Part Three
Monday, 14 October
From: Halley Hart
Subject: The Halley Hart you’re looking for is me
To: Henry Inglis
Dear Henry,
I have to make a confession. The Halley Hart who has been messaging you isn’t the one you encountered in Oxford. That Halley is a forty-nine-year-old who should know far better than to string someone along in response to an email clearly not intended for her. She’s also my kooky mom, whose name I share, since it’s passed down in family tradition. But I told you about that already.
If it’s not already clear, the Halley Hart you were looking for is her daughter, and that is me. (Or should that be, is I ? I’ve never written an apology to a British academic before, and it’s got me flustered about my prose.)
I’m sorry about Mom not being upfront about who she was. By the way, she’s not actually mentally unhinged, but I wouldn’t blame you for assuming so. I should say that she’s told me a little about you, but I didn’t let her forward me all the emails. It feels too much like eavesdropping. So I’ve only read your first one, which I found in my spam after she confessed.
Henry, can I ask why you went to the effort of tracking me down? At first I was influenced by Mom’s assumption about your motivation, but then I worried all night that you’re mad at me? Or just wanting to return my sunglasses?
Again, I’m truly sorry,
Halley
* * *
Tuesday, 15 October
From: Henry Inglis
Subject: The Halley Hart you’re looking for is me
To: Halley Hart
Dear Halley,
I suspect a grammarian would insist that a pronoun following a linking verb should be in the subject case and hence ‘that is I’. Though I believe that ‘that is me’ is entirely valid as a stylistic choice. But to be frank, I find it hard to give a fig either way ― I’m just so glad that you replied.
I’m very sorry, however, that you stayed up all night worrying that I may be mad with you. This is very far from the case. And while I’d be happy to reunite you with your sunglasses, doing so wasn’t on my mind when I set out to find you. I wanted to make contact simply because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. In a good way.
Perhaps though, you don’t recall our... far from standard encounters in the same way I do, in which case I should apologize again. Especially with what I let slip to your mother.
Halley, there are so many things I want to know about you, but it seems unfair to barrage you with questions before I know even whether you’re single, let alone if you share my interest in corresponding. If you do, I’d love to hear... well, in all honesty I’d love to hear anything and everything about you. I’ll start with what I’ve wondered for over three weeks now — where are you?
All best wishes, Henry
* * *
Wednesday, 16 October
From: Halley Hart
Subject: In a Good Way
To: Henry Inglis
Hi Henry,
Far from standard encounters — you like an understatement, huh? I shook water all over you like a wet dog, joined your tour group without paying, stood you up, then I demanded your cab and... did what I did next.
And after all of that, instead of being mad, you went to these efforts to find me. Because you’ve been thinking about me, in a good way. (I’m smiling as I type this.) (Because, despite my embarrassment over kissing a near-stranger like that, I’ve been thinking about you in a good way too.)
And yes , I’m single and yes , want to correspond with you!
Don’t worry about anything you told Mom. It’s her own fault for writing you back. I feel like I should say sorry again for that, but I’ve noticed that we keep saying sorry to each other, Henry, so maybe we should both agree to stop apologizing?
Right now, I’m in the apartment in Palo Alto, California that I rent with my friend Angelie, while I finish up my Astronomy Ph.D. here at Stanford University, where I’m also a senior TA. But I was born and raised in Chicago, and stayed local for undergrad at Northwestern, and I guess I miss it. Usually I get back there for the summer, but I was too busy this year, first working the summer session here, then travelling around Europe, from the base of a London Airbnb my aunt and her husband rented. It was right at the end of that when I went to Oxford.
In case you wondered, I was rushing for the last train so that I could get back to Aunt Edie, ready for our flight early the next morning. Once I was on the airplane, I realized there would have been a bus from Oxford to Heathrow, if I’d missed that last train, but then again, I don’t know how Aunt Edie would have reacted. She’s a lot like Mom, only, believe it or not, even more extra. Also, yes, eldest daughter in the family is Halley, younger daughter is Edie, after Edmond Halley. Their maternal grandmother, however, was an eldest daughter named Mary, so the jury’s out on whether this is a genuine longstanding tradition, or something my great-grandmother came up with.
By the way, you don’t need to feel bad that I was up worrying all night before my first email. It was because I was working — I use Stanford’s telescope to gather my thesis data, which I can obviously only do when it’s dark. (And the sky is cloudless. And there’s not a full moon. And there are no darned fireworks. Which rules out a lot of nights. But that was a perfect, clear and dark one.)
