Evelyn met me in the terminal. Despite the thick, bustling crowd, I spotted her right away. Her blonde head stuck a good foot above most everyone else. She looked like she’d lost some muscle mass. Her shoulders weren’t as broad as I remembered, though that was understandable considering her recent injury. Her right shoulder was wrapped in a complicated sling that kept her arm at a certain angle to her body. Other airport-goers eyed the awkward appendage with apprehension. Evelyn, oblivious, waved her good arm with such enthusiasm that one of the airport security guards honed in on her with the intensity of a trained German shepherd.
Rather than greeting each other with words, we screeched like wounded owls as we came together in a hug that almost took me to the ground. My head bounced off Evelyn’s muscled chest and clipped the plastic adjustable part of the sling.
“Sorry.” Evelyn rubbed the red mark out of my forehead. “Got a little too overzealous there. All right?”
One thing I would never get used to in England was that expression. To this day, I wasn’t quite sure how to reply to the quizzical greeting of “All right?” What exactly did that mean? Was I okay? Was I of sound body and mind? Existentially, was I all right?
“Uh, yeah,” I ended up saying as Evelyn linked her good arm through mine and led me toward baggage claim. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Hurts like a bitch,” she replied cheerfully. “It’s practically sewn in place at the moment. Do you know how hard it is to drive with one arm?”
“I’ll get us home.”
Before my mother died, she’d lived in the countryside of Windsor, not too far from the Queen’s vacation castle. Between school and visiting her, I’d spent enough time in England to ace the driver’s exam, which came in handy when I visited.
In the baggage claim, Evelyn refused to let me haul my suitcase off the conveyor belt. Like a one-armed goddess, she flexed her bicep and lifted my fifty-pound bag as if it weighed no more than a fluffy cat.
“Remind me why you need me again?” I said.
“To cook and stuff,” Evelyn answered. “Come on. Off we pop.”
Evelyn lived in a cute flat right outside the city of London. I’d been there once before, when Evelyn first moved in, to help haul her belongings from her old flat to the new one. Turned out she didn’t need much help. She had brought the leather sofa up three flights of stairs all on her own.
“Looks the same,” I said, dragging my bag into Evelyn’s bedroom. “God, that view never gets old, does it?”
From the floor-to-ceiling windows, you could see all the buildings that made the London skyline famous, including the Shard, a striking skyscraper that looked like a piece of broken glass jutting into the air; the Gherkin, a many-windowed coned cylinder that resembled a pickle; and my personal favorite, the Walkie Talkie, which looked like an enormous version of a children’s toy. The Thames River cut through the middle of everything, and it was beautiful as long as you didn’t stare at the dirty water for too long. When the sun hit the city at the right angle, everything sparkled.
“It’s the company’s,” Evelyn said of the flat. “That’s why it looks like a bachelor pad.”
I liked the flat’s style. It was all black paint and exposed brick accents, with a loft for entertaining and a myriad of kitchen appliances Evelyn would never use. The furniture was Evelyn’s, but she had good taste. Everything was well made of leather or iron. She favored a heavy, industrial vibe that matched her bone structure. The bathroom, oddly enough, was my favorite room. Every surface was covered in silky black tile, and walking in felt like entering another dimension where time and light didn’t exist. Nothing separated the shower from the rest of the bathroom, save for a slight downward slope, so you simply walked over and turned the water on.
“You want a shower?” Evelyn offered, reading the dreamy look on my face as I gazed through the bathroom door. “I know you don’t like the plane smell.”
“In a bit.” I strolled to the kitchen and began opening cabinets. “First things first, breakfast. Have you eaten yet?”
“I had a power bar.”
“That doesn’t count.”
She lifted herself onto a stool at the island counter, wincing when she accidentally jolted her shoulder. “I’m glad you agree. Might have to go for a shop, though. Not got much in there.”
I frowned at the bare pantry and empty fridge. “What have you been eating?”
“I told you. Curry.”
I rustled up enough ingredients for eggs and toast. I also found a can of baked beans that survived Evelyn’s cooking attempt a few nights ago. While I whipped up a quick breakfast for the both of us, Evelyn chatted at me about work and her family.
“And my sister’s getting married next year,” she went on. “You want to come? I could use a plus one.”
“Sounds fun.”
“What about you?” she asked with a note of hesitation. “How are things in San Diego?”
I sighed heavily as I buttered bread and fried it in a pan. “Expensive. You’ve seen my apartment. It’s miniscule. Guess how much I pay for it per month?”
“Twelve hundred?”
“Nineteen.”
“Christ on a cracker! How are you affording that?”
“I put a ton of advertisements on my blog,” I told her. “It looks terrible, but I need the money. Occasionally, I get a P.I. job. Those are good cash.”
Evelyn made a little noise in the back of her throat, as if she wanted to say something but convinced her vocal cords otherwise.
“Spit it out,” I said.
She attempted to fold both hands on the countertop, but the sling held her back. She settled for resting the good arm by itself. “I worry about this private investigator stuff. It’s not official, yeah? You don’t have any experience. What if you get hurt?”
“Says
