“In Seville?”
“Yes, in Seville. Richard’s got some pieces in an art fair here, but it’s one of those deals where you have to pay the dealer for space, so . . .”
“He’s not sold any, then?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay.” There was a long pause, another crackle, Laura heard her mother sigh, and in that moment, something cracked; she felt her disappointment wrap like a fist around her heart.
“Laura, are you crying? Oh, Laura, don’t. Please. Don’t do this. You know I can’t bear it when people try to emotionally manipulate me.”
“I’m not,” Laura said, but she was sobbing now. “I’m not.”
“Listen to me,” her mother said, her tone brisk, businesslike. “You have a good cry, and then you ring me back, all right? I’ll talk to Richard about the money, okay? Laura? You take care now.”
Laura cried for a little while, and when she was done, all emotion spent, she called her father, who didn’t pick up. She left a message. “Dad, hi. Yeah, so I got arrested yesterday, accused of murder, they’ve let me go without a charge but I got fired ’cos I missed work due to being in police custody and all the food I bought went off and I’ve got fuck all money left so could you give me a call back? Cheers. It’s Laura, by the way.”
The One Who Got Away
When he wakes that morning, he can’t imagine how the day is going to go, can’t imagine how it’s going to end up, all the highs and lows. Doesn’t imagine, while he’s shaving in the dirty mirror in the back bathroom, rusty water in the sink, stink of shit everywhere, doesn’t imagine that he’ll meet such a lovely girl.
How could he imagine how it’d go? How she’d tease him and flirt with him and hurt his feelings and then come running back, thumb stuck out, asking for help, asking for his company, for his hand on her lovely soft thigh in the front seat of the car.
When he wakes that morning, he can’t imagine the rough-and-tumble later on, the excitement of it, the anticipation.
NINE
Four days a week, Miriam worked at Books on a Boat, a floating bookshop on the canal, just beyond Broadway Market. The shop, a mix of new and used, had been circling the plughole of bankruptcy for years. Nicholas, its owner, had in recent times been forced to rely on—in his words—the kindness of hipsters （crowdfunding） to keep the place afloat. （This was literally true: they’d recently crowdfunded to repair damage to the boat’s hull when it started to take on water.）
Miriam’s function was, to a large degree, back office—she did the accounts, kept on top of most of the admin, stacked shelves, and kept the place tidy. She was no longer permitted to serve customers （too rude）， nor was she allowed to write the shelf talkers—the little blurbs where bookshop staff gave their views on the latest releases （too brutal）。 Plus, she was off-putting. Nicholas never said so, but he didn’t need to. Miriam knew very well that she was not an appealing person to look at, that she did not draw people to her, that whatever the opposite of magnetism was, she had it in spades. She was conscious of these things and was prepared to face them. Why not, after all? What would be the alternative? There was little point in pretending that things were other than they were, that she was other than what she was.
Wednesdays, Nicholas went to see his therapist, so Miriam opened up the shop. Always on time, never late, not by a minute; she couldn’t afford to be. This morning, she ducked under the Cat and Mutton Bridge at exactly quarter to nine and so was surprised to see that, already, there was a customer standing outside the shop, hands cupped around his face, trying to peer through a window. A tourist, she thought, and then the man stepped back and looked her way and Miriam froze, adrenaline spiking. Theo Myerson.
Recovering, she reminded herself: this worm was turning. She took a deep breath, drew herself up to her full five feet two inches, and marched confidently toward him. “Can I help you?” she called out.
His face darkening, he hopped off the boat and came to meet her. “You can, actually,” he said.
As luck would have it, there was a momentary lull in foot traffic and the pair found themselves alone on the path. The bridge behind her, the boat before, Theo Myerson was in her way. “We’re not open yet,” she said, and she stepped out, toward the water, trying to edge past him. “We open at nine. You’ll have to come back.”
Myerson shifted in the same direction, blocking her path once more. “I’m not here to browse,” he said. “I’m here to warn you to stay out of my business. To leave my family alone.”