Now over to you, for the same question. I mean, I know you live and work in Oxford, but I want specifics. Like, what’s your subject and what was your journey to becoming an academic/tour guide, and, and, and ... I think you know the feeling.
Halley
* * *
Thursday, 17 October
From: Henry Inglis
Subject: In a Good Way
To: Halley Hart
Dear Halley,
I can’t begin to tell you how delighted I was with your email, and, in all honesty, how relieved, too. In the spirit of your excellent suggestion that we stop apologizing to each other, I won’t say how sorry I am to have contributed to you feeling embarrassed when recalling that kiss, because, as we both know, you merely initiated it. I could have stepped back rather than joining in. For what it’s worth, I haven’t regretted joining in for a moment. Which reminds me to ask if you’d mind passing a message onto your mother, that there are no hard feelings?
My subject is History. I got my BA, masters and doctorate in London, and then, as it so often goes, found myself overqualified and underemployed, with only bits of occasional lecturing work. My sister, Viola, sprang to my rescue, hiring me as a specialist guide at the large cultural tours company she helps run. A year ago I secured this five-year early career fellowship in modern history, and I occasionally still conduct tours when Viola’s short-staffed.
Where I live currently is a small Victorian terraced house in the far north of the city, which I share with Julian Dent, who owns it. We’ve been friends since undergrad, and he now holds a junior research fellowship in Classics, so when I arrived in Oxford it was ideal to move into his spare bedroom. As it happens, though, it’s close to running its course, so I’m currently house hunting. Or viewing overpriced shoe boxes, as these things go in Oxford.
The place I work in is mostly in my office in college, but my college is also much more than just the place I work. It’s central and small and, being founded under a Tudor, it’s neither modern nor one of the truly ancient ones. College is also where I take most of my meals, at hall, which refers to the physical location, as well as the meal itself. Or, some evenings, at formal hall, which is in the same location, but the food’s fancier.
Tell me more about Angelie? And what made you choose Stanford for grad school? And I’d love to hear about your astronomy work. Though, on the latter point, I hope I don’t cause offence by admitting I’m not sure how much I’ll understand. That doesn’t mean I’m not interested, and I’ll do my best to follow.
Halley, we seem to have an awful lot in common, but our memories of our encounters differ. I recall wanting rather desperately to strike up a conversation with you at the coffee shop. When we chanced on each other again, I was so pleased that I insisted on you joining the tour. And I’ve been unable to forgive myself for ruining our dinner plans by accidentally choosing a venue that shared a name with another pub. All this is to say that I’ve never been happier to hear that you’ve been thinking about me in a good way too.
All best wishes, Henry
* * *
Friday, 18 October
From: Halley Hart
Subject: In a Good Way
To: Henry Inglis
Hi Henry,
Telling my mom there’s no hard feelings would be a hard no! She raised me on her own after my dad died (I was so young I don’t remember him, so that’s much sadder for her than it is for me), and I’m her only child, so we’ve always been super close. But her emailing you like she did was so intrusive, when she could have forwarded me your email, or told you straight up that it might be me you were looking for, or like, stayed the hell out of it like a normal human being. She needs to learn that it wasn’t OK, and if she gets even one sniff of no hard feelings she’ll decide she was right all along.
I ended up at Stanford because I didn’t get a fully-funded offer from any of the universities with access to a dark sky observatory, for cutting-edge deep-sky astronomy. But Stanford was a top school offering full course funding and a part-time TA role, so I came here happily enough.
It turned out Stanford were interested in me because of the work I’d done on my home telescope, back in Chicago, to mitigate against light pollution. During the earlier part of my Ph.D. I turned that work into an algorithm, to upgrade the software on other optical telescopes used in areas with too much light pollution. You can imagine the problem like static on a TV, and my work as getting the picture slightly clearer. Then for the past year I’ve been collecting data to prove it works, which is why I pull so many all-nighters up at Stanford’s observatory, in the hills a mile or so from campus.
If my advisor agrees that I have enough data, in our next meeting in late November, I can switch my focus to writing up, then submit my thesis in the summer and start job hunting. Ideally I’d like to stay in academic research, like you, but astronomy isn’t a well-funded field, so openings are pretty sparse.
In my spare time I... hahaha! I think I’ve forgotten what spare time even is.
