Nash
Google Maps directs me through the city’s backstreets, with graffitied walls and mystical shops where the smell shifts from salty air to incense to weed. The map directs me to a muddy park called The Level, which I follow until I cross the road onto Primrose Street. This can’t be it.
Primrose Street is narrow with terraced houses in mismatched colours and two lines of cars packed tightly together. The pin in my phone suggests Lace lives in the middle house. There is no way she would live on a street as quiet as this.
‘Are you delivering an iPhone by any chance?’ he asks.
‘Erm . . . no,’ I say. He looks disappointed. ‘I’m Amy, I’m trying to find Lace.’
‘Lace, did you say?’ the man says, and lets out a big ‘HA’. ‘I haven’t heard someone call her that since school.’
‘Olivia, sorry.’ I fake a laugh to cover my mistake.
He narrows his eyes. ‘How do you know her?’ I go to answer, but then he says, ‘Actually, I’m dying for a cuppa. Come in and you can tell me.’ He leaves the door open behind him.
He calls out, ‘How do you like your tea, Amy?’
I am standing in a narrow hallway with a staircase and a line of shoes. There are women’s white trainers, men’s running trainers and black flat pumps that seem far too clunky for Lace. I peer at the envelope from my bag to double-check that I have the right number: 56. I do.
‘Erm, milk and no sugar,’ I call back. There is art everywhere.
The walls are filled with framed abstract pieces; one of a ballet dancer spinning in motion and another of a blue blob.
I step into a pastel pink kitchen. It’s a cosy, homely space, with a round wooden table.
There are succulents in the window and a row of Mason jars filled with seeds and beans on a shelf.
On the wall, there are candid photos of people in frames, a farmhouse clock and a blackboard with ‘Grab some sourdough’ written on it.
The man hands me a white mug that says Home Sweet Home in italic letters.
‘I’m Nash,’ he says.
I take the mug and inspect the tea; it’s milkier than how I usually drink it, but I thank him anyway.
‘So, how do you know Olivia?’ He leans against the bench, coolly sipping from his mug. He seems a lot more relaxed than he did in Spitalfields Market.
‘She recently made my wedding dress,’ I say.
‘Congratulations.’
‘Oh, I didn’t go through with it.’ I wave my ringless hand in the air with a nervous laugh.
‘Oh, sorry.’ He sucks air with his teeth. His face shifts as if something has just clicked in his mind. ‘Oh, wait! Were you the client who had to rush her wedding because the grandad had dementia or something?’
‘Erm, sorry, who are you?’ I ask. Whatever has clicked in his head, hasn’t clicked in mine.
‘Nash,’ he repeats slowly, like I’m crazy.
‘I mean, are you Olivia’s . . . boyfriend? Brother?’
Nash puts up his hand, where there is a gold band on his wedding finger.
‘I went through with it.’ He smiles. My stomach drops. Lace has a husband. ‘I’m guessing I wasn’t the hot topic of conversation?’ he says, sounding a little hurt.
I begin stuttering. ‘Well, I was just a client, so—’
‘It’s okay,’ he cuts in. ‘It was a strange time for her. For us.’
‘Strange time, how?’ I ask. Suddenly the front door slams.
‘Probably best if you talk to her yourself,’ Nash says. We listen to the commotion in the hallway of keys being dropped and shoes being taken off.
‘Got the sourdough,’ a voice yells.
‘We’re in the kitchen,’ Nash yells back.
‘Who is we?’ she says, and a moment later, Lace appears holding a bag with bread poking out of the top.
She freezes in the doorway, like she’s accidentally walked into the wrong room.
She’s not in a classic black outfit but in baggy jeans and an oversized beige jumper.
Her hair is flat, her eyes are not lined with flicked eyeliner, and her lips are not painted Hollywood red. This is not Lace, this is Olivia.
‘Amy. You’re in my kitchen,’ she says. Her childlike voice is now deeper and ordinary. The kind of voice that you don’t really think about.
‘I am,’ I say.
She puts down the bread and offers me another cup of tea.