carry.’
Miss Bradfield pursed her lips. ‘If you need a little money?’ she said quietly. ‘You can pay me back, along with the lesson money. It’s eighteen pounds for a half-hour lesson. Not as cheap as other teachers, but I’m good.’
Damn, Mitchell had forgotten about that, and he would have to pay her more for looking after Poppy. If he’d been alone, he’d be stubborn and limp home in his socked feet.
However, he reluctantly agreed to Miss Bradfield’s offer and she phoned and ordered a taxi, before covertly slipping him a ten-pound note. ‘Call me tomorrow, let me know you’re okay,’ she said.
He reached for the latch on the door. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Just to check. Or for a chat. Poppy said you’re on your own…’
His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m really okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in work tomorrow, as usual.’
Mitchell saw Poppy’s and Miss Bradfield’s eyes meet, unconvinced.
‘I think the cab is here.’ He raised his chin and pulled the door open, glad when a breeze outside cooled his fiery face. ‘Thanks again, for everything.’
The shadows cast by the setting sun made the crumbling white bricks of Angel House look almost pretty. The 1920s building had originally been built as commercial offices for a detergents company and was named after its most popular cleaning fluid, Angel Liquid. It had been converted into apartments in the 1990s and retained its name.
Mitchell and Poppy lived at the top of the building in the eaves, where the ceilings sloped at acute angles. The roof slates soaked up the heat in summer, turning the place into a sauna, and in winter it was as cold as an igloo. The landlord described it as a penthouse, but it was more like an attic.
Mitchell started to rent the apartment four years ago as a weekday base away from home to be closer to his job at Foster and Hardman Architects. Work had been difficult to come by in the rural area he, Anita and Poppy lived in, and Anita wanted to remain close to her job teaching art at a local school, and her friends. They’d both lost their parents before Poppy was born, so these connections were important to her.
Mitchell was initially reluctant to stay in the city, but Anita assured him it was a more sensible option than commuting four hours a day. His work contract was for only eighteen months, and he’d be home three nights out of seven.
He initially liked that the apartment was uncluttered by family life. There were no piles of books and clothes on the stairs, or lipstick marks on towels or toys littering the floor. He could go to bed when he wanted, at 8 p.m. with a book or after a late-night movie. He discovered Minecraft on his iPad and sat up for hours crafting virtual bridges and buildings.
He often had to work over the weekends, too. At these times, when he and Anita didn’t see each other for up to a fortnight, they wrote letters to each other.
He wished he had shared her same eloquence for words. Her joie de vivre shone through in each letter she sent him, and his heart leaped when he found them waiting for him in the lobby or in his mailbox. Poppy sent him crayon drawings and small notes, and her handwriting flourished from the extra practice.
In return, Mitchell’s letters were practical and concise to prevent the stresses of work showing through. As his workload increased, the passion for his job faded, and so did his words home. But the money was good, and he was doing it for his family to have a better life. The foundations he laid now would strengthen their future.
Mitchell prayed to himself that the Angel House lift was going to be working, or else there were five flights of stairs to climb to the apartment. He just wanted to clamber into bed and go to sleep so he could be productive at work the following day. He could ask around to try to find out what happened to the woman in the yellow dress and put his mind at rest.
A fresh wave of exhaustion hit him when he saw Carl, the live-in concierge, mopping the chequered floor of the lobby. Carl was occupying the role to cover for his uncle, who was looking after a poorly relative overseas. In Mitchell’s opinion, Carl was overly keen on his new job. He greeted the residents too eagerly, with a big smile and many questions. In his mid-twenties, Carl’s hair was butter yellow and he wore a white shirt and tie underneath his khaki overalls. He could often be found folding origami shapes out of coloured paper.
‘Evening,’ Carl said, looking grateful to have someone to talk to. He rested his arm on top of his mop. ‘You two are out late. Do you have school in the morning, young lady?’
Poppy gave him a tired smile. ‘Yep.’
Carl reached into the breast pocket of his overalls and passed a tiny green paper crane to her. She cupped it gently in her hands. His eyes then swept down to Mitchell’s socked feet. ‘Why are you carrying your shoes, Mr Fisher?’
Mitchell flexed his toes, too fatigued to reply properly. He groaned inwardly as he saw the Out of Order sign on the lift.
‘I have a letter for you.’ Carl darted eagerly across the lobby towards his tatty oak desk. He moved a few origami frogs to one side and picked up a pink envelope. ‘A lady on the third floor asked me to give you this. Is it your birthday?’
‘No.’ Mitchell reached out to take it, but Carl kept it pincered to his chest.
‘I can see hearts through the paper,’ he said. ‘Very romantic.’
Mitchell whipped the envelope from Carl’s grip. He placed a hand on Poppy’s back and urged her towards the door to the stairway. ‘Thank you.’
Carl called after him, ‘I have another letter here, too, Mr Fisher. This one’s for me. I wonder if you could just—?’
However, Mitchell had already opened and closed the door behind him. He looked up the stairs spiralling above them.
Poppy glanced back towards the lobby. ‘I think Carl wanted you to look at his letter, Dad.’
‘Why would he want me to do that?’
She shrugged a shoulder. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Well, I’m sure he’ll find someone else to do it,’ Mitchell said as he mounted the first step.
After reaching the apartment, Mitchell panted as he unlocked the door. Even though the sun was almost down, the apartment was still baking hot. The small rooms were sparsely furnished, with stripped wooden floors. He’d bought the bare minimum of sleek Scandinavian-style furniture to kit the place out. In his sitting room, there was a three-seater sofa with a textile print featuring block-printed stags, and a coffee table that looked like a tree stump with rings in the wood. In Poppy’s bedroom, there was a shiny white bed, desk and wardrobe that he’d hastily bought and assembled from Ikea.
When