Angelie and I met our first week here, moved in together our second year, and now she’s my best friend. Last year we decided we’d had enough of life on the farm (Stanford’s nickname!) and moved to a subsidized off-campus apartment. She’s Filipina-American, her family having moved here when she was a few years old. Her hair is currently blue ombre and she has an absolutely stellar brain, which she uses minimally for her computer science Ph.D. (so she’s about a year behind me, I think) and maximally in pursuit of founding a successful tech start-up. She’s increased her chances by helping found nearly as many start-ups as there are days in the week, each with a different team of students, who all think she’s devoted solely to their idea. Somehow she manages to stagger the meetings to keep any of them from figuring out what she’s up to.
I noticed you mentioned that your period is modern history, but you also described Tudor times as though that’s not that old. So tell me, by modern do you mean you actually study modern history, or, like, events that happened centuries before my country was even discovered by Europeans?!
I’ve gotta go supervise a lab, so final questions for now — tell me about Julian, and also, do you have any other family, besides Viola?
Halley
* * *
Saturday, 19 October
From: Henry Inglis
Subject: In a Good Way
To: Halley Hart
Dear Halley,
Having spent my doctoral research years virtually chained to a desk within a dusty library archive room, it’s fascinating to hear how different yours have been. Though, at a guess, the reality of overnight stargazing is perhaps less romantic than it sounds?
Angelie sounds great! Julian’s defining feature is his kind-heartedness. He’s bumbling and talkative, but he never says a bad word about anyone, which means he’s quite rightfully universally popular. He’ll always be a friend, but it’s time to move on to a new place.
Aside from me and Viola, who’s three years older, there’s our parents. They started a family much later in life than your mother, so Mum’s in her early seventies and Dad nearly eighty. Mum was a professional musician until she got married, and Dad retired from the Royal Air Force when I was ten. Mum’s in the early stages of dementia, and he insists on caring for her himself — and on remaining in their house, with three flights of stairs — in a village in Hampshire. The level of support they need increased after he broke his hip earlier this year, but thankfully Viola lives in a town near them.
As it happens, I’m genuinely ‘modern’ by most definitions, specializing in post-1790 British and European history. But your point is entirely proved by the fact that modern history is officially defined by Oxford as everything after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, in the fifth century.
I’m sure it’s no coincidence that my father left home for long periods of time during his military career, and my Ph.D. was on the effect of service in the Napoleonic Wars on soldier’s families. Last year I concentrated on a young naval officer, after coming across his sister’s sketchbook, and I’m currently searching for more papers from the same source. Or I will be, once I finish planning my teaching for the term — I was stuck with an increased load at short notice.
Halley, I’m so sorry to hear about your father. And of course I don’t want you to pass along any message that you disagree with, but I hope very much that this whole episode hasn’t had a lasting effect on your relationship with your mother. Her approach was unconventional, but I was, to her, a stranger searching for her daughter, so her protectiveness is understandable. And I can’t help but wonder, with my email sitting unnoticed in your spam folder for several weeks, whether we would have connected at all without her intervention?
All best wishes,
Henry
* * *
Sunday, 20 October
Henry
As Henry manoeuvred his battered new bike through the front gate, one hand on the seat and the other between the handles, Julian hailed him from the other side of their street.
‘Where are you off to?’ Julian added, hopping off his bike.
‘Looking at a flat,’ Henry admitted, wishing he’d left a few minutes earlier, and avoided this.
Julian’s face fell. Henry put on his cycle helmet, seeking a hasty change of subject. Where Julian had been was evident from his muddy tracksuit, so that wouldn’t do, and neither would asking about his friend’s plans for later in the day, which risked opening up the topic they were both avoiding.
Henry sought refuge in continuing their conversation from a few days earlier, when he’d been marking his first years’ essays in advance of their second tutorial. ‘Thanks for recommending that AI detection tool. My fresher’s essays passed with a high degree of originality, so either he’s paying an essay mill an awful lot of money, or, more likely, it’s his own work and he’s too terrified of me to speak.’
‘Tutees need time and tact, so you can’t force it,’ Julian said, already returning to earnest good humour. ‘But I’ve also found that wearing comedy socks can do wonders for lightening the mood.’
‘I’ll consider it,’ Henry assured him, sitting astride his bike. ‘See you later!’
Cycling down the main road, Henry’s thoughts drifted to Halley. It was the middle of the night in California, but that seemed to find her taking observations at a telescope more often than sleeping. He held out his left hand to indicate, briefly checked over his shoulder, then swung into the side street. As he locked his bike to a lamppost outside the block of flats, his phone rang. He pulled it out, wondering if it could be Halley — he was expecting another email from her, as they’d fallen into a pattern of replying a day after hearing from the other, but a call would be even better. But, of course, he’d never given her his number. And this one was withheld, so probably whichever junior estate agent was stuck working a Sunday, checking he was coming.
