And that’s exactly what I do at the end of the night, not more than two minutes after my bus deposits me near my Camberwell block of flats. The dial tone and the sound of background traffic is my company as I start walking. When I think it’s going to ring out, he answers.
‘Katharine,’ he says matter-of-factly.
‘Hello.’ I try but can’t help the silly grin that threatens to light up the darkened street.
‘Hello, you.’ His voice dips and is now warm, familiar, and exactly what I want to hear. ‘What are you up to at this time of night?’
‘I’m almost home,’ I say, listening to him mutter about how late it is. ‘Late dinner with Lainey.’
‘Late nights with Lainey sounds like a local radio show.’
‘I know, I know.’ I spin on the spot, randomly checking over my shoulder. A couple with their arms linked and heads dipped towards each other disappear into the shadows of a side street. When my box slips, I hoist it higher under my arm. ‘What are you doing right now?’
‘I have just walked through my front door after a fascinating phone call about a breach of contract case. In a few moments, I may pour myself a cheap whisky, and sit myself down on my sofa and watch the Thames pass by. Now, I think I’ll tug seductively on my silk tie.’
I smile, worrying my bottom lip. ‘Why don’t you bring yourself, and that tie, around to mine? You can poke holes in my deposition?’
He snorts, and I can hear him untwisting a bottle cap. ‘Poke holes in your deposition?’
‘You like it? It’s the only lawyer joke I know.’
‘I am … yep, never going to hear that word the same way again.’ He tries and fails at sounding disgusted.
‘So, are you coming around to interrogate me, or what?’ I try.
‘Katharine, it’s just gone ten thirty,’ he whines. ‘You can’t come here?’
As much as I love the plush fittings and oversized shower at John’s Pimlico flat, I tap my access card against the door lock and shuffle into my building. The box of belongings I’ve been lugging around all night gets dribbled along the floor and into the lift. ‘It’s been a long day. I’ve just got home. I’m going to head inside, then into my shower where I will endeavour to prepare more bad law puns for you. You’ve got twenty minutes.’
‘It’ll take me at least thirty on the bus.’
‘I can clean my place up in thirty minutes, sure.’
John groans. ‘You’re gonna make me get up, aren’t you?’
‘I will get you up, yes.’ I giggle, then thank the late night I’m the only one in the lift. ‘Come on. I’m offering you no strings sex.’
‘Let’s clarify something,’ he says through a chuckle. ‘All of your sex is no strings, so this is just Malibu Stacy with a new hat.’
‘Have you got a problem with that?’ Though I say that, it pinches at something uncomfortable, a tight reminder of what I’m not getting out of this.
‘On the contrary,’ he mumbles. ‘It’s my favourite kind.’
‘See you in thirty?’ The elevator arrives on my floor and my reflection disappears as the doors slide open.
‘Make it twenty.’ He hangs up and dead air fills my ear.
Chapter 3
I roll over and reach for my bedside table, fumbling about for my phone and coming up with a pile of photos wedged beneath an instant camera. The first one is of John, taken only a few hours earlier in the grey and dusty morning light.
Across the hall, I can hear the shower running. It’s odd in that it means he’s stayed the night and hasn’t left me a ‘Dear Katharine’ text like he often does. I wonder if I should pounce and ask what it means, whether these increased overnight stays signal something bigger about to happen, but I’m quite enjoying being snuggled in bed, listening to the sound of his humming occasionally floating above the water.
I twiddle the white-rimmed photo between my fingers. He’s smiling out at me, face half obscured by a pillow that still smells of aftershave, black hair dangling in his eyes where his fringe is getting too long. I joke about him not getting his hair cut, when the truth is, I adore it this length. His left eye is open only enough to show me that immutable spark that hides behind his eyes for everyone but me and his mouth is perfectly carved into a tired smile.
Barely moments after taking the photo, the flash still casting shadows on the wall, he threw a languid arm around my waist. Our limbs were still heavy and warm with sleep as he pulled me underneath him as we greeted the morning the best way we knew how.
Evidence of his stay is spread across the room, slacks crumpled beside the bed, shirt somehow hanging from the doorknob, and his tie is knotted around the bedhead for reasons I’d never speak aloud.
A crash in the kitchen steals my attention. It’s not the cymbal-like clash of pots and pans of someone making breakfast, but the muted clunk of ceramic that doesn’t quite bounce on tiles. My skin prickles because, unless John has grown tentacles in the last few hours, it means that there are now two people other than myself in my flat. Realisation hits me in a cold sweat.
Only one other person has a key to my flat: my brother. I sit up straighter and chew on a hangnail while I consider exactly how I’m going to get out of this. Hint: I won’t.
Adam is thirty-eight, three years older than me, and lives with his wife Sophie in a bigger, brighter, and far more expensive flat in Gladstone House, where I’m certain the minimum dress code for some of the cafés is suit and tie. Bonus points for a horsehair wig.
I pull on the first pair of jeans I see, sniff test a loose T-shirt and take a deep breath. Sweat tickles down my spine as I step out of the bedroom.
When people ask me to describe my flat, I find it easier asking them to imagine a small but cosy hotel room. In fact, I’ve often wondered if this building wasn’t a hotel built and discarded by some huge conglomerate. I have a bedroom, small living room, bathroom, laundry in a cupboard, and a kitchenette, which is where I find Adam. His mousy brown hair protrudes from the horizon of my kitchen counter like a shark fin in the ocean.
‘And a very good morning to you.’ I slip my hands into my pockets and rock on the balls of my feet.
He grumbles, still hunched over the floor, still mopping up his accident.
‘You okay?’ I lean over the counter to see more of him. He barely registers a glance over his shoulder.
‘Dropped a bloody mug, didn’t I?’ He stands, tossing a limp brown bundle of kitchen towel into the sink. ‘Anyway, I thought you were in the shower.’
‘Ah, no,’ I say. ‘That’s not me.’
He nods in the direction of a bouquet of flowers on the white stone bench; dusty pink peonies and roses, sweet peas and ivy wrapped in brown paper and held together with twine. ‘Got anything to do with these?’
What is it about older brothers that makes younger sisters feel like they’ve done something to be embarrassed about? The moment a brother meets a boyfriend is always destined to be a little awkward, but this feels like it’s about to get a whole lot worse.
I dig about my messenger bag for my phone and slip it on charge, surprised to find a barrage of messages from colleagues. Correction: past colleagues. Shaking that from my mind, because I do not want to talk about it, I busy myself searching for a vase. Digging the card out from between the foliage, I smile and feel heat bloom in my cheeks.