secret key, buried underground, for all the good it did me.
But there’s always the chance that the lock won’t be on. That’s what keeps me going.
When I get upstairs, he’s already in the bedroom, but no sound is coming from the room. I remember to step over the penultimate stair to avoid making it creak, then stealthily cross the landing and peep into the bedroom through the crack of the door. Sure enough, there is Adam, standing motionless at the end of the bed, staring down at the screen of his mobile phone, the light from it illuminating his face bluish white. He’s not replying, not smiling, not reacting at all to what he’s reading. Unless you consider his non-reaction as a reaction in itself. It’s spooky actually, his complete lack of response to this message. He’s utterly immobile, as if frozen.
‘Ooh, it’s a bit chilly in here,’ I say, blustering in. I’m rewarded by him jumping guiltily and slipping the phone fluidly into his trouser pocket as he turns to me with a smile. I feel a small leap of hope: he didn’t get a chance to delete the message.
‘Come on then,’ he says, as if nothing has happened, ‘let’s get into bed and warm each other up.’
A little spark of excitement fires in my lower belly at these words, and I shed my clothes in a single movement. This is it – it’s our anniversary, when better to indulge in a little happy dancing than tonight? Once we’re under the covers, he moves close up behind me, his knees just brushing the backs of my thighs. My belly starts squirming as I feel his hot breath on my neck, then I shiver as very gently he places his freezing hands flat against my back. Then he turns them over and presses their cold backs to my skin. ‘Ooh, that’s lush,’ he murmurs, then turns them over again.
Everyone thinks Adam is out of my league. They don’t actually say it – not to me anyway – but I can see it in their eyes when they look at us. Even my own mum, for God’s sake. She kind of glances from me to him and back again, then gives a tiny uncomprehending shake of her head before turning away. She thinks I haven’t noticed, but of course I have. My sister Lauren fancies him rotten and wouldn’t hesitate to betray our sisterly bond if she ever got the chance. I’m not sure I’d even blame her. Adam is tall and handsome and successful and charming and everyone adores him, my family in particular. That’s not to say they don’t adore me. Of course they do. They’re always ‘Oh Gracie, you’re so funny’ and ‘Isn’t Gracie just fantastic?’ and ‘You look pretty today, Gracie.’ But when I first brought Adam home to meet everyone on take-away night three years ago, it was a family bucket of shock and awe all round.
‘Hi everyone,’ I said proudly. ‘This is Adam.’
They looked up as one from what they were doing – watching Doctor Who, I think – and stared open-mouthed at the golden Adonis that had dropped from Mount Olympus to stand at my side. There was a brief hiatus during which the Tardis materialised noisily, then Mum and my brother Robbie were scrabbling for the remote – ‘Pause it, pause it, quick, who’s got the thing, who’s got the cocking thing?’ ‘I’ve got it, Christ, stop pressuring me, I’m doing it!’ – Lauren was standing up slowly, trying to look like Pussy Galore; and Dad leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin, as if to say, ‘finally’.
Adam looked coolly at everyone in turn, appraising, taking in, sizing up; and then, with a slow nod, said, ‘So. You’re the ones.’
‘The ones who?’ was the general enquiry that came from everyone. He paused before answering, so his statement had maximum impact. ‘The four people in the world who think Doctor Who is worth watching.’
Adam was my landlord. Don’t worry, no impropriety took place, a tenant dating her landlord; I’ve Googled it and there’s nothing that says it’s inappropriate. It’s not as if he took advantage of me while I was renting a room in his house or anything hideous like that. No strategic holes in bathroom walls, no cameras planted in my room, no sleaze; just a shop on the high street. I’d gone in there a few months earlier to enquire about a flat I’d seen advertised in the local paper. My friend Annabel Price had lived there after having her illicit baby when the rest of us were still in the sixth form, and we all used to pile round after school and pretend to be grown-ups, alternating between consuming coffee and cigarettes on the fire escape, and holding the baby; while somewhere in the background Annabel sobbed into her sterilising tank.
I knew that hideous little place, I knew its mouldy walls and its stained carpets and the latent nappy smell and when I saw it advertised a thrill of excitement went through me and I got a fatalistic sense that it had been waiting for me. I was twenty-four at the time, so it was aeons and aeons since I’d left school, and here was a chance to relive those heady days. I’d had no desire at all to leave my parents’ place until that moment; but for Annabel Price’s flat, I knew I could make the break.
Adam was sitting at the single desk in his tiny office, which was squeezed in between the East of India and the dry cleaners. It had a plate-glass front with his name, ‘Adam Littleton’, etched onto it in an arc, and underneath it said ‘Estate Management’. It was very impressive. It was August and the sun was shining straight through that enormous window covering the floor with a gorgeous golden carpet, so inside was barbarically hot. As soon as I stepped through the door, my instinct was to run from the fire, but Adam looked at me and smiled, so I stayed. I did want that flat, after all.
‘Hi, how can I help?’ he asked straight away, standing up and coming around the desk, allowing no chance at all for the potential customer – me – to change their mind and leave.
I scanned the properties displayed on the walls, hoping to see the advert for the flat that had appeared in the paper. A small desk fan was rotating ineffectually on the desk. ‘Um, I saw a flat, in the paper …’
‘OK. Which paper was it?’
I blinked. I had been expecting him to ask which flat it was. ‘I think it was the Herald. It was a one-bedroom …’ But in that very small space of time, like a magician, he’d produced a sheet of paper from somewhere and was holding it out to me to check.
‘Is this the one?’
I moved forward and took one end of the paper. ‘Yes, that’s it.’ I looked up at him. ‘Is it still available?’
He whipped the paper away dramatically. ‘You don’t want to live there,’ he said, theatrically screwing up the sheet of paper and tossing it backwards over his shoulder, ‘it’s a dump.’
‘Oh, well, no, the thing is—’
‘Now, I’ve got something for you that’s a lot more suitable,’ he said, rubbing his hands together and opening and closing his fingers. ‘A much nicer place, coming on in a few days.’
‘But I don’t—’
‘Take it from me, you won’t believe your eyes when you see this.’ He focused on my eyes for a split second longer than necessary, rubbed his hands together again and flexed his fingers, then delicately reached into his top jacket pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. It was approximately the size of a postage stamp.
I stared down at it in the palm of his hand, then looked up at him and pressed my lips together. ‘I’m sure it’s lovely, but I don’t think it’s big enough for me.’
There was a second’s pause, then he burst out laughing, throwing his head back and guffawing fruitily, then leaning forward and clutching his tummy. It all felt a bit … exaggerated, as if he was trying to give me the impression that he thought I was hysterically funny, rather than actually