‘Henry? Halley-Anne here! You never know what — I’ve got a really strong lead to the location of your Halley!’
* * *
Monday, 21 October
From: Halley Hart
Subject: Sorry!
To: Henry Inglis
Dear Henry,
Sorry not to write you back yesterday. I really wanted to, but left it until after my assignment marking, so I had something to look forward to, then was so exhausted having been up all night and the marking dragging on for ages that I thought I’d nap first. The next thing I knew, it was five this morning...
Astronomic observations alone in an observatory are probably not that different from researching in old archives — patience, commitment, and the ability to concentrate hard for long periods of time being essential. But I can’t deny that I enjoy stargazing, and I think it’s got the potential to be romantic, with the right person...
I’m sorry to hear about your parents’ struggles to stay independent. And I’m curious about Viola staying living close to them. Do you think she planned that, or chose to support them? I guess I ask because I sometimes feel guilty about moving so far away from my mom — and other times, I feel like she deserves space from parenting. She’s in no way infirm or bored — she’s a senior nurse, running triage in one of the busiest emergency rooms in Chicago. (Her experiences there are why she might have pried into any links you have to cults or motorcycles. She’s paranoid about me getting involved with either, as her most physically traumatized patients are bikers and most emotionally traumatized was a cult escapee.) Don’t get me wrong, she’s still in my bad books.
Where are you writing me from? Like literally, where do you sit? I keep trying to picture your day-to-day life in my mind’s eye, and failing. I’m currently in my workspace in the astronomy faculty, which is a small cubicle with two tables pushed together to make a large L-shape desk, and a few powerful computers. I should be crunching data, but instead I’m writing you, and before that I was thinking about you and before that I figured out that the distance between Stanford and Oxford is 5321 miles. :(
Halley
* * *
Tuesday, 22 October
From: Henry Inglis
Subject: Volunteering!
To: Halley Hart
Dear Halley,
I’d like to volunteer for the role of joint-stargazer, in service of discovering whether it can be romantic... Well, as long as you’re open to the possibility of filling it with a complete beginner.
Halley, I’m glad you caught up on some much needed sleep. And even if you hadn’t sensibly suggested we stop apologizing, there really is no reason for you to be sorry for not replying because you were busy, or sleeping, or any other reason.
I spent the past hour in the SCR, which in my college is located in a series of interconnected rooms, one of which has antique wing-backed chairs and an open fireplace, conversing with my boss, Rupert Peters, who you correctly pegged as the ‘type of academic who only knows other academics’. Then your email arrived, and since I prefer to be alone to read your words, I relocated to my office. It’s a small room tucked up in the eaves of one of the oldest buildings in the college. The most pleasant thing about it are the views across Oxford’s rooftops.
From the little I know of your mother, she strikes me as wanting you to pursue all your dreams — unless they involve cults/motorbikes — not limit yourself to opportunities in close proximity to Chicago for her sake. (I’m cautious to add this, but most of all, I imagine she’d like to hear from you.)
Viola always tells me that she likes Hampshire, and since she often works from home, has more space there than if she moved to London. But I suspect there’s an element of staying near Mum and Dad to support them — though if she said that to Dad, he’d tell her he doesn’t need any support at all — which isn’t true.
I saw two flats over the weekend. One had a sudden price increase, to well over my budget, though the other was surprisingly cheap — but sharing with a drummer... So back to the drawing board.
Halley, writing to you is so much better than the weeks of wondering about you, and receiving your replies is even better again. The next step seems to me to be exchanging phone numbers, so mine’s attached. I won’t be offended if you think it’s too soon, but for my part, I’d love to hear from you if texting is of any interest. Or calling. Or video chat.
All best wishes, Henry
* * *
Halley
‘You’re back early,’ Halley heard, unlocking the front door. Angelie was tilting her chair on its back legs, to peer into their entryway from the kitchen. ‘Everyone’s still here.’
‘So I see,’ Halley said, strolling in. She recognized most of the people huddled around the table. It was one of the first groups Angelie had got together, to design some sort of wellbeing app.
‘Hi, everyone,’ she said. She recalled most of their names, but never risked using them: making a mistake could expose how badly Angelie was cheating.
‘Hi, Halley,’ they all chorused, except for one guy, who was funnelling peanuts into his mouth instead. He was newer to the group, Halley thought, certain she’d have recalled him if he’d been around much. He was built like a linebacker, and had curly hair.
