She realises the word is an introduction, shakes the hand he offers. ‘Hi, Thomas.’
‘Welcome to Beulah Grove. I live upstairs.’ He points upwards, in case she is in any doubt as to where it might be.
‘In the attic,’ says Hossein.
‘Oh, right,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know there was an attic flat.’
‘It’s a Tardis,’ says Thomas. ‘I keep thinking I’m going to stumble across a secret portal to another dimension. How are you?’ he asks Hossein.
‘I’m okay,’ says Hossein. ‘But I’m afraid poor Vesta’s been burgled.’
Thomas drops his courier bag on to the carpet. ‘No!’
Hossein nods solemnly.
‘Christ! I knew it. I knew it would happen. It’s that girl. I swear she doesn’t understand how a door works. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve just found it hanging open. Oh, poor Vesta.’
‘It wasn’t the front door,’ says Hossein. ‘Whoever it was came in through the garden.’
Thomas seems to simply tune this out. He turns to Collette and puts a hand on her upper arm. Instinctively, she goes to pull back. It’s overfamiliar, this touch. Grabby. ‘You need to make sure you keep your door locked, even when you just go to the loo, young lady. Especially living in that room. Easy access from the street, you see. Opportunists. They can be in and out in a minute. Poor Vesta.’
‘I don’t think it was opportunists,’ says Hossein. ‘It looks as if…’
‘You can’t be too careful,’ Thomas continues, as if Hossein hadn’t spoken. Hossein looks irritable, then forces a look of patience on to his face. He’s clearly used to this man talking without listening. ‘I don’t even like leaving my windows open, when I go out. Even on the top floor.’
She slides her arm out from his clutch, steps back towards the sanctuary of her door. ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Seriously,’ says Thomas. ‘I wouldn’t even go to sleep with your window open, if it was me. Someone could easily…’
‘Yes, thanks,’ she snaps. ‘I feel much safer now.’
‘Well, I’m just saying. I mean, I don’t suppose Vesta…’
She’s got the door open. ‘Yes, thank you.’
He starts walking towards her, as though he’s assumed that the open door is some sort of invitation. ‘Why don’t I…’
‘Yes, maybe some other time,’ she says. Hossein meets her eyes behind her back, and winks. He’s biting his lower lip, and his eyes shine with merriment. Ah, the house bore, she thinks.
‘It’s no problem,’ continues Thomas. ‘It won’t take a —’
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘Ooh! There’s my phone! Got to go!’
She skips inside and closes the door.
Chapter Eight
There’s a new tenant in Nikki’s room. Barely time for her sheets to get cold. Thin and nervous-looking, creamy skin – Scottish blood, perhaps? Or Irish? – thick fair curls pulled to the back of her head with a rubber band and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She doesn’t look as if she belongs here. But then, he wonders, which one of us does look like we belong here? Maybe that’s what all the people who live in houses like this have in common: that we all look like we’re just passing through. And, of course, most of us are.
I’ll have to get to know her, he thinks. Find out her story. She looks… interesting. Like she might have a tale or two to tell. Like she might be one of those strangers who could one day become a friend.
He thinks about her as he makes his preparations. Marianne, with her long dark hair and her scarlet manicure, watches him silently from the armchair. Today, she is dressed in an olive-green silk shift dress, size ten from the Monsoon sale. It hangs off her in folds, far too large, but it’s a good colour and an elegant cut, and he can always take it in; he’s become handy at many skills, over the years. He picked it based on the labels in the clothes she was wearing when they met, but of course she has lost weight since then, gone down to the level of emaciation you generally only see in famine zones, or Hollywood. He needs to remember this, for the future. His lovely friends are thin. Fashionably thin, and then some.
He has bought a new set of plastic sheeting from the builder’s merchant off the Balham High Road. The Lover doesn’t like to attract attention to himself by buying his supplies too close to home, or too many from the same source. It’s time-consuming, but he knows it’s worth it. He could, for instance, have bought the bicarb at £29.99 for twenty-five kilos on eBay, the washing soda at the cash and carry, but he doesn’t want to do anything that will cause remark. So every day, he goes into each supermarket he passes and drops a single pack into his Bag For Life, carries it home bit by bit to store in his cupboards. The bicarb he buys from the craft shop, two, three, kilos at a time, along with bottles of essential oils, which work wonders for smells. The nice, home-knit ladies behind the counter believe he has a hobby business making bath bombs which he sells on Etsy. It’s an unorthodox pastime for a man, but in this increasingly metrosexual age, not odd enough to attract attention.