Page 90 of The Happy Hour
‘I know.’ Lola laughed. ‘No pressure, then. It’s not just your and Ash’s happiness you’re going after, but all of theirs, too.’
‘Great.’ Jess’s mouth had dried out. ‘Thanks for that.’
Now she stood on the boat’s outside deck, the wind whipping her hair, and felt like the figurehead secured to theCutty Sark: moving forwards, but exposed to all the elements. If she wanted to get Ash back, she would have to tell him everything she was scared of, and she’d have to convince him to do the same. Getting him to let her in was the part she was most afraid of, because if he refused, there was nothing she could do.
They passed by London landmarks and under famous bridges, and when the boat went beneath Tower Bridge, with the Tower of London a hulking, impenetrable shadow to her right, Jess was crowded on all sides by other passengers eager to drink it in. From the water, the city gleamed. Buildings rose up, proud and statuesque, above the grey-green surface of the Thames.
She tried to imagine what it would be like to travel in the opposite direction, passing ships and cathedrals and towers, knowing that your dad, who you hadn’t seen for years – who you no longer knew – was waiting for you, dying slowly without anyone by his side. The fear, the responsibility, would be overwhelming. Jess pushed the thought aside, and waved at three small children in colourful sou’westers standing on the deck of one of the city’s packed tourist barges.
She walked from the Embankment up to Holborn, the streets as busy as Greenwich Market on a Sunday, flocks of workers crowded outside pubs, shirtsleeves rolled up and jackets discarded, filling the air with laughter. She checked her phone, following the gentle dings as it gave her directions to Ash’s apartment block and then told her she’d reached her destination. It was a tall grey building that must have started out smart, but now looked grimy from years of traffic fumes. But there were pollarded trees outside the entrance, woven through with LED lights, and the foyer beyond the glass door looked spacious.
Jess hovered her finger over the button to flat twenty-seven, remembering the man Ash had told her about who walked his scary dogs. She pressed it, holding it down a few seconds too long. She waited, but there was no answer. She tried again, her insides clenching at the thought that, even now, he was rejecting her.
A figure walked across the foyer, the shadowed silhouette becoming a woman in a green coat. She opened the door and then held it for Jess, giving her a warm smile. Jess thanked her and slipped inside, even though a part of her wanted to shout after the woman – tell her she could have been anyone, a thief or a drug dealer. But she was in now. She walked over to the elevators, wearing her imposter status heavily, glancing behind every few seconds while she waited for one to come.
She got out on the fourth floor and followed the flat numbers down the corridor, treading on carpet patterned with brown and grey geometric shapes. At the end there was a window with frosted glass. Flat twenty-six was on her left, number twenty-seven on her right.
She reached her fist up to knock, then paused. It was after six, but he could still be at work, or perhaps he was one of the shirt-clad drinkers outside a pub near his office. How would she ever know, though, if he didn’t answer her messages? She rammed her fist against the wood, hammering until her hand hurt.
‘Ash! Ash, are you in there?’ She paused to listen, but couldn’t hear anything from inside. Not footsteps, or the low murmur of the television. But then there was a sound behind her, aclunk, and she turned to see the door of flat twenty-six opening, revealing a tall, silver-haired man with a slight stoop and a steely gaze, wearing a merlot-coloured sweater over grey trousers.
‘Ash isn’t here, I don’t think,’ the man said, his words slightly clipped.
‘Is he usually back from work by now?’ Jess asked.
His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not his keeper, young lady.’
‘Of course not. I’m sorry. I’m – I’m Jess.’ She held her hand out, and the man’s eyes widened a fraction.
‘I’ve heard about you,’ he said. ‘I’m Mack.’
‘Oh – of course!’ She barked out a laugh, and Mack looked affronted. ‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘He’s told me about you, too. About your Sunday mornings.’
‘He’s a kind young man. He takes the time to check on me, to make sure I have all I need. I may look as strong as an ox, but two hip replacements means walking to the newsagent is a trial, rather than an amusing jaunt.’
Jess nodded. ‘I know he likes spending time with you.’
Mack waved a dismissive hand. ‘He thinks of it as a duty. Perhaps he’s come to be fond of our time together, but he’s very big on duty, isn’t he?’
The way he said it made Jess think Mack knew everything, but she didn’t want to betray Ash’s confidence if she was wrong. ‘He is,’ she said. ‘And you... you don’t know where he is right now?’
‘I’m afraid not. And he didn’t come for his Sunday coffee. I had a message, crying off with no explanation.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘He’s been telling me about the market, about you and the woman living in that grand old house consumed by decades’ worth of clutter.’
‘Oh.’
‘So, yes, it was unlike him to be so unforthcoming. I haven’t seen or heard from him since then. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.’ He said the last part gently, as if he could sense how desperate, how unhappy, she was.
‘You’ve been kind to talk to me at all,’ she said. ‘I snuck in, I’m afraid.’
Mack rolled his eyes. ‘Some of the residents of this block are far too trusting, or simply have their heads in the clouds. It’s not your fault.’
‘Thank you. And—’
‘If I see him, I’ll ask him to call you.’