‘Well?’ Angelie asked, with an enquiring glance. ‘It’s not even eleven. Didn’t you say you’d be at the observatory most of the night, again?’
Halley leaned against their refrigerator door, careful not to dislodge the magnetic dry-wipe board, on which they listed all essentials: groceries to pick up, Wi-Fi password and Angelie’s detailed plan to survive a zombie apocalypse. ‘Weather forecast was wrong,’ Halley said lightly. ‘Cloud cover. So it was pointless.’
Her final sentence was true. Tonight, it had proven to be entirely pointless to take her observations. All she could think about were those twelve simple digits, now burned into her mind, that made up Henry’s phone number. So she’d packed up, locked up, and driven home.
‘Woohoo, Halley?’ Angelie sang. ‘You were a million miles away! I was asking if you wanted to help us finish the latest draft of our feasibility study?’
‘Nowhere near a million,’ Halley murmured. ‘Only five thousand, three hundred and twenty-one.’
Angelie’s attention was back on her laptop. ‘What?’
‘Nothing. Have fun — I’m turning in.’
In her room, with the sturdy door locked behind her, and the window closed for good measure, Halley replaced her grey hoodie with a cream knit and gazed rather despairingly at herself in the mirror. It was evident that she wasn’t getting enough sleep, and she slicked on mascara, tinted moisturizer, and lip balm, as though it were morning.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she input Henry’s number into video chat, and clicked to connect. It rang once, twice, three times, before her face minimized to a small window in the corner.
Rather than Henry’s face appearing, the rest of the screen was dark, and a man said, ‘Hullo?’
‘Henry?’ The questioning tone was nerves. She’d recognized his voice even from one word. ‘It’s Halley.’ Her throat was dry, and she swallowed several times, then licked her lips. ‘Halley Hart. We’ve been writing each other.’
‘ Halley !’ There was a rustling sound. Hearing his voice again, everything flooded back, and she sunk onto her desk chair under the weight of memory. ‘Sorry, let me switch the light on.’
Before she’d absorbed the meaning of that, he appeared on her screen. He was wearing a light green T-shirt, which brought out the green in his heavy lidded eyes. His mid-brown hair was slightly longer than when she’d seen him before, and not so neatly combed.
Henry seemed to be leaning back against some sort of wood panelling, though she thought he must be sitting rather than standing, as between his shoulders and the wood there was an upholstered chair back, with blue and white stripes. He sat up straighter and the stripes slipped, so it was actually a cushion, she thought. A rectangular one, like a pillow...
No, not like a pillow but actually a pillow, and behind it wasn’t panelling, but a headboard. Henry was propped up on his elbows in bed .
‘Oh my God,’ she breathed. ‘I woke you up! I didn’t even think about the time difference!’ Nearly eleven p.m. in California, and the UK was eight hours ahead — so it was before seven on Wednesday morning, for Henry.
‘I can’t think of a better way to be woken,’ he said, smiling as he rubbed his eyes. ‘And I’d usually be up now. I had an... interrupted night, that’s all, but I’m bloody ecstatic to hear your voice. Just give me a second—’ As he returned to full view, Halley identified the small object as a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, which he slid on his face. ‘And now I can see you properly. Halley, you’re every bit as lovely as I remembered.’
She was caught off-guard by the sensation that swept over her skin. If this was any other man, she might be tempted to deflect the compliment coyly: You’d say that to any girl who kissed you in the street. But this was Henry.
‘I was thinking the same about you,’ she said. To her ears it sounded too simple, in comparison to his own declaration, but he must have sensed her sincerity because his face pinked slightly. Cautious of embarrassing him further, Halley lowered her eyelids over her delight at making him blush so easily. ‘I really like your emails,’ she blurted.
His smile widened. ‘And I yours. Though this is even better.’
‘But not as good as actually being together.’
His smile dropped. ‘Indeed not.’
‘I wish I could take you up on your offer, and teach you to stargaze,’ Halley said. ‘I mean, I know you were kidding around, but—’
‘Say the word, and I’ll book annual leave, Halley,’ he breathed, with toe-curling intensity.
‘Seriously? It’s a long flight.’
He made a scoffing sound. ‘I’d walk the five thousand, three hundred and twenty-one miles, if I had to.’ He was smiling so much that his eyes crinkled in the way she especially liked. ‘Have I remembered that correctly?’
