by Holly Miller
We adopted Macavity after Tash and Simon discovered Dylan was allergic to pet hair. Mum and Dad are holding firm on their sailing-around-the-world plan, so Max and I said we’d take Macavity. He’s twelve now, so he’s pretty low maintenance, and he’s always been an indoor cat, which means we don’t have to freak out about passing cars or decapitated mice.
Max wasn’t sure about having a cat at first, but the pair of them are best buddies now. I love sneaking up on them late at night, finding Max dozing on the sofa with Macavity purring contentedly on his chest.
“Well, good luck for tomorrow,” says Jools. “I’ll be thinking of you. You’ll boss it.”
“Thank you. I hope so.”
“I know so.”
* * *
—
Our dinner is classic conference, whereby they seat delegates from the same company at different tables as a sort of icebreaker, although to be honest, the free wine mostly takes care of that anyway. I’ve found myself next to Jon, a graphic designer. He works for a rival agency in Shoreditch that I happen to know Zara absolutely loathes. After a couple of glasses of wine, he tells me he’s just found out his wife of eight years cheated on him with his best friend, a matter of months after they got together.
He’s blond and a bit manic, talks very fast. He might be high. His eyes are bloodshot and his clothes are slightly crumpled, like being asked to look smart is an affront to his creative genius.
I’ve tried to go classy tonight in a midnight-blue knee-length lace dress, with capped sleeves and a high neck, plus the Jimmy Choos I wore for my date with Max, that night he got back from the Seychelles. I felt fancy earlier, when I stood dressed-up in front of the mirror in my room, so I sent Max a selfie, which he replied to with a string of complimentary messages.
“I mean, what I can’t figure out is, does it actually matter?” Jon’s asking me. He’s swaying a little as he speaks, like he might be about to face-plant into his panna cotta.
“Only you can answer that.”
“She keeps saying, ‘Ten years versus three months, Jon.’ ” He mimics his wife’s voice at a bitter, unflattering pitch. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t picture them together every time I shut my eyes.”
I sip my orange juice, blink away an image of my sister with Max. “Mmm-hmm.”
“You married, Lottie?”
“It’s Lucy, actually.”
He frowns. “Your place card says Lottie.”
I pick it up, waggle it at him. “Nope . . . it definitely says Lucy.”
“Okay, Lucy,” he says, like I’m being particularly obtuse. “You married?”
I shake my head.
“Boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“So then you know.”
“Not . . . exactly.”
“Well, put yourself in my position. We’re creatives, aren’t we? Let’s use a little imagination, for God’s sake.”
“All right,” I say curtly, because he’s talking to me as if this is all my fault.
“What would you do, if you were me?”
I glance at him, and it’s then that I notice there are tears clinging to his eyes, just waiting for him to blink so they can fall. I feel bad for him suddenly, recalling the anger I felt myself, when I first found out what my sister and Max had done.
I wait for a couple of moments. “If I were you . . . I’d go upstairs, drink a pint of water, and sleep it off. And whatever you do, don’t drink-dial your wife. Or your friend.”
He nods, and it’s hard to tell if he’s mulling this over, or if his mind has just popped off on a detour. “She loves that I have this job, you know.”
I guess it’s the latter. “Does she?” I say, weakly.
“Yeah. The money. The kudos. She brags about it.”
“What does she do?”
He speaks over me. “You know what would really annoy her?”
“No, what?”
“If I just . . . quit. Without telling her. Just got up one morning and said . . . I don’t have a job anymore, you figure it out.” He’s slurring his words now, his face growing flushed and damp, a combination of red wine and outrage.
“Sounds like the only person that would hurt would be you.”
“I’ve got a whole novel in a drawer, you know.” He swigs back more wine. His lips are stained purple from it, his teeth gradually graying. “Sci-fi, like . . . Asimov, but better.”
I suppress a smile. “Really.”
