Page 44 of Don't Let Him In

“God, I don’t know. Could you say you’re the one who is ill? Maybe? That you need a private doctor’s appointment?”

“But those sorts of lies, Damian, they blow up out of all proportion. She’d tell Dad, and Dad would get involved, and then there’d be endless questions and I would have to keep on lying and keep on lying and the whole thing would just…” She explodes the fingers of both hands. “And what about the boys? They’d find out too.”

“Just swear her to secrecy. Tell her you don’t want anyone to know about it. It’s the best solution. It really is. And you could ask for a bigger amount. Enough to tide us both over while we’re waiting for my money to clear. We could even…” I let a small smile form. “We could go away for a few days. Just you and me. Celebrate the end of my treatment. What do you think? Will you do it, Amanda? Will you ask her?”

I see a hundred emotions play out over Amanda’s face as I wait for her to reply. “OhGod, Damian.God. I just… why was life so much simpler without you in it? Sadder. Emptier. Lonelier. But, fuck, so much easier. What is it about you? Why is there always, always something?”

Her voice is raw and desperate, but I can also see the shape of a reluctant smile on her lips, a smile of deep-seated affection that she is trying so hard to control, but she can’t because it’s there, etched on her heart, the way she feels about me, the way she’s always felt about me.Nobody has ever loved me more than Amanda. Especially not that bitch Tara, who, frankly, I cannot believe I wasted four years of my life on. What was I thinking?

Amanda sighs and pulls her blond hair away from her face, bunched inside her hands. She makes a small animal noise and then says, “Urgh. Fine. I’ll ask her. Just”—she turns away from me while she’s still talking and heads toward the sink, where she picks up the scouring sponge and holds it under the tap—“just leave it with me,” she says. “Leave it with me.”

The following day, I am back in the trendy coffee shop on the high street. The girl is there, and as I walk in, I see a strange exchange of looks between her and a man behind the counter whom I assume to be the manager. I head toward him and the girl disappears, leaving the man looking at me awkwardly.

“Good morning,” I say. I am about to order my usual, a white tea and a slice of that remarkable blueberry loaf, when the man clears his throat and says, “Sir, I need to have a word with you.”

I smile amiably and cock my head to one side as if to say,Er, OK.

“Maybe we could…” He gestures to the far end of the counter, away from the customers sitting at tables. I make another face to express my puzzlement but also my amenability, and I follow him.

“It’s about my colleague. The young woman who works here. She’s a very valued employee. She’s worked here for a very long time, and I would be lost without her.”

“Right,” I say. “Yes?”

The young man rearranges his face as he searches for the right words. “The thing is,” he continues, “she tells me that you make her feel… uncomfortable.”

I swallow back the rush of dark anger that floods my nervous system. “I’m sorry,” I say, sounding wryly amused. “What?”

“She says that you are always staring at her, that you walk too close to her. She said that you…” The man looks away and then back at me, trying and failing to fix me with a fearsome look. “… smelled her hair.” He loses his bravado almost immediately. “Or… the back of her neck. Or something, I don’t know. But basically, I need to ask you not to come in here anymore. I’m really sorry.”

I look around to see if anyone has heard this preposterous commentary, but no one has noticed and the girl in question is studiously cleaning tables on the other side of the shop.

“Are you actually being serious?” I ask quietly.

He nods tensely. “Yup. I am. I’m sorry.”

I am not going to make a scene. I am not going to do anything, apart from get a slice of cake and get out of here. My heart is full of rage, but I do not show it, not one iota. “Well,” I say, “that is quite the strangest and weirdest thing I have ever heard. All I have ever been to that young lady is polite, and I have found her to be really quite sullen and—well, unpleasant. But if she has taken my attempts to get her to be friendly the wrong way, then of course I will take the hint and go.”

I see a muscle twitch in the man’s cheek, and he nods. “Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate that. I do. And could I maybe get you something? On the house? By way of…” He shrugs. But I know what he means. He means as an apology for being forced to take her side against mine, when I can tell he’s now on mine.

“Oh,” I say, smiling broadly. “Well, yes. A slice of that cake would be perfect, thank you.”

While he turns to find a bag to put the slice of cake in, I pick up the jar of tips on the counter and pour the coins into my hand. When he turns back, I smile widely and put a pound coin in the empty jar. “Thank you so much,” I say. “I wish you luck.”

I glance toward the problematic waitress, so he is in no doubt about my subtext, and then I leave.

THIRTY-NINE

Martha dumps her bag on the empty chair at the table in the café where she’s just arrived to meet Grace for lunch. “Sorry I’m late,” she says.

“You’re not,” says Grace. “I’m early.”

Al is looking after the shop with Milly, Nala is at the childminder’s, and Martha hasn’t seen Grace since the night they had to take Nala to the hospital nearly three weeks ago.

It’s the eve of Christmas Eve and the café is playing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” There is a vat of mulled wine on the counter exuding the most intoxicating smell and Martha immediately feels herself soften and relax after an insanely busy morning in the shop.

“You look great,” says Grace.

“No, thank you, I don’t.”

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