‘Every single stinking one of them,’ she said, wondering if he’d want to come for Christmas, or if he’d been joking. She changed the subject. ‘I leaned into my crazy stalker tendencies earlier.’
‘You’re in good company,’ Henry said. ‘I turned my research skills to finding all the Halley Harts in the world, remember?’
‘Not in a stalker-ish way,’ she quickly objected. ‘And my mom catfished you.’
That made him chuckle. ‘It wasn’t quite catfishing. Anyway, tell me what you did?’
‘I manually changed my IP address to a British one, to get dating apps to show me men in Oxford. I wanted to see if I’d match with you on any of them.’
‘I haven’t been on anything like that since I moved here. With teaching undergraduates, the risks outweigh the benefits.’
‘I quit them last year,’ Halley said softly. ‘I’d got too busy.’
His smile returned, softer this time, but then the picture on her screen shook, before changing, so she saw the top of his head, then his chest. Then she was looking down on him, and realized he’d propped his phone up high. He bent out of sight, leaving her a view of floorboards beside his bed.
‘Henry?’
‘Sorry... getting decent,’ he said. ‘Jeans seem more appropriate than pants.’
‘Jeans are pants, oh, you say pants for...’
‘Boxers,’ he said, waggling his eyebrows as he returned into shot. ‘Or briefs, drawers, or, erm... tighty-whities ― all pants. Jeans are jeans. Or trousers . Like George Bernard Shaw said, England and America are two countries separated by a common language.’
‘Was he British or American?’
‘Irish, believe it or not,’ Henry said, presumably picking up his phone, because she was suddenly at his level again. She beckoned him with her finger, and after a few seconds he leaned so close into the camera that she could see that he hadn’t shaved.
‘I want to see more,’ she breathed.
His eyes widened. ‘Er . . .’ he began.
She grinned. ‘Of your room , Henry. Give me a tour!’
‘You absolute minx,’ he said, laughing along with her. ‘You totally had me there.’
‘Serves you right for all the underwear talk — damn, that’s a lot of books!’
He swung the camera back on himself, from the wall of stuffed bookshelves, and shrugged. ‘It’s human nature to have some form of addiction. I decided early to make mine books.’
‘I like books too, and I love music, but my addiction’s coffee.’
‘Can I see?’
‘Sure,’ she said lightly, as she kicked her pyjamas under her bed, then rotated her phone toward the bookcase. The bottom shelf was populated by vinyl LPs. Above it was a shelf of non-fiction, mostly related to science, and another of fiction. ‘What do these say about me?’
‘The spines are cracked, so you’re a reader rather than a collector.’
‘Rather than an addict,’ she corrected drily.
‘Book addicts are both readers and collectors. When I move up the pay scale, I want a reading copy and display copy of everything. Do you want to see the rest of my house?’ She nodded vociferously, as he corrected himself. ‘Well, Julian’s, strictly speaking.’
‘Is he still sleeping?’
‘No, he leaves for the river at the crack of dawn, year round. He’s into rowing.’
‘How—’ Halley cut off her observation. That sounded hideous! ‘Is that an interest you share?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Good God, no,’ he said, sounding genuinely appalled. ‘Living with a rower’s bad enough. He talks about it so much, it’s as if rowing’s the opposite of Fight Club.’
‘Oh — it’s like CrossFit! My old roommate was a CrossFitter, and never shut up about it.’
Henry swung his phone in a final slow arc around his room and she caught sight of him in a wall mirror. He really was wearing jeans. But his feet were bare, which felt, somehow, weirdly personal.
‘I can’t give you a tour around our whole apartment this time. Angelie’s got one of her app development teams here.’
‘This time,’ Henry said.
She couldn’t see him, only the landing of the upper floor of his house, but she could hear that he was happy. ‘Implying there’ll be a next time, yes,’ she said.
On her screen, the door at the opposite end of the landing came into focus, then got larger.
Abruptly, it swung open.
A woman wearing something black and lacy, with legs that went on forever, sashayed out. ‘Henry, darling,’ she said. She had an accent, but it was different again from Henry’s.
‘Bloody hell, Gabrielle!’ Henry said. His tone was startled, but not shocked. Like, he didn’t know she’d been in there, but also like a barely-dressed woman wandering around his house calling him darling was nothing unusual. ‘I thought you’d left.’
‘Really?’ she said, with a quizzical glance. ‘So soon, after last night? No, I was in the bath. Would you make me a coffee—’
Her heart hammering, Halley cancelled the call, then switched off her phone for good measure.