Chapter 38
Perhaps buying seven books at The Ripped Bodice was too many.
And perhaps it was a mistake to walk back from the East Village to Midtown, but by the time Tilly has finished her second martini it seems like a good idea.
She wants to soak up more of the city, the heat of the day finally cooling off.
She grabs dinner to go, from a food truck at Madison Square Park, eating it looking up at the Flatiron Building before meandering along the final blocks through the city – about ten blocks too many, as it turns out.
Her feet ache, and her shoulders are sore from carrying the day’s book purchases, but when she spots a street name she recognizes she can’t help taking a detour.
She never saw the Alphabet office in person but she recognizes it from the website that she pored over fastidiously, ahead of her interview.
She used Google Street View to explore the local area, locating what would have been her local Subway station, finding the local deli where she imagined grabbing cream cheese and lox bagels for lunch, and locating the nearest used bookstore where she pictured herself browsing after work.
Now she stares up at the glass-fronted building, the lights still on despite the late hour.
Through the revolving doors she can see an airy reception, the wall entirely covered with books.
She allows herself a moment to imagine what it would have been like.
If Joe hadn’t got sick. If she’d taken the job. If they’d moved to New York.
And then she spots someone pushing through the revolving door, phone in hand, a full tote bag slung over her shoulder. She wears a denim pencil skirt and a sleeveless blue shirt, her face framed by bright red glasses that Tilly recognizes, her lips painted a matching shade.
As she looks up a frown passes across the woman’s face. It is too late for Tilly to move away – she is standing directly in the woman’s path. A beat longer and Liz Cohen’s eyes widen, a smile cracking her face.
‘Wow. Tilly Nightingale. It’s been a while.’
She has the same composure that intimidated Tilly in her interview. But there’s a warmth to her too, evident in the way she gives Tilly a quick but firm hug.
‘Liz, hello. I’m surprised you remember me.’
‘I’ll be honest, it took me a second. I wasn’t expecting to see you here. But of course I remember you! What are you doing here?’
‘I’m just visiting but I was in the neighbourhood and I thought I’d come and see the office.’
‘Of the publisher you turned down?’
Liz raises an eyebrow, revealing her infamous steely side, known for negotiating the toughest contracts as the formidable publishing director of Alphabet.
‘I’m sorry about that.’
Liz laughs. ‘I’m just teasing you. We were disappointed but these things happen. I’ve always wondered what you did next, instead, though. Tell me, who snapped you up?’
‘Actually, I stayed in my old job, for a while anyway. I’m currently taking a bit of a career break.’
‘You changed your mind about moving to fiction, then? I’ll admit I’m surprised. You sounded so knowledgeable in our meetings.’
‘No, it wasn’t that. I was really excited about the job.
’ Tilly tries to remember what excuse she gave when she turned it down more than two years ago.
Certainly not the truth. ‘After you offered me the job, I found out my husband was sick. A move didn’t make sense any more. He passed away just over a year ago.’
Surprise flashes across Liz’s face, followed by sympathy.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ she says with sincerity.
‘Thank you,’ Tilly replies, realizing that for once this topic hasn’t left her shaking. She feels … OK. ‘And thanks for giving me a chance back then. Even if the timing wasn’t right.’
‘Life is all about timing, isn’t it?’ says Liz. In her hand her phone buzzes, lighting up with notifications. She glances at it then back at Tilly. ‘A career break … now that sounds appealing. I’d love to chat more but I’ve got a dinner with an author to get to.’
It is gone 10 p.m. But Tilly understands that’s all part of the job, just like it was for her at Splash.
‘But it was great to run into you. And I’m so sorry again for your loss. You enjoy the rest of your time in the city.’
They say goodbye and Tilly watches as Liz confidently hails a cab and steps inside, giving a final wave through the window before being carried away across the city.
If Joe hadn’t got sick, would I be in that taxi with her now?
Tilly shakes off the thought, knowing that the ‘what ifs’ lead only to a dark place. With a final glance back at the office building she continues in the direction of the hotel.
When Tilly returns home from New York three days later, after two more days of book shopping and escaping the heat of the city in museums and galleries, there is an envelope waiting for her on the mat.
Her name and address are written in looping calligraphy.
Inside is a thick navy card decorated with illustrations of brambles and berries, the words picked out in bright white letters.
Dear Tilly,
You are warmly invited
to the wedding of Harper Nightingale and Raj Johnson
on the 30th of November, 2 p.m.
at The Old Brewery, Walthamstow
Underneath the printed text is a handwritten note from Harper.
I’m so sorry for everything, Tils. I hope you’ll be there. You can bring a friend if you like. Or come on your own, just please come. Love you, H xx
She’s been trying to pretend that the wedding isn’t really happening.
But here is the proof that it is – in navy, white and berry red.
And it is just three months away. Tilly puts the invite in the drawer in the kitchen that contains appliance manuals, spare keys and broken jewellery she plans to get fixed one day. She closes the drawer.
At first, she feels better. She doesn’t think about the invite as she unpacks her suitcase and stacks her purchases on her shelves.
She doesn’t think about it when she notices the empty spot on the shelves where the urn used to sit, or when she puts on a wash, remembering how Joe always used to tease her for entirely emptying her suitcase as soon as she got home.
Whenever they got back from a holiday, his suitcase would stay in the hallway unopened for weeks.
But once she’s finished all her chores, she can’t stop staring at the drawer in the kitchen.
Eventually, she takes the invite out, attaching it to the fridge with a magnet.
Then she empties the entire contents of the rest of the drawer, dumping them on the table and fetching bin bags.
Because this seems as good a place as any to start on the task she has put off for long enough.
Over the next few weeks, Tilly cleans.
It takes longer than she expected because every now and then she gets sidetracked by something that sparks so many memories that she has to pause and wait for the grief wave to recede.
The clothes are hard and she finds herself burying her face in T-shirts and sweatshirts that still contain lingering traces of his wood and jasmine smell.
But she listens to the advice in The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning and takes her time, not pushing herself to do more than she feels ready for each day.
And some things surprise her in being easier than she’d expected.
Clothes stuffed at the back of his wardrobe that she can’t remember Joe ever wearing get washed and folded neatly in piles for the charity shop.
The reams of paperwork on his desk that had so daunted her become more manageable when she buys a shredder and realizes that most of it can be thrown away.
Dead people don’t need old bank statements and travel insurance documents from holidays they went on seven years ago. And neither does Tilly.
When Joe’s desk is finally cleared, the empty space looks full of possibility.
She collects her craft projects from around the flat, gathering balls of wool into boxes stacked neatly on the desk and filling the drawers that once contained office stationery with sheets of origami paper, folded fabric and spools of ribbon.
She buys a peg board for the wall and lines up spools of thread in neat rows, arranged by colour.
Once she’s finished, she snaps a photo for Ellen, who replies immediately to say she loves it and to let her know she has made a start on her own craft room.
Tilly doesn’t pack all signs of Joe away completely.
She clears space on a sideboard for a carefully arranged collection of framed photos of him and of the two of them together.
And his favourite hoody remains hanging on the pegs next to her coats, because when she took it down it just didn’t look like home.
But the place isn’t cluttered. She has room to breathe.
When she opens the front door now, she doesn’t trip over Joe’s trainers. Because they aren’t discarded by the door. Instead, they are lined up neatly on her bookshelf, finding a new life as a rather unusual but perfect pair of bookends.