“Yeah. But whenever I talk about it, she tells me to grow up and stop dreaming, like she doesn’t think I could do it.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t think that.”
“In fact, you know what? Screw it.” He jabs an index finger a little too close to my face for no apparent reason, then gets to his feet. “I’m going to tell them to stuff their job, right now.”
“No, Jon . . .” I get up too, grab his sleeve. “Don’t be silly. You’re drunk, you’ll regret it . . .”
He shakes my hand away. He’s so out of it, his eyeballs are beginning to roll as he talks. “Nah, I’ve always hated this job anyway. And my boss is a grade-A tosser. Time for some home truths.” And before I can stop him, he’s weaving his way over to another table.
“Is he okay, do you think?” asks the girl on my other side, about twenty minutes too late.
I shake my head. “I think we’re about to find out.”
Jon has stopped by another table and is now doing his little finger-jab at an older man, who’s sitting down. I’m guessing it’s his boss. Other people start getting to their feet. One of them grabs Jon’s arm, which doesn’t go down too well. He starts shouting, then grabs a full glass of white wine and slings its contents at the man, who by now is on his feet, too. There is a collective gasp from the room, before it falls completely silent. I’m too far away to see the exact expression on the man’s face, but I’m guessing if Jon’s not already out of a job, he will be by the morning. He’ll probably open his e-mail tomorrow, head throbbing, to see that immortal subject line: Meeting with HR.
I can’t watch anymore, so I grab my handbag, stumble out of the dining room and head for the lifts. It’ll leave my table mates two down for the quiz, but it’s not like we’re playing for a five-star holiday. I mean, the top prize is a hamper full of condiments.
* * *
—
I should have done more.”
“Luce. He didn’t jump off a bridge. He got a bit lairy at a work do. Who hasn’t done that in their time?”
It’s about nine o’clock now. I’m lying on the bed in my room, sipping my complimentary water and nibbling a shortbread biscuit. It’s a much nicer room than I’d imagined before we arrived: I’d been expecting a traveling salesman vibe, with flat-pack furniture and warning stickers on all the appliances. But it’s actually very swish and country house, with sturdy furniture and a plush carpet, heavy curtains and designer toiletries.
Max is in his car—apparently he’s had to pop into the office for a couple of files. His voice keeps patching in and out.
“I bet you haven’t,” I say, in reply to his question.
“Well, no, but only because I like my job. Sounds like this dude’s got a backup plan anyway. He’ll be all right.”
“What—to be ‘Asimov, but better’?”
A pause. “That doesn’t actually mean anything to me. The last book I read was Gale on Easements.”
I smile. “Let’s just say, I should have tried harder to talk him out of it.”
“It wasn’t your job to. You don’t even know him. And hey—when you see his book in the window at Waterstones next year, you’ll be glad you didn’t.”
There was a time, many moons ago, when I dreamed of the same thing for myself.
“You’re a hopeless optimist, Max Gardner—do you know that?”
&n
bsp; “Well, wasn’t quitting Figaro the best thing you ever did? You’d never have moved to London. You wouldn’t be working at Supernova. We’d probably never have gone on that date . . .”
“Yeah. I think everything worked out pretty well in the end.” I smile dreamily. “So, are you pulling an all-nighter? It’s late to be picking up files, isn’t it?”
Max clears his throat. “Actually . . . you know how I said I was in the car because I’d just popped to the office?”
“Yes . . .”
“Well, what I really meant by that was . . . I’m coming to see you.”
My heart does a little backflip. “What?”
“Yeah. I was thinking . . . you could sneak me into your hotel room. We’ll have some fun.”
I laugh. “You can’t. Aren’t you working tomorrow?”
“No meetings till the afternoon. Anyway, the hotel’s got Wi-Fi, hasn’t it?”
“Max, I—”
“Sound like a plan?”
I don’t say anything for a couple of moments. From the corridor I can hear shrieks and muffled laughter, probably other like-minded delegates ducking out of the quiz.
