Page 64 of A Face in the Crowd
‘I don’t want to do it,’ I reiterate.
‘Ah, but you’ve not heard what I have to say. There’s a fee involved. Probably a few hundred. I thought—’
‘I’m still not interested.’
Silence.
When her reply eventually comes, Gloria’s forced sweetness of moments before is a thing of the past. ‘You know, Lucy, you could at least show a little gratitude. I’ve gone out a limb for you. I know your financial situation isn’t great, so I’m trying to help you out. The least you could do is—’
I hang up. Even on the best of days, I don’t have time for this sort of thing. It feels like such a long time ago that she phoned and wanted to talk about money. It seems so naïve now that I thought she might have somehow been responsible for the envelope.
Gloria rings me straight back but I ignore the call.
Seconds later, a text arrives:
Did we get cut off? Can you call me back? X
I have no idea why she attached a kiss. I delete the text and then block her number. It’s not even about the documentary. I probably wouldn’t have been interested anyway – but if she’d asked in the right way, by explaining what it was about, I might have said yes. If it had the right tone, I’d have done it for free. I’ve never wanted to profit from the crash or what happened to Ben and I’ve had enough deception in my life. Approaching the relatives of people who’ve died to see who might tell their story for the least amount of money is hardly the right way to do things.
I return to my laptop, but there’s still no reply to my email from whoever put up the posters. I’m not sure what to do next. Confronting Harry doesn’t feel like a good idea – largely because doing that with Melanie gave me more questions than answers.
Billy is still a little wary of me and I find myself by the window, staring out to the road below. Groups of kids in school uniform are scuffing their way home and the light is starting to go. I always hate it when the clocks go back. It feels as if the final vestiges of summer have given up and there’s only cold, dark and grimness ahead. For as long as I live, I’ll never understand people who like winter. Summer is sun and light; it’s optimism and hope. Winter is everything summer isn’t.
Condensation is starting to cling to the glass and I feel my mood being pulled down to align with the murk outside. It’s as the gloom is settling, in more ways than one, that I spot a familiar figure standing on the opposite side of the road. I duck instinctively, only risking the merest of peeps over the ledge in case I’ve been seen. I crouch and almost crawl away from the window until I’m out of sight from the road. Billy eyes me suspiciously and I don’t blame him.
I unwedge the chair from the door and, when I get onto the landing, the music from across the hall has gone silent. No time for that now. I rush down the stairs and head for the back door but am moving so single-mindedly that I almost bump into Vicky in the hall. She steps out of the way with an ‘oh’ and almost falls into her door.
‘Sorry,’ I say, still edging towards the door at the back.
Vicky reaches out a hand to stop me. There’s more clarity than when I last saw her in the laundry room. The tiredness has lifted.
‘Did you, um…’ She looks both ways and then leans closer. ‘Someone put money under my door. You’re the only person I told about being short on rent. I kept meaning to knock on your door and ask if it was you, but…’ The sentence meanders away into a nervous smile.
‘I won a bit of money on a scratch card,’ I say.
She glances over her shoulder to make sure nobody’s there and then turns back. ‘I’ll pay you back.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I’ve got a job now. It all happened really suddenly. One of my friends saw a sign in a café and I went over there. Got chatting to the owner and started the next day. I think it might work out.’ She digs into her back pocket and comes out with a crumpled twenty-pound note, which she offers. ‘Here,’ she says.
‘I don’t want your money.’
‘Please take it. I don’t want charity.’
She strains forward a little further and it feels as if I have no choice. I take the money and push it into my own pocket.
‘Can we call the rest a gift?’ I say. ‘Not charity. I had a bit of luck and I wanted to share that luck with you.’
Vicky presses her lips together and takes a small step backwards. ‘Okay,’ she says. Somehow, in that one word, there’s a crack in her voice.
‘I have to go,’ I say.
She nods and whispers ‘thank you’, before stepping to the side.
Some of my momentum has been lost, but the fresh air of being outside reinvigorates my thoughts. I hurry along the back of Hamilton House and then loop around until I’m halfway along the road.
The man with the jacket that’s covered in sew-on badges is standing next to a postbox, partly in the shadows. His face is lit by the light from his phone, which at least means he’s not quite paying attention.
