Chapter 50 Roddy
RODDY
NOW, LONDON, ENGLAND
Roddy steps off the tube. He pulls his suitcase onto the escalator and looks up at the line of commuters crowded to the right, ascending magically to the surface of the London winter streets.
Most are on their phones, chins buried inside scarves.
At the top, the cold hits his face in an icy whoosh as he taps his credit card to get through the ticket gate.
He is faced with three sets of stairs all going in different directions.
There appears to be no lift. He picks a set of stairs randomly, heaving the suitcase, puffing, trying to avoid the puddles and the mashed, sloppy carcasses of oak leaves.
At the top he emerges to fat grey skies, a fresh bluster of freezing wind and a hint of drizzle.
It feels like twilight, but it is peak morning commute.
He pulls his suitcase past a mossy brick wall and into Bethnal Green Gardens.
‘Skim latte, please, and one of those pastries.’
‘We don’t do skim milk.’
‘Oh. No worries. Full cream is fine.’
‘We don’t do cow’s milk. Oat, soy, almond or coconut.’
Roddy frowns. ‘Ah … oat? And that croissant thing, please.’ He points to one of the delicious looking pastries in the glass cabinet.
The young man behind the counter is wearing a cap, which seems a strange choice for the middle of winter. He looks at Roddy with a frown until Roddy feels his usual need to appease rising up.
‘Oat milk’s great. The croissant will make up for me being healthy,’ he jokes. ‘I love a buttery pastry.’ He pats his stomach.
The man continues to frown. ‘We’re a vegan cafe.’
This feels like a non sequitur, and Roddy peers at him dumbly.
He suspects his brain is still somewhere over the Arabian Sea.
He focuses on the e-reader and pays then pulls his case to the corner table.
He struggles out of his winter coat and texts Lottie and Mary to say he’s arrived.
It is Mary’s fault that he is here. After hearing Sienna relay Lottie’s pre-accident plan to fly to London to find Francis, Mary told him he needed to ‘get out more’ and to go and ‘spend some of his plentiful cash on a holiday’.
Of course, he was keen to help Lottie too, but he doubts that, left to his own devices, he would have immediately jumped on a plane. He also has doubts about the wisdom of digging up Phyllida’s past. Mary is very persuasive when she wants to be, he decides, sipping the odd-tasting coffee.
When he finishes the excellent pastry he pulls the case outside and braces against the wall of icy wind. He smiles at the delightful sight of a red double-decker bus approaching. It runs through a puddle, splashing dirty freezing water onto the hem of his trousers and shoes.
He crosses the road, back towards the Young Victoria anticipation began rising inside him.
But that was back then, forty hours ago, when this intercontinental trip was a future exercise. Now Roddy is floating through a murky haze, barely alive and his feet wet and numb.
A text comes from Mary. Are you rugged up? Wear two pairs of socks. Lottie’s getting her marbles back and Phyllida too. Keep us posted.
Roddy unlocks the door to his Airbnb, selected by Sienna after she had begged to be allowed to choose it (she’d spent hours comparing photographs of interiors and reading reviews, and ensuring she found the best value for money).
He’d considered cancelling it in favour of a boutique hotel in Mayfair he’d read about in The Financial Review, but she’d asked for a full report and photos when he arrived.
Exhaustion overwhelms him as he feels for the light switch. It is quite possible Lottie, Mary and Sienna are all barking mad. What the hell was he doing here?
He pushes his case past the radiator through a dark narrow hallway into the cramped apartment.
There is a pink neon sign on the wall that says in cursive writing, ‘We are all Completely Bonkers!’ Beneath it is a line of old cameras displayed as art.
How very meta, he thinks, as he fights the urge to lie down on the couch and sleep.
He plugs in the kettle and removes his wet shoes and socks.
He thinks he may need to pour hot water over his feet if he is ever going to regain circulation.
He needs a reason to go back out, to find something to do, to fight the jetlag before he goes in search of Francis tomorrow.
Even in winter, London is buzzing. He looks at the app on his phone that sells last-minute theatre tickets.
The Devil Wears Prada has opened in the West End.
Score by Elton John. ‘Gird Your Loins!’ screams the advertisement. Well, don’t mind if I do, thinks Roddy.
He may be on a wild goose chase, but given that he’s here now, a little bit of London sparkle sounds like just the ticket.