Phaedra Patrick - The Secrets of Sunshine

When she lowered the dog to the floor, Mitchell wiped his hand on his trousers.

He glanced at her fridge, covered in a scrapbook of photos. He spotted Miss Bradfield posing in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Eiffel Tower and a purple VW campervan. She was accompanied by two other women, one who looked startlingly similar to the woman he helped from the water. He rubbed the space between his eyebrows and wondered if a bump to the head could bring on hallucinations.

‘So, you had an accident?’ Miss Bradfield said. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m in one piece.’

‘Didn’t you jump into the river to save someone?’

‘It was nothing,’ he said, wondering how much Barry had told her. ‘We mustn’t keep you any longer…’

She picked up an apple and bit into it leisurely. ‘You’re an architect, right? Clever?’ she asked between crunches. ‘Poppy told me you designed the new white bridge, the one that looks like a yacht?’

Poppy slid her eyes guiltily to the ceiling, and Mitchell felt his cheeks burn. He’d left his job in architecture when Anita died, and he hated to think about his involvement with the new bridge for many reasons.

‘I no longer practise,’ he said. ‘I changed jobs and work for the council now instead. No out-of-office meetings or travel.’

Miss Bradfield’s eyes swept to the Maintenance Team logo on his chest. ‘Ah, okay,’ she said lightly.

Poppy carried her plate and glass over to the sink.

Miss Bradfield sped over to her. ‘Now, you leave those for me to wash. Have you got room for ice cream? I have vanilla, strawberry or both.’

‘I love strawberry!’

‘Great choice.’

‘We have bananas and apples at home,’ Mitchell said. He picked up Poppy’s blue Word Up schoolbag.

‘I have sugar sprinkles,’ Miss Bradfield said. ‘And caramel sauce.’

Poppy shot him a pleading look.

Mitchell shook his head and zipped up her bag. ‘It’s past nine o’clock. Let’s do that some other time.’

‘When?’ Poppy said immediately. ‘Next week?’

‘We’ll sort something out, okay?’ Miss Bradfield said. She placed her hand behind her head and fanned out her fingers to form a crown. ‘Remember what we learned, Poppy? Always be a pineapple.’

‘Stand tall, wear a crown, but be sweet on the inside,’ Poppy added to her quote with a smile. She moved away from the sink and took her bag from Mitchell. ‘Thanks for looking after me, Miss Bradfield.’

‘Oh, call me Liza outside school. And just look at Sasha’s sparkly eyes. She’s missing your dad already.’

Mitchell headed for the front door, desperate to sink into his own sofa. ‘Thanks again,’ he said.

‘No problem, Mr Hero. Shall I call you a taxi?’

‘It’s fine, we’ll walk.’

‘Um, you’re not wearing shoes, Dad,’ Poppy said.

Mitchell curled his toes. Their apartment was around two miles away, but he didn’t carry credit cards and there was only a five-pound note left in his wallet. ‘I fancy some fresh air,’ he said.

Poppy wilted against the door frame. ‘Pleeease. I’m so tired, and I’ve got my bag to carry.’

Miss Bradfield pursed her lips. ‘If you need a little money?’ she said quietly. ‘You can pay me back, along with the lesson money. It’s eighteen pounds for a half-hour lesson. Not as cheap as other teachers, but I’m good.’

Damn, Mitchell had forgotten about that, and he would have to pay her more for looking after Poppy. If he’d been alone, he’d be stubborn and limp home in his socked feet.

However, he reluctantly agreed to Miss Bradfield’s offer and she phoned and ordered a taxi, before covertly slipping him a ten-pound note. ‘Call me tomorrow, let me know you’re okay,’ she said.

He reached for the latch on the door. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Just to check. Or for a chat. Poppy said you’re on your own…’

His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m really okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in work tomorrow, as usual.’

Mitchell saw Poppy’s and Miss Bradfield’s eyes meet, unconvinced.

‘I think the cab is here.’ He raised his chin and pulled the door open, glad when a breeze outside cooled his fiery face. ‘Thanks again, for everything.’

The shadows cast by the setting sun made the crumbling white bricks of Angel House look almost pretty. The 1920s building had originally been built as commercial offices for a detergents company and was named after its most popular cleaning fluid, Angel Liquid. It had been converted into apartments in the 1990s and retained its name.

Mitchell and Poppy lived at the top of the building in the eaves, where the ceilings sloped at acute angles. The roof slates soaked up the heat in summer, turning the place into a sauna, and in winter it was as cold as an igloo. The landlord described it as a penthouse, but it was more like an attic.

Mitchell started to rent the apartment four years ago as a weekday base away from home to be closer to his job at Foster and Hardman Architects. Work had been difficult to come by in the rural area he, Anita and Poppy lived in, and Anita wanted to remain close to her job teaching art at a local school, and her friends. They’d both lost their parents before Poppy was born, so these connections were important to her.

Mitchell was initially reluctant to stay in the city, but Anita assured him it was a more sensible option than commuting four hours a day. His work contract was for only eighteen months, and he’d be home three nights out of seven.

He initially liked that the apartment was uncluttered by family life. There were no piles of books and clothes on the stairs, or lipstick marks on towels or toys littering the floor. He could go to bed when he wanted, at 8 p.m. with a book or after a late-night movie. He discovered Minecraft on his iPad and sat up for hours crafting virtual bridges and buildings.

He often had to work over the weekends, too. At these times, when he and Anita didn’t see each other for up to a fortnight, they wrote letters to each other.

He wished he had shared her same eloquence for words. Her joie de vivre shone through in each letter she sent him, and his heart leaped when he found them waiting for him in the lobby or in his mailbox. Poppy sent him crayon drawings and small notes, and her handwriting flourished from the extra practice.

In return, Mitchell’s letters were practical and concise to prevent the stresses of work showing through. As his workload increased, the passion for his job faded, and so did his words home. But the money was good, and he was doing it for his family to have a better life. The foundations he laid now would strengthen their future.

Mitchell prayed to himself that the Angel House lift was going to be working, or else there were five flights of stairs to climb to the apartment. He just wanted to clamber into bed and go to sleep so he could be productive at work the following day. He could ask around to try to find out what happened to the woman in the yellow dress and put his mind at rest.

A fresh wave of exhaustion hit him when he saw Carl, the live-in concierge, mopping the chequered floor of the lobby. Carl was occupying the role to cover for his uncle, who was looking after a poorly relative overseas. In Mitchell’s opinion, Carl was overly keen on his new job. He greeted the residents too eagerly, with a big smile and many questions. In his mid-twenties, Carl’s hair was butter yellow and he wore a white shirt and tie underneath his khaki overalls. He could often be found folding origami shapes out of coloured paper.