‘Right,’ said Meg. ‘So, I’ll go on up …’ Meg took her case and climbed both sets of stairs, momentarily amused that she could remember every creak, and walked into her old bedroom. It was now decorated a pale cream, with a fraying beige carpet, a double bed with white bedding with tiny yellow roses, a chest of drawers with a dusty jug and bowl on top and a huge oak wardrobe with a padded gingham heart hanging off the key in its lock. All very slightly down-at-heel country cottage, but far from the gothic den she had once wallowed in, Sisters of Mercy blaring from her stereo, black bitten-down nails skittering on bare boards in time to the music, joss sticks and weird lava lamps, blackout blinds permanently drawn, skull and crossbones scribbled on the walls and empty gin bottles sliding around under the bed.
Meg put her case in one corner, lay on the lovely white bed and looked up at the clean white ceiling and the little skylight where she had once hung a grotty wind chime thing. A seagull – a proper one, from the distant Suffolk coast, not the London variety, intent on nicking someone’s panini – circled overhead, cawing happily.
She was back. Back here for two months. Against her will, basically.
Meg felt a horrible sinking feeling in her chest which surely couldn’t be good for her blood pressure.
What the hell was she doing here?
Sarah
‘The pavement’s for walking on, you dozy mare. Move out of the way!’
‘Oh, terribly sorry. Sorry about that.’ Sarah looked up from her phone and Google Maps to see a pugnacious man in a football shirt of unspecified denomination glaring at her before he rolled his bulging eyes back in his head and stormed past.
‘Sorry!’ she called ineffectually after him. She’d forgotten how busy London streets could be, even at eight o’clock on a Sunday night, and how she, too, used to get irritated by people who veered all over the pavement, or tourists who came to an abrupt stop when they spotted a blue plaque or some Ye Olde London monument.
She was outside Meg’s flat, or at least she thought she was. She double-checked the address again. Yes, this was it – 44 Raglan Street, W1 – and Meg was Flat 3, fourth floor.
It had been a long, arduous journey to get here – far longer and slower than she had expected – which she had mostly whiled away planning what clothes shops she was going to visit and browsing Pinterest for ‘work looks’ she could probably never pull off. By the time she’d got to Liverpool Street she couldn’t face the Tube, so she’d taken a taxi, with a very chatty driver who’d told her each and every famous person he’d had in the back of his cab. Each time she’d seemed remotely underwhelmed he’d added another one until the ‘celebrity’ pool was well and truly dredged; by Tottenham Court Road it was an H from Steps impersonator and a woman who’d once baked a Cornish pasty for John Major. The taxi had also been very hot and she’d opened the window all the way down and breathed in the smells of London: the food, a different cuisine for every restaurant they flashed past; the diesel fumes from rumbling, brake-hissing buses; the smell of beer and cigarettes from people enjoying a warm Sunday evening outside pubs and bars; and the unmistakable honk of opportunity and new beginnings. She was here; she was back in London. She was actually doing this.
Right, she thought. Meg had gamely said she’d leave a key under the front door mat of her flat for her, but how was Sarah to get into the building in the first place? She hung around for a bit; perhaps if someone turned up she could slip in behind them, like they did in the movies. Not that she belonged in the movies; she was in mum jeans, a creased lilac T-shirt and a pair of supermarket trainers.
Nobody came. She stood there for quite a while. OK, this was no good … Perhaps someone on the list of names and buzzers to the right of the door would take pity on her and let her in.
She pressed the top buzzer. Nothing. The second, ‘C. Clegg’. The buzzer rang twice, then, ‘Hello?’ a clear voice rang out.
‘Oh hi, my sister lives in Flat 3, fourth floor, I’ve got a key for it, but I can’t get into the building. Is there any chance you could let me in, please?’
‘You’re Meg’s sister?’
‘Er … yes?’
‘I didn’t know she had one, darling!’ the voice laughed. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Sarah.’
‘Sarah …’ The voice sounded like she was mulling it over, trying it out for size. ‘OK, Sarah, I’m buzzing you in.’
A buzz sounded, the door clicked and Sarah pushed it and stepped inside. The hall was blank, devoid of personality or any feature apart from a lift at the back. Sarah didn’t like lifts; she took the stairs, and four floors later she was outside Meg’s front door, as was a blonde in a pair of ripped boyfriend jeans, a white vest and a striped neck tie, who was sitting crossed-legged and bare-footed at the foot of it, tapping away on a phone.
‘Hi, Sarah.’ The woman looked up, and stood up, and Sarah did a massive, quite embarrassing double-take. Bloody hell, it was Clarissa Fenton-Blue! She’d recognize her anywhere. She had calves longer than most people’s full legs. She had sapphire blue eyes that could pierce bubble-wrap. And what Harry would have declared a ‘rack that could stop traffic’. And she completely surprised Sarah by lunging forward and enveloping her in an enormous hug. ‘I’m Clarissa,’ she breathed in the direction of Sarah’s ear. ‘I live downstairs.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Sarah. She wished she’d taken the lift now; why had she thought it a good idea to lug the awkward family case up three flights? Clarissa was (of course) all cool looking and stunning; Sarah was sweating like a pig and feeling incredibly frumpy in front of this goddess. She decided to burn all her clothes immediately.
‘So, Meg’s gone away for a while,’ said Clarissa, releasing Sarah and tossing her long blonde ponytail from side to side. ‘She texted me from a coach.’ She screwed her face up.
‘Yes,’ said Sarah as the ponytail swung like a propeller above Clarissa’s head. ‘She’s gone to stay in my cottage in Suffolk and I’m coming to stay here for a couple of months. We’re doing a bit of a swap.’
‘A bit of a swap? She didn’t mention that! I didn’t know she had a sister, either. She always says I’m her sister from another mister.’ Clarissa laughed, then her beautiful face turned more serious. ‘A bit scary about the blood pressure thing, isn’t it? Probably sensible for her to get out of London for a while. You don’t look much alike,’ Clarissa added, looking Sarah up and down. ‘You’re a lot taller. Rocking body, though.’
Sarah was taken aback. A rocking body? Really? She looked down at her horrible jeans then back up to Clarissa’s clear, earnest face.
‘So, what will you be doing in London, honey?’
‘Events Organizer,’ said Sarah. ‘It’s what I used to do.’
‘Cool!’ Clarissa put her phone in her jeans’ back pocket and suddenly loped off down the corridor, her impressive thigh gap about a foot wide. ‘Come for gin and Hobnobs with me sometime?’ she called over her shoulder.
‘OK,’ said Sarah, to Clarissa’s retreating figure. ‘Thank you.’ And she reached under the mat for the key and let herself into Meg’s flat.
*
It was just as she would have imagined a trendy London studio flat. Super modern: all character features long stripped out and replaced with white walls, a polished floor and one of those modern, inset fireplaces on the wall with nothing in it, not like Sarah’s ever-unswept sitting-room fireplace with