I unfasten the watch strap absent-mindedly, half expecting to be whizzed straight back to the present as soon as it’s off my wrist. But nothing happens. On the back of the face, though, I spot something I didn’t notice before. A block of worn-off lettering. An address: 15 Foster Road, Bloomsbury, WC1A. That’s central London …
An idea flashes into my head, but before I can properly weigh it up, my phone starts buzzing. I take it out to see Daphne’s name flashing on the screen. Despite everything, I feel a burst of happiness as I slide my finger across to answer it.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Hey! Just calling to see how your lads-lads-lads thing is going? Have you done a shot in your eyeball yet? Are you wearing fake breasts? Have you gaffer-taped someone to a lamp post?’
‘Doing all three as we speak.’
‘Excellent, glad to hear it.’
‘I actually … Daff, I actually just got an email from that Clare Rodway woman.’
There’s a pause, and then she says, ‘Oh …?’ And the hope that she fills that one syllable with is genuinely heartbreaking.
‘Yeah, no, she said it wasn’t for her in the end.’
There’s a blustery crackle on the other end of the phone as Daff sighs heavily. ‘Oh, Ben. I’m so sorry. Well, look … Do you want me to come round in a bit, and we can talk about it?’
The thought of ruining her evening all over again with my boring, self-pitying bullshit makes me actually wince with embarrassment. ‘No, seriously, don’t worry,’ I tell her. ‘I feel all right about it, you know. She was probably right to knock it back; I don’t think it’s very good after all. But it’d be great to see you tonight, if you still want to meet?’
‘Yeah … OK,’ she says, brightly. ‘I’ve kind of got this work thing. But it’ll be done by seven, I reckon.’
‘What’s the work thing?’ About six months prior to this day, in summer 2010, Daff started in a junior role at the agency she still works for today, in 2020.
‘It’s nothing. Just, they do these Rising Star awards every year in the office, and this year they’ve kind of … chosen me.’
‘Shit, what? Why didn’t you tell me?’ I’m racking my brains, but I have no memory of this. Yet it must have happened that same night; the night Daff spent listening to me bore on about my rejection email.
‘Well, you’ve just been so caught up with all your book stuff,’ she says. ‘It’s only a stupid in-house thing anyway. It doesn’t mean anything.’
I feel myself flush with shame. She gave up this whole night – this awards ceremony – for me. Instead of being publicly honoured for being brilliant at her job, she chose to come home and comfort and support me when I was down. Words start clogging up my throat, rushing to get out.
‘Daff … Fuck … OK, I’m sorry. I’ve been a selfish fucking idiot. This is so great! It’s so exciting. Well done!’
‘Ben, calm down,’ she laughs. ‘Like I say, it’s not a big deal.’
‘It’s a massive deal! So, shall I come and meet you once it’s all finished? I could be outside your office at seven?’
‘Yeah, that sounds great. But can you leave your work thing? Won’t it look bad?’
‘I really, honestly don’t care.’
She laughs again. ‘OK. Cool. See you here at seven.’
I hang up the phone, suddenly feeling alive with purpose. Seven o’clock gives me just under three hours. Plenty of time to try and get some unanswered questions answered …
I’m about to head off in search of the nearest Tube when Jonno steps outside, bringing with him a powerful stench of cocoa butter. The perspiration is glistening on his forehead as he grins at me and lights a cigarette.
‘You had the right idea ducking out here, fella,’ he says. ‘I shit you not: there is a bird on that stage right now whose tits are literally down to her waist. Told you there were some munters in this place.’
‘Jonno,’ I say, before I lose my nerve. ‘Obviously I can’t change your weird, angry, backwards world view. But I would appreciate it if in future you saved your more mindlessly twattish comments until I was at least out of earshot.’
He stands totally still, staring at me, his cigarette dangling limply in his mouth. He looks like I’ve just punched him in the face, and for a second I wonder if that’s now what he’s about to do to me. But then he bursts out laughing, leaving a cloud of thick grey smoke floating between us. ‘Chill out, mate!’ he says. ‘It was only a bit of banter.’
I walk off, feeling giddy at having scratched a ten-year-old itch, and head straight for 15 Foster Road, Bloomsbury.
Chapter Twenty-One
Harv takes a large bite out of his 12-inch Subway Meat Feast and stares at the block of terraced houses in front of us.
‘Pretty weird place,’ he says, finally.
As an architectural summary, it’s bang on. While the other buildings on Foster Road are all identikit immaculate white rectangles, number 15 appears to have been dropped onto the street by mistake. It’s a squat red-brick affair with an uneven roof and a precariously wonky chimney. It looks like one snaggled tooth in an otherwise perfect mouth.
‘So …’ Harv takes another chunk out of his sandwich. ‘Why are we here again?’
I hold my wrist up. ‘I told you: I bought this watch a couple of days ago, and it’s not working. So I’m going to try and have a word with the guy who sold it to me.’
He nods. ‘Right. And you need me here because …’
To be honest, I’m still not totally sure why I called