Chapter Eighteen
When you’re far from home, sometimes you find yourself missing the things you don’t even like about where you live. Even the tube, where you’re jammed up against strangers, trying to ignore the fact that you’re touching so many people at once and you’re so close to someone that you can hear their audiobook even though they’ve got earbuds in. The wonderful thing about New York is that the subway can fill that gap for you. You can travel about the city, watching the confusing display of human theatre on the train, everyone wondering if the man spouting poetry was naked when he got on, or if he stripped after, but no one actually acknowledging his presence. You can spot a rat running across the track and smile because it reminds you of the mice on the rails at home.
– Excerpt from Swanning About
When Sophie woke up the next morning, she was alone in her bed. There was no sign of Mike at all, and for a brief moment she thought maybe she’d dreamed the whole thing. Like maybe the Instagram post, the rage room, and Mike holding her while she slept had all been some sort of fever dream, beautiful and terrible all at once.
It made her sad.
The feeling only lasted until she stepped into her kitchenette and found a note propped up against her teacup. Mike had laid out mug, tea bag and spoon, and filled the kettle so all she had to do was turn on the burner. Such a little thing, but it warmed her to her toes. She plucked the note from the counter and read Mike’s neat, slanted script.
Had to go to work and didn’t want to wake you. If you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to make you dinner tonight. 7 p.m.? – Mike
Sophie stared at the note for a long time. Then she set it aside and put the kettle on. Once her tea was brewing, she put the toast in the toaster and checked her texts. There was one from Manny, asking her if she could walk Stanley Poochie this afternoon. She said yes to that one without thinking. The other from Mike, wishing her a good morning with a selfie of him with his coffee in some sort of office. That one she didn’t answer straight away.
Once she was able to sit at her table with her tea and toast, she messaged Edie to see if she was up for a video chat. Edie responded by calling her.
When Sophie opened the chat, her friend appeared to be wearing overalls, her eyes framed in plastic protective eyewear. It was so close to what Sophie had been wearing the previous night that it took her a second to say anything.
‘Sophie, light of my life,’ Edie said, shoving the glasses up onto the top of her head. ‘I saw the Instagram post. Are you okay?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Sophie paused, a thought suddenly occurring to her. Even though she was alone, she leaned close to her screen and whispered. ‘Oh god, Edie, tell me you didn’t kill him.’
Edie blinked at her for a moment. ‘Not yet. He’s annoying but not that annoying. For now, I think the paint ought to do it.’
Now it was Sophie’s turn to be confused. ‘Wait, what are you talking about?’
Edie scowled. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I thought you’d finally gone through with it and killed Andrew,’ Sophie hissed.
Edie rolled her eyes. ‘I would not do time for that man.’ She put her hands on her hips and squinted up at the sky. ‘Not that anyone would find the body. I’m eighty per cent certain I could pull off a perfect murder.’
‘Edie!’
‘Okay, more like seventy.’
Sophie briefly considered banging her head against the table, but ultimately discarded the idea. ‘If you aren’t pulling off the perfect crime, what are you doing?’
Edie shrugged. ‘What do you think? I’m annoying the neighbour.’
‘Not that again,’ Sophie said with a groan.
Edie’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s my nemesis. Do not downplay the power of that. It’s an important relationship. You have to nurture it.’
Sophie nibbled her toast as she considered the most diplomatic way to phrase her question, but then blurted it out anyway because after all this was Edie, woman of very little filter. ‘Aren’t you concerned that doing things to prolong a feud with your neighbour because he annoys you is both immature and, well, giving him power over your decisions?’
‘What’s so great about being mature?’ Edie waved a hand dismissively. ‘Mature is boring. Name one fun thing about being mature. I mean, I’m an adult. I pay my bills. I work. My house is mostly clean and I eat my vegetables. As far as I’m concerned, that’s mature enough. If I want to engage in an on again, off again cold war with the neighbour, or hide dead fish in the wheel rims of Andrew’s car, why can’t I?’
‘Besides possible legal reasons?’ Sophie should probably ask about the fish, but plausible deniability was a thing.
Edie crossed her arms, her voice strangely ominous. ‘Everyone needs a hobby, Sophie. My therapist said so.’
Sophie felt the familiar sensation of losing all control over the conversation with Edie. The thing with Edie’s arguments was that you usually knew there was something not quite right about them, but it was difficult to figure out exactly what that thing might be. ‘I’m almost positive your therapist meant something like knitting or betting on the ponies.’
Edie shook her head. ‘Dr Gatwa doesn’t approve of the ponies but does approve of me airing my feelings.’
‘Not sure she considers revenge and minor property damage the same thing as “airing your feelings” but how should I know, I don’t have a degree.’
‘There’s no wrong way to feel something, Sophie,’ Edie said. ‘There are all kinds of studies that say repressing your feelings causes stress, which leads to health issues. Do you want my heart to explode or my hair to fall out, Sophie? Do you?’
