She stared at the white rabbits that seemed to cover every surface. The wallpaper was covered in a shimmery pattern of them, the roman blinds were stitched with a leaping variety, there were matching big ears and bobtails sewn onto the window-seat cushions, there was even a rabbit in one of the stained-glass windows.
Then she noticed the cage in the corner of the room. Big enough to hold a small child. That was something she’d never seen before, and it wasn’t empty.
‘You have a rabbit for a pet?’ Robin asked, staring at the creature.
‘More of a companion really. I’m rather fond of white rabbits.’
‘I noticed,’ she replied, taking in the room again. ‘Does it have a name?’
He smiled. ‘She does. I called her Robin.’
Robin didn’t know what to make of that. ‘Why?’
His smile faded. ‘She reminded me of you.’
Henry shuffled over to the chair at his desk and sat down.
‘I don’t know how much time we have, so best not to waste it. I’d like to show you where my will is kept. Everything is arranged, I just need someone to push the button, so to speak, when the time comes. There are plans written down for what I would like to happen to me. I want to be cremated, but everything you need to know is in the folder. I’m halfway through my latest novel, I won’t be able to finish it now. My agent will look after almost everything book-shaped when the time comes. But there might be some decisions about my literary estate that I would prefer…’ He looked up at her, his big blue eyes pleading as though waiting for Robin to say something. When she didn’t, he seemed to give in, gently picking up his weary thoughts almost from where he had left them. ‘You must do whatever you think is right. That’s all any of us can do in the end. I promise I tried to. There are a couple of other email addresses you should probably have – people who need to know that I’m dead before they read it in the newspapers – why don’t I scribble them down now while I remember.’
Robin watched as he took a laptop from the desk drawer. Henry’s face stretched into something resembling a smile when he saw the expression on hers, the plentiful lines and creases on his skin doubling in number.
‘I know, I know. Everyone thinks I don’t understand how to use modern technology, but I’m old, not senile. I quite like that they think I’m so ancient that I write the novels with a feather quill and a pot of ink, but this little laptop saves me a lot of time. It’s much easier to edit for starters. I use the typewriter for the final version to send to my agent – to maintain the illusion of the person they think that I am – but I use a computer for all other drafts. I draw the line at mobile phones, though – those things cause cancer, you mark my words.’
He typed the password into the laptop using just his index finger, and very slowly, so she saw what it was without really meaning to: Robin. The knowledge that he used her name for his passwords as well as his pet made her feel an overwhelming sense of bewilderment and guilt. She didn’t know what to say so – once again – said nothing. He opened up his email account using the same password, and it made her want to cry. She knew him well enough to know that he wanted to live – and write – forever. But all the money in the world cannot buy more time.
‘Probably stuff and nonsense, it normally is,’ Henry said, turning his attention to some unopened post on the desk. He took a silver letter opener, which looked heavy in his frail hand, and sliced between the folds of the top envelope. His fingers shook a little as he removed what was inside: a letter from his agent. Robin read it over his shoulder, and saw how the old man beamed when he learned that his latest novel was a New York Times bestseller.
‘Isn’t that something?’ he said, looking much more like his old self, the one she remembered. ‘I didn’t know when I was writing it, but that was the last book I’ll ever publish. It means the world to me that my readers liked it.’
‘Well, their opinions always mattered most,’ Robin said, and his face crumpled. ‘I mean, congratulations,’ she added, because what else could she say to a dying man? She looked at the laptop again. ‘Your agent still writes you letters and sends them in the post?’
‘Yes.’
‘He doesn’t know that you have email?’
Henry smiled. ‘There are a lot of things my agent doesn’t know about me.’
An unspoken conversation took place between them, a rare moment of understanding. Then they reset themselves and it was gone.