I couldn’t stay in Nathan’s room much longer. The previous morning I had woken with his big arm slung over me and something hard pressing into the small of my back. The cushion wall had apparently gone awry, migrating to a chaotic heap at our feet. I froze, attempted to wriggle discreetly out of his sleeping grasp and he had opened his eyes, looked at me, then leapt out of bed as if he had been stung, a pillow clutched in front of his groin. ‘Mate. I didn’t mean – I wasn’t trying to –’
‘No idea what you’re talking about!’ I insisted, pulling a sweatshirt over my head. I couldn’t look at him in case it –
He hopped from foot to foot. ‘I was just – I didn’t realize I … Ah, mate. Ah, Jeez.’
‘It’s fine! I needed to get up anyway!’ I bolted and hid in the tiny bathroom for ten minutes, my cheeks burning, while I listened to him crashing around and getting dressed. He was gone before I came out.
What was the point in trying to stay after all? I could only sleep in Nathan’s room for a night or two more at most. It looked like the best I could expect elsewhere, even if I was lucky enough to find alternative employment, was a minimum-wage job and a cockroach- and bedbug-infested flat-share. At least if I went home I could sleep on my own sofa. Perhaps Treen and Eddie were besotted enough with each other that they would move in together and then I could have my flat back. I tried not to think about how that would feel – the empty rooms and the return to where I had been six months earlier, not to mention the proximity to Sam’s workplace. Every siren I heard passing would be a bitter reminder of what I had lost.
It had started to rain, but I slowed as I approached the building and glanced up at the Gopniks’ windows from under my woollen hat, registering that the lights were still on, even though Nathan had told me they were out at some gala event. Life had moved on for them as smoothly as if I had never existed. Perhaps Ilaria was up there now, vacuuming, or tutting at Agnes’s magazines scattered over the sofa cushions. The Gopniks – and this city – had sucked me in and spat me right out. Despite all her fond words, Agnes had discarded me as comprehensively and completely as a lizard sheds its skin – and not cast a backward look.
If I had never come, I thought angrily, I might still have a home. And a job.
If I had never come, I would still have Sam.
The thought caused my mood to darken further and I hunched my shoulders and thrust my freezing hands into my pockets, prepared to head back to my temporary accommodation, a room I had to sneak into, and a bed I had to share with someone who was terrified of touching me. My life had become ridiculous, a looping bad joke. I rubbed my eyes, feeling the cold rain on my skin. I would book my ticket tonight and I would go home on the next available flight. I would suck it up and start again. I didn’t really have a choice.
Everything has its time.
It was then that I spotted Dean Martin. He was standing on the covered carpet that led up to the apartment building, shivering without his coat on and glancing around as if deciding where to go next. I took a step closer, peering into the lobby, but the night man was busy sorting through some packages and hadn’t seen him. I couldn’t see Mrs De Witt anywhere. I moved swiftly, leant down and scooped him up before he had time to grasp what I was doing. Holding his wriggling body at arms’ length, I ran in and swiftly up the back stairs to take him back to her, nodding at the night man as I went.
It was a valid reason for being there, but I emerged from the stairs onto the Gopniks’ corridor with trepidation: if they returned unexpectedly and saw me, would Mr Gopnik conclude I was up to no good? Would he accuse me of trespass? Did it count if I was on their corridor? These questions buzzed around my head as Dean Martin writhed furiously and snapped at my arms.
‘Mrs De Witt?’ I called softly, peering behind me. Her front door was ajar again and I stepped inside, lifting my voice. ‘Mrs De Witt? Your dog got out again.’ I could hear the television blaring down the corridor and took a few steps further inside.
‘Mrs De Witt?’
When no answer came, I closed the door gently behind me and put Dean Martin on the floor, keen not to hold him for any longer than I had to. He immediately trotted off towards the living room.
‘Mrs De Witt?’
I saw her leg first, sticking out on the floor beside the upright chair. It took me a second to register what I was seeing. Then I ran round to the front of the chair and threw myself to the floor, my ear to her mouth. ‘Mrs De Witt?’ I said. ‘Can you hear me?’
She was breathing. But her face was the blue-white of marble. I wondered briefly how long she had been there.
‘Mrs De Witt? Wake up! Oh, God … wake up!’
I ran around the apartment, looking for the phone. It was in the hallway, situated on a table that also housed several phone books. I rang 911 and explained what I had found.
‘There’s a team on its way, ma’am,’ came the voice. ‘Can you stay with the patient and let them in?’
‘Yes, yes, yes. But she’s really old and frail and she looks like she’s out cold. Please come quickly.’ I ran and fetched a quilt from her bedroom and placed it over her, trying to remember what Sam had told me about treating the elderly who had taken a fall. One of the biggest risks was their growing chilled from lying undiscovered for hours. And she felt so cold, even with the full blast of the building’s central heating. I sat on the floor beside her and took her icy hand in mine, stroking it gently, trying to let her know somebody was there. A sudden thought crossed my mind: if she died, would they blame me? Mr Gopnik would testify that I was a criminal, after all. I wondered briefly about whether to run, but I couldn’t leave her.
It was during this tortured train of thought that she opened an eye.
‘Mrs De Witt?’
She blinked at me, as if trying to work out what had happened.
‘It’s Louisa. From across the corridor. Are you in pain?’
‘I don’t know … My … my wrist …’ she said weakly.
‘The ambulance is coming. You’re going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay.’
She looked blankly at me, as if trying to piece together who I was, whether what I was saying made any sense. And then her brow furrowed. ‘Where is he? Dean Martin? Where’s my dog?’
I scanned the room. Over in the corner the little dog was parked on his backside, noisily investigating his genitals. He looked up when he heard his name and adjusted himself back into a standing position. ‘He’s right here. He’s okay.’
She closed her eyes again, relieved. ‘Will you look after him? If I have to go to the hospital? I am going to the hospital, aren’t I?’
‘Yes. And of course.’
‘There’s a folder in my bedroom that you need to give them. On my bedside table.’
‘No problem. I’ll do that.’
I closed my hands around hers, and while Dean Martin eyed me warily from the doorway – well, me and the fireplace – we waited in silence for the paramedics to come.
I travelled to the hospital with Mrs De Witt, leaving Dean Martin in the apartment as he wasn’t allowed in the ambulance. Once her paperwork was done and she was settled, I headed for the Lavery, reassuring her that I would look after the dog. I would be back in the morning to let her know how he was doing. Her tiny blue eyes filled with tears as she issued croaking instructions as to his food, his walks, his various likes and dislikes, until the paramedic shushed her, insisting that she needed to rest.