‘No, I don’t. Marisa would probably ask how the majority of Londoners haven’t dropped on the spot. She finds most of us to be repressed.’
Edie put her hands on her hips again. ‘That’s a bit of a sweeping judgement.’
‘I know. So, what are you doing to the neighbour now?’
‘He complained about the paint again. It’s peeling a bit on one side . You can barely see it, but from the way he’s carrying on, you’d think the house was falling down, or that I’d left an entire lorry to rust in the front garden.’ She deepened her voice, impersonating the neighbour. ‘You may not care about property values, but the rest of us do.’
‘Weren’t you planning on painting anyway?’
‘Yes,’ Edie said. ‘But I don’t enjoy people telling me what to do. I’m using this as a teachable moment. He’s going to learn.’ Her voice dropped into the ominous octave again. ‘Or else.’
Sophie had a feeling she knew where this was going and braced herself. ‘What colour, Edie?’
The grin that slowly unfurled on Edie’s face was Cheshire cat in nature – if said cat had been raised by Machiavelli and Giulia Tofana. It was a little frightening. She drew in a large breath, then said the next word slowly, like she was savouring every letter. ‘ Orange .’
‘Like a pumpkin, or . . . ?’
The grin kicked up a notch and Edie steepled her fingers together. ‘Practically neon. It’s not a colour that appears in nature. He’s going to be outraged .’ She cackled. ‘I want to see how high I get him to count this time. Last time it was to thirty.’
‘Count?’ Sophie asked the question, even though she was worried about the answer.
‘To find his patience.’
‘I see.’ Sophie took another bite of toast. ‘The neighbourhood is going to hate you.’
Edie shrugged, completely unconcerned. ‘How are you feeling, by the way? With everything?’
Sophie spent a moment catching Edie up, giving her only the broad strokes – her illness, Mike’s help, the Instagram post, the rage room, and then finally getting to the reason she’d called – the note.
Edie’s brows went up. ‘He’s cooking you dinner? At his flat?’
‘He didn’t specify where,’ Sophie admitted, ‘but probably.’
‘Do you think this is just a “I want to make you food and spend time” kind of dinner or “I want to fuck you against the wall in the hallway as soon as the front door shuts” kind of dinner?’ Both options were listed matter-of-factly, like Edie considered them to be on the same mysterious level, equal in every way.
Sophie wasn’t entirely sure how to answer the question. ‘Is that second dinner a real option?’
‘In theory? Oh, yes.’ Edie’s sigh was wistful. ‘Those dinners used to be my favourite.’
Rather unfortunately, Sophie’s imagination decided to helpfully provide her with an image of what Edie’s second dinner concept might look like, and so both her and Edie were silent for a moment, each lost in their own daydream. Well, daydream for Sophie. Probably memory for Edie. Or memories.
Sophie took a long sip of her tea, her throat suddenly dry for some reason. ‘If we are using the second option as a sort of catch-all for sex in general, and not being fucked against a wall specifically, then I think both options might be on the table.’
Edie nodded. ‘Do you want both options?’
She remembered the feeling of him under her. His kiss. Everything. ‘Yes,’ Sophie said. ‘I think I do.’
Edie shrugged. ‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘He freaked out before. He might not be ready for this.’ Sophie stared down into her teacup, like it might give her answers. ‘My ego was pretty bruised the last time he called a stop to things. If he did that during sex—’
‘Yeah,’ Edie said, scrunching up her nose. ‘That would be a blow. You could talk to him, you know. Have a plan in place in case he changes his mind again. So you don’t get hurt as much.’ Edie’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know that it wasn’t about you, right? Any of that?’
‘Yes,’ Sophie said, but when it was clear that Edie wasn’t buying it, she sighed. ‘Mostly.’
Edie crossed her arms and scoffed. ‘God, I hate Andrew. You, my friend, are hot. Gorgeous. Sculptors would be lining up to carve your likeness, but they’re too busy weeping at the beauty of your smile.’
Sophie laughed. ‘You’re ridiculous.’
‘You love it.’
‘I do.’
Edie nodded. ‘Right, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about, but what it comes down to is how you feel. Do you want to go, yes; but also do you want to go enough to risk the possibility that it might not go how you’re hoping?’
Sophie took a big breath and let it out, slumping her shoulders. ‘Yes, I think I do.’
‘Good.’ Edie nodded sharply. ‘I support you. Did you bring that green wrap dress?’
Sophie picked up her phone and walked to the closet to make sure. ‘I did.’
‘Wear that. It’s a good colour on you.’
‘Thanks, Edie.’
‘No problem,’ she said, giving Sophie a lazy little salute. ‘What are friends for?’
Before Sophie could answer, there was some commotion in the background. Then a man’s voice. ‘What have you done now, you little demon? Is that orange ? Who paints their house neon orange? It’s like a nuclear Wotsit. What is wrong with you?’
Edie grinned wickedly, waggling her fingers in a wave. ‘I’d better go. Knock ’em dead, Sophie.’ She kissed the air, then turned off the screen.