“No,” I tell Max. “I’m sorry. I need to get an early night. This presentation tomorrow is a big deal.” I don’t go as far as to say career-defining, but I really do think it could be.
Anyway, I shouldn’t feel bad. Max knows this already. He’s made a romantic gesture, but he’ll wake up tomorrow and realize this was the right call. I need to run through my notes again, charge my laptop, press my clothes, get eight solid hours of high-quality sleep.
“Swear I’ll behave myself,” he says, but the mischief in his voice tells me otherwise.
I suppress a shiver. “No, Max. You know you won’t. You know we won’t. I can’t handle any distractions. Not tonight.”
He laughs. “I promise I won’t distract you. I’ll just . . . raid the mini bar and eat all your Pringles and test you on your slides.”
“No!” I smile. The thought of it is so sweet, but I know it’ll be even sweeter tomorrow, once all this is over. “Turn the car around. I’ll see you tomorrow night. I’ll take you out for dinner. Somewhere nice. I love you.”
So we say good night, and he turns the car around.
* * *
—
I wake to the sound of my phone ringing. I have to tug my eyes open, unsnag the sleep from my brain. There’s an ocean-floor depth to the darkness that tells me it’s the middle of the night.
I can’t hear any music or laughter. The world is still, waiting for what comes next. The silence is so loud it almost buzzes.
Switching on a lamp, I grab my phone, blinking at the screen. I tap to answer it, even though I don’t recognize the number.
“Am I speaking to Lucy Lambert?”
My heartbeat becomes liquid. I can hear it rushing between my ears. A question like that at this time of night can only ever be bad news.
I have never felt more desperate to hear someone promising me a special price on new guttering, or offering to fix my computer. But the female voice on the other end of the line is clear and steady, pin-sharp. I know from just those six words that she is no cold caller.
An image of my parents lurches into my mind. Who is it? What’s happened?
“Yes,” I manage to say, eventually.
On the carpet next to the bed, one of my blue Jimmy Choos has fallen on its side, like it’s fainted.
“Lucy, this is Kirsten Lewis from Surrey Police.”
Surrey? Why Surrey?
“Are you the partner of Max Gardner?”
And just like that, my whole world goes black.
Eighteen
Stay
“I’ve just been almost killed,” I gasp into my phone.
Jools is laughing—I guess because escaping death is better than succumbing to it. “What?”
“Mopeds.” I turn to survey them, buzzing like bees along the road I’ve just jumped out of. “They’re everywhere.”
I’ve been in Bali for less than an hour. According to the map (and Caleb’s super-helpful colleague from the cultural heritage team, Gabi), the beach hotel I need to head for is just a short distance from the airport. But the reality is much more confusing than Google Maps. I can only see streets and trees and tall buildings and dense clumps of people, all of whom look like locals, not tourists. Every road seems to loop onto the next, and none of them appear to lead anywhere that isn’t the airport periphery. And I can’t see the beach—nor are there any signs suggesting where it might be. It feels a bit like I’ve wandered out of Heathrow Airport and attempted to walk to Covent Garden.
Anyway, I was so intent on trying to navigate that I forgot to check both ways before crossing the road, which was when I almost got knocked down by a speeding moped, whose rider didn’t flinch, swerve, or even brake.
I hitch my rucksack higher up my shoulders. I’m already sweating. The air when I first left the terminal felt like stepping inside a preheated oven. Why did I think it would be a good idea to walk? For some reason, I’d imagined Bali to be blue sky and sea breezes. But so far, it’s just sticky and muggy and noisy, the sky the color of a dirty puddle.
“Luce,” Jools says calmly, like the nurse she is. It’s morning in London, and her day off. I picture her sitting in the cool shade of her back garden in Tooting, sipping a coffee. “Please just go back to the airport and get a taxi.”
