Nicci French - Until it's Over

At half past eight, I went to a public pay phone, used my mobile to remind me of Astrid’s number and punched it in.

‘Hello?’

‘Astrid! Did I wake you up?’

‘Is that you, Davy?’

‘Yes. My mobile’s packed up and I’m in a phone booth.’

‘I’ve been awake for ages.’

‘Me too. Listen, I know we’re meeting later with everyone, but I was really hoping I could come and see you beforehand. There’s something I think you should know.’

I thought at least she’d ask me to explain, and I had my answer ready, but she didn’t. Her voice was warm, natural. ‘That’d be fine. Why don’t you come here at – what? Ten, ten thirty? Then we can go on to Maitland Road together.’

‘Great. You’d better tell me where “here” is, though.’ If she was with a friend, I’d have to change plans.

‘Oh, sorry.’ She gave an odd little snort. ‘I’m staying at my friend Saul’s – you met him a couple of times. I’m feeding his cat and watering his plants for the next few weeks while he’s away. Sorry. Too much information. It’s Capulet Road, just off Stoke Newington Church Street. Number sixty-six A.’

It was so typical that it made me smile. I had spent a night wandering the streets while Astrid had already found somewhere to stay, with plants and a cat. I’d never become part of the world where people did things like that and knew other people who did it too.

I walked to Stoke Newington. It was just a couple of miles and it cleared my head. When I got to the main street, I went into a rather cool shop selling men’s clothes and bought myself a new shirt. It was an olive-green colour and smelled cottony and clean. I looked at myself in the mirror and liked what I saw. I was pleased with the slim young man with honest grey eyes in a fresh face, and – I leaned forward and smiled at my reflection – oh, yes, a modest and endearing smile that said, ‘You can trust me, you can lean on me, you can tell me what’s troubling you. I won’t let you down’. I wouldn’t let myself down. I’d come this far and I was on the last leg of my journey.

At ten minutes to ten I turned off Stoke Newington Church Street and down Capulet Road. I passed sixty-six A but it was too early; I didn’t look up but kept on walking. At three minutes to ten, I halted and put the last two sticks of chewing-gum into my mouth, chewed them vigorously, then spat them out on to the pavement. Then I went back up Capulet Road. I got to number sixty-six, a little cobbler’s that looked like something out of medieval times. The dark blue door to the left said ‘66a’, in gold. I stood in front of it for a few seconds. I straightened my jacket over my shirt. I took some deep breaths. I ran my fingers through my hair. I licked my lips, arranged my expression. And then I rang the bell.

It was only a few seconds before I heard the unmistakable sound of Astrid’s footsteps running down the stairs: light and quick. She pulled open the door. Her feet were bare and she was wearing faded jeans and a high-necked green cardigan that was short enough to show a strip of her tanned stomach. We were co-ordinated, I thought, on this day of all days. But there was something different about her and it took me a few moments to understand what it was. She was smiling at me and seemed properly pleased that I was there. Of course, she had always been perfectly friendly and approachable before, but in Maitland Road we had rarely been alone and I had always felt I was on the sidelines of her life. Today it was simply me and her. Nobody had just left and nobody was about to arrive. Her eyes were fixed on mine; her expression was attentive. She put her hands on my shoulders and kissed me, first on one cheek, then the other. ‘Hello, Davy,’ she said. ‘I’m really glad you’re here. I’ve been feeling so cast down about everything.’

She didn’t look cast down. Her face glowed with health and life. Her dark hair shone and her lips were glossy. She smelled of lemon and roses.

‘Of course you have,’ I said, stepping over the threshold and shutting the door behind me. I followed her up the stairs. The tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck were still damp; she must be fresh from a shower, I thought. Her back was slender. She led me into a room that served as kitchen and living room. It was all a bit higgledy-piggledy and cluttered. There were geraniums in the window box, and a ginger cat lay curled up and purring on the baggy corduroy sofa. It opened one yellow eye, examined me, then shut it again.

Astrid looked at me with concern. ‘Where did you spend the night?’

I mumbled something about staying at a friend’s.

‘You look terrible.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘I was wondering if you’d like a shower or something.’

‘I already had one.’

She laughed. ‘It wasn’t an accusation. Sit down. Try to ignore Saul’s mess.’ She hurled a coat and a bag off the sofa. ‘Coffee? Tea? Juice? I think there’s juice, anyway, I haven’t really examined the fridge yet.’

‘Coffee.’ I wanted to prolong the moment; watch her as she served me, watch the way her cardigan tightened over her breasts as she reached up for cups.

‘A small amount of milk and no sugar, right?’

‘You remember.’

‘Of course.’ She smiled at me and I felt my throat thicken with desire.

‘How long are you staying here for?’

‘I don’t know. A fortnight at least. I can’t see beyond that. I’ve no idea what I’ll do next. Maybe I should grow up and try to sort out my life. What do you think?’

‘Think?’

‘About what I should do next.’

I stared at her, memorizing every detail of her face. ‘I don’t think you should plan beyond the next few minutes at the moment, Astrid.’

She turned away and shovelled several spoonfuls of ground coffee into a cafetière and poured in boiling water, stirring vigorously. ‘This might be a bit strong.’

She sat down on the sofa next to me, pushing the cat to the end without waking it. Her leg brushed my leg; her shoulder was a few millimetres from mine. When she bent her head to take a sip of her coffee, I gazed at the curve of her cheek, at her long dark lashes. Steam rose into her face, moistening her skin. ‘You’re trembling,’ I said to her softly.

‘Am I?’ She held up her free hand. ‘So I am. I’m tired, Davy. Tired, scared, lonely, at a loss.’ She put the hand on my knee. ‘Do you understand that feeling?’

I put my hand over hers. ‘Do I understand it? Astrid, I’ve spent my whole life feeling like that.’ Tears welled in my eyes but I didn’t try to check them. I was done with pretending. This was my moment, my perfect day. I put down my coffee cup and picked up her hand between both my own.

‘I should have paid more attention,’ she said. She let me lift her hand to my lips and hold it there for a moment. ‘You’re the only person in the whole house to have come well out of all of this. Everyone else went to pieces or turned on other people, except you. You were always calm and kind. Especially to me. Do you think I didn’t notice?’

‘Do you know why, Astrid?’

‘I think so.’ She placed her hand against my cheek. She gazed at me, then leaned forward and, very lightly, kissed my lips. I pulled her to me. Her lips opened under mine, I felt her breasts against my chest. I pushed my hand into her hair and kissed her again, more roughly, tasting blood but that didn’t matter. My Astrid. My destiny. My ending and my beginning.

I pushed her back on the sofa. I kissed her gently, then started to do things I’d wanted to do since the first moment I’d met her. I put a hand on her breast. She smiled blurrily at me and I moved my hand under her cardigan and felt her warm, smooth stomach, then the rough fabric of her bra. I wanted her. I wanted to do everything to her at once. I moved my hand down to her jeans and started to fumble with the button. ‘Wait,’ she said dreamily. ‘We’re got time, Davy. We’ve got all the time in the world.’