Sophie texted Mike back. Seven it is. Can I bring anything? Your flat or mine?
His response came with gratifying speed. Just yourself. Mine, if that’s okay?
When she replied that it was, he sent her his address. Now she only had to keep herself from fixating on it all day.
She got some of her own work done on the post for the following day, including some last-minute edits. Then, when she’d got tired of staring at her screen, she dressed and popped down a few blocks to a bakery she’d spied on earlier walks. She wanted to check on Tom and Marisa, since the day before had been a lot for them emotionally, and while she couldn’t make that better, she could bring an array of pastries, which at least wouldn’t make the situation worse.
Pastries in hand, she knocked on Tom and Marisa’s door.
After a few seconds Marisa answered, and though she looked worn and tired, she also seemed steadier. She had wrapped a thin blanket around herself like a robe and one of her hands snuck out of it to wave Sophie into the flat.
‘I wanted to check on you,’ Sophie said. ‘But just in case talking was the last thing you wanted to do, I’ve also brought pastries. I got a few different ones. I thought we could cut them into pieces and share so we could try several.’
Marisa padded over on bare feet, peering into the box. ‘You’re an angel.’ She kissed Sophie’s cheek. ‘Thank you.’
‘Tom at work?’
‘Yeah,’ Marisa said with a sigh. ‘He wanted to stay home, but I told him to go. We can’t afford more time off and anyway, I’m feeling okay. Better. Yesterday helped.’
Sophie fetched plates for them, handing one to Marisa. ‘I’m so glad.’ Then she grabbed a butter knife and started slicing the pastries in half.
‘How about you?’ Marisa asked as she clutched her plate. ‘How are you feeling about everything? He’s your crappy ex. Can’t be fun to have everything shoved in your face like that.’
Sophie considered this as she filled her plate. ‘I feel okay? I mean, I’m still angry. He could have handled everything so much better than he did. I can’t tell if he’s being malicious, or if his cruelty is simple thoughtlessness. I’m not sure which is worse, or if it even matters.’
‘Do you want something to drink?’ Marisa asked. ‘Tea, water, juice?’
‘Water, please.’ Sophie took a spot on the couch, putting her plate on one of the side tables for now, freeing her hands to take her glass from Marisa.
Marisa followed her to the couch, somehow managing to carry her water glass and plate without dislodging her blanket robe. ‘As for whether or not it matters, I personally don’t think it does. Both are cruel. The only difference is motivation.’
Sophie bit into a chocolate croissant, the pastry flaking onto her lap. ‘When I woke up this morning, I mostly felt relief. Like, he’s her problem now. Or his own problem. I don’t know.’
Marisa fiddled with the cinnamon roll on her plate. ‘Does it ever go away? The anger. The sadness.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Sometimes I’m just so tired .’
Sophie reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘I know, darling. Grief is different for everyone, but I think . . . I think it doesn’t fully go away, really. And I don’t believe that’s a bad thing. Our grief simply becomes part of us – like weaving in new thread on a tapestry. The composition is changed, but change isn’t bad. The pattern is simply more complex now.’ She stared at her croissant. ‘Acknowledging the pain in ourselves makes us stronger, I think. The important thing is to not let it eat you up inside. Which I know sounds very trite.’
A single tear dripped down Marisa’s cheek and she sniffed. ‘Tom seems to be handling it so much better than I am . . .’
Sophie set aside her food and wrapped an arm around Marisa’s shoulder. ‘He just handles things differently, that’s all. We all have to come at grief in our own way.’
Marisa sniffed again, then put her arms around Sophie’s neck and squeezed her tight. ‘Thank you. I can’t wait to be part of your family. You know that, right?’
Sophie hugged her back. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you already are.’
Marisa gave her an extra squeeze and then let go, obviously shaking off her tears with a deep breath and a straightening of her spine. ‘Tom said the rage room was Mike’s idea. You’ll have to thank him for me.’
‘I can pass along your thanks at dinner tonight,’ Sophie said.
Marisa clapped her hands together once, her face lighting up. ‘Dinner?’
Sophie nodded. ‘He’s cooking.’
‘He sure is,’ Marisa said, fanning herself.
Sophie laughed. ‘Do you need me around tonight, darling? I can always postpone—’
‘Don’t you dare,’ Marisa said. ‘I’ll have a quiet night with Tom. It will be good for us.’
‘You let me know if you change your mind,’ Sophie said. ‘I can reschedule in an instant. Mike will understand.’ And wasn’t that a grand thing to know? Sophie realized that she could tell Edie at least one fun thing about being mature – you could rest easy in the knowledge that your date really would understand and not take their feelings of disappointment out on you. It seemed like the lowest of bars, but her ex wouldn’t have been able to clear it.
‘I appreciate it,’ Marisa said. ‘But I want you to go have some fun. You deserve it. Here’s hoping Mike can give it to you.’
Sophie held out her croissant. ‘I’ll cheers to that.’
Marisa tapped a piece of cherry turnover against the croissant and smiled.