I rotate slowly on the spot, searching for anything that could hint to where the terminal might have gone—an ascending plane, for example, or a person with a suitcase. Maybe I should FaceTime my dad and his sixth sense for direction—he’d probably be able to tell which way I should walk just from checking out the clouds above my head.
“That’s a good idea in theory,” I say. “If the airport hadn’t vanished into thin air.”
* * *
—
It’s now May. I haven’t seen Caleb for five months, and somewhere around the four-month mark, the missing him began to get too much. The drawn-out good-byes at the end of our phone calls, the pangs of regret when I saw a couple holding hands in the street, the shameful rushes of envy whenever Jools WhatsApped me with another update on her wedding plans. The wanting to touch him and kiss him and feel the warmth of his form lying next to me in bed.
“You could do that,” Jools said casually, one day in early April. I was in Tooting for the weekend and we were having a lazy start after a late night out with Nigel and his extended family, lounging on her sofa, watching Friends for the umpteenth time as we mainlined buttered crumpets.
“Do what?”
Jools nodded at the screen. Emily had just turned up in New York, having flown in from London to surprise Ross. “Fly out there. Surprise him.”
I snorted. “What?”
Jools shrugged, like the suggestion was no big deal. “You’ve been missing him like crazy. You could do something to show him . . . just how much you love him. It would be so romantic, Luce—flying out there, turning up at his hotel. I mean, why not?”
“Because,” I said, a little too sharply, before I could help it, “you know why.”
Jools smiled conspiratorially, like this objection was so weak it wasn’t even worth acknowledging. “Imagine how much he’d love it, though.”
We didn’t talk about it again that weekend, but she had planted a seed. I’d thought until then that my no-long-haul-travel stance would never soften, but over the next few days, I did begin to imagine how much Caleb would love it if I joined him. I started mulling the idea over, rolling it around in my mind ever so gently, like a ball of clay that I knew had the potential to be something exciting, though I wasn’t sure quite what. I let it linger in the recesses of my mind, daring—while I was showering, or walking to work, or cooking—to picture myself getting on a plane. I even wrote it down on my lapto
p: a short story about two unnamed characters being reunited after a long time apart, though in the end I had to stop because things got a little too steamy.
After a few days, I realized that the lurch in my stomach whenever I thought about actually doing it didn’t resemble fear as much as I’d thought. It felt more like excitement. Butterflies rather than wasps. A tiny thrill at the prospect of possibility—the realization that if I wanted to, maybe I could change the way I saw the world. I could do things I’d previously thought were beyond my reach. Maybe it had just taken missing Caleb this much for me to realize it.
I was still afraid, but—perhaps for the first time ever—I was starting to wonder if being afraid wasn’t, in fact, a reason not to do something. Maybe it was even more of a reason to try.
* * *
—
The taxi reaches its destination and I pass the driver a handful of rupiah. He retrieves my rucksack from the boot, and I thank him, then stand back and look at the hotel. It’s a modest place, one road back from the beach, its entrance shaded beneath a pagoda roof and crowded by palm trees.
This is it. Five months apart, and Caleb is now just meters away from me. I stay where I am on the pavement for a moment, staring up at the building like I’m standing at the steps of a castle in a fairy tale.
I venture inside, nod politely to the man behind the desk, and walk through the lobby. Gabi’s told me Caleb’s in room 12, so I follow the signs and make my way along the corridor, flip-flops slapping the floor tiles as I go. I’m paranoid I’ll bump into him heading out somewhere, headphones in and camera around his neck, which would be disastrous. Because here in this corridor is not where I want to do this. Our reunion has been on loop in my mind ever since I booked my ticket: he’ll open the door, I’ll throw myself at him, he’ll respond, and we’ll barely be able to breathe or speak until much, much later.
Room 12. Here it is: an innocuous brown door, with a fair bit of its varnish rubbed off. I take a breath, rest my palm against the peephole just in case, then knock.