. I’m free. It’s over. On the one hand, I’m ecstatic, obviously. I can start looking for work and get my life back on track. But I can’t deny I’m going to miss the little bubble that Jock and I have been in since we were arrested. We’ve both been up front about the fact that this was never going to turn into anything more, that we’d be going our separate ways, but part of me can’t help wishing that it could have been something more. I’m going to miss him, that’s for sure. But we’ve got to be realistic; we both need jobs and the probabilityof finding a hotel that needs both a head chef and a manager is non-existent.

To distract myself from thinking about Jock, I let my eyes wander round the room that’s been my home since I started at Hotel Dufour. I haven’t really spent any time in here since my arrest, but sitting in here now reminds me that other people, people I don’t know, have been in this room going through my stuff. I consider my options as I lay back on my bed. I decide to have a purge and get rid of everything that reminds me of Madame (the black skirts and jackets, plus the white blouses), and replace all my underwear. People rifling through my jeans and tops I can cope with. Rummaging through my knickers and bras, no.

I grab a couple of bin bags from the communal kitchen and start stuffing clothes into them. By the time I’m done, my wardrobe is looking surprisingly bare, but I feel much better. Two hours later, my bra and knicker drawers are refreshed with the new underwear I’ve bought, I’ve changed what I’m wearing and all of the unwanted clothes have either been donated to charity or binned. My phone is now fully charged, so I turn it on.

At first glance, I haven’t missed much. There are the text and voicemail messages I was expecting from Mum on the day I was arrested, plus some missed calls from unfamiliar numbers that I’m guessing were probably journalists. However, I’m bombarded with notifications from my normally silent social media feeds, and I quickly discover they’re all from people checking in to see if I’m OK. It’s a nice feeling to know that people have been worried about me; since moving to London, I’ve been so immersed in my work that, not only have I not made any friends down here, I also haven’t really kept in regular contact with people I was close to at home and uni. I seize the opportunity to catch up with a few of them, passing several hours very happily. I even managed to have a reasonablyconstructive conversation with my parents, inasmuch as they agreed to let me stay with them while I search for a new job. I’m certain I want to look for another post in London, but there’s no way I can afford to stay here while I’m officially unemployed. Also, although you could never accuse me of suffering from lack of motivation, being under the same roof as Mum and Dad is going to seriously focus my mind on finding a new position.

I’m aware of Jock returning late in the afternoon but, now that we’re no longer tied together by our bail conditions and we’re about to go our separate ways, I feel a little unsure about how I’m supposed to act with him. Yes, we’ve had sex twice, but maybe they were just acts of desperation between two frightened people. The fact remains that our destinies are different, this has just been a refuge for us both when we needed it, and I know I need to let him go. Despite that, I feel a pang of sadness that this will be our last night together, and I’m in a reflective mood when we meet in the bar at seven.

‘Are you OK?’ Jock asks as the taxi trundles west. ‘You’re very quiet.’

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