‘You said.’
‘But I’m not sure anyone believes me.’
We exchanged an awkward smile and for a minute I wondered if he didn’t either.
‘So … do you pick up many people who fall off the tops of buildings?’
He shook his head, gazed out across the road. ‘I just pick up the pieces. I’m glad that, in your case, the pieces fitted back together.’
We sat in silence for a while longer. I kept thinking about things I should say, but I was so out of practice at being alone with a man – while sober at least – that I kept losing my nerve, my mouth opening and closing like that of a goldfish.
‘So you want to tell me about the teenager?’ Sam said.
It was a relief to explain it to someone. I told him about the late-night knock at the door, and our bizarre meeting and what I had found on Facebook, and the way she had run away before I’d had a chance to work out what on earth to do.
‘Whoa,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘That’s …’ He gave a little shake of his head. ‘You think she is who she says she is?’
‘She does look a bit like him. But I don’t honestly know. Am I looking for signs? Am I seeing what I want to see? It’s possible. I spend half my time thinking how amazing that there’s something of him left behind, and the other half wondering if I’m being a complete sucker. And then there’s this whole extra layer of stuff in the middle – like if this is his daughter then how is it fair that he never even got to meet her? And how are his parents supposed to cope with it? And what if meeting her would actually have changed his mind? What if that would have been the thing that convinced him …’ My voice tailed away.
Sam leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed. ‘And this man would be the reason you’re attending the group.’
‘Yes.’
I could feel him studying me, perhaps reassessing what Will had meant to me.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ I said. ‘I don’t know whether to seek her out, or whether I should just leave well enough alone.’
He looked out at the city street, thinking. And then he said: ‘Well, what would he have done?’
And just like that, I faltered. I gazed up at that big man with his direct gaze, his two-day stubble, and his kind, capable hands. And all my thoughts evaporated.
‘You okay?’
I took a deep gulp of my drink, trying to hide what I felt was written clearly on my face. Suddenly, for no reason I could work out, I wanted to cry. It was too much. That odd, unbalancing night. The fact that Will had loomed up again, ever-present in every conversation. I could see his face suddenly, that sardonic eyebrow raised, as if to say, What on earth are you up to now, Clark?
‘Just … a long day. Actually, would you mind if I –’
Sam pushed his chair back, stood up. ‘No. No, you go. Sorry. I didn’t think –’
‘This has been really nice. It’s just –’
‘No problem. A long day. And the whole grief thing. I get it. No, no – don’t worry,’ he said, as I reached for my purse. ‘Really. I can stand you an orange juice.’
I think I might have run to my car, in spite of my limp. I felt his eyes on me the whole way.
I pulled up in the car park, and let out a breath I felt as if I’d been holding all the way from the bar. I glanced over at the corner shop, then back at my flat, and decided I didn’t want to be sensible. I wanted wine, several large glasses of it, until I could persuade myself to stop looking backwards. Or maybe not look at anything at all.
My hip ached as I climbed out of the car. Since Richard had arrived, it hurt constantly; the physio at the hospital had told me not to spend too much time on my feet. But the thought of saying as much to Richard filled me with dread.
I see. So you work in a bar but you want to be allowed to sit down all day, is that it?
That milk-fed, preparing-for-middle-management face; that carefully nondescript haircut. That air of weary superiority, even though he was barely two years older than me. I closed my eyes, and tried to make the knot of anxiety in my stomach disappear.
‘Just this, please,’ I said, placing a bottle of cold Sauvignon Blanc on the counter.
‘Party, is it?’
‘What?’
‘Fancy dress. You going as – Don’t tell me.’ Samir stroked his chin. ‘Snow White?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘You want to be careful with that. Empty calories, innit? You want to drink vodka. That’s a clean drink. Maybe a bit of lemon. That’s what I tell Ginny, across the road. You know she’s a lap-dancer, right? They got to watch their figures.’
‘Dietary advice. Nice.’
‘It’s like all this stuff about sugar. You got to watch the sugar. No point buying the low-fat stuff if it’s full of sugar, right? There’s your empty calories. Right there. And them chemical sugars are the worst. They stick to your gut.’
He rang up the wine, handed me my change.
‘What’s that you’re eating, Samir?’
‘Smoky Bacon Pot Noodle. It’s good, man.’
I was lost in thought – somewhere in the dark crevasse between my sore pelvis, existential job-related despair, and a weird craving for a Smoky Bacon Pot Noodle – when I saw her. She was in the doorway of my block, sitting on the ground, her arms wrapped around her knees. I took my change from Samir, and half walked, half ran across the road. ‘Lily?’
She looked up slowly.
Her voice was slurred, her eyes bloodshot, as if she had been crying. ‘Nobody would let me in. I rang all the bells but nobody would let me in.’
I wrestled the key into the door and propped it with my bag, crouching down beside her. ‘What happened?’
‘I just want to go to sleep,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘I’m so, so tired. I wanted to get a taxi home but I hadn’t got any money.’
I caught the sour whiff of alcohol. ‘Are you drunk?’
‘I don’t know.’ She blinked at me, tilting her head. I wondered then if it was just alcohol. ‘If I’m not, you’ve totally turned into a leprechaun.’ She patted her pockets. ‘Oh, look – look what I’ve got!’ She held up a half-smoked roll-up that even I could smell was not just tobacco. ‘Let’s have a smoke, Lily,’ she said. ‘Oh, no. You’re Louisa. I’m Lily.’ She giggled and, pulling a lighter clumsily from her pocket, promptly tried to light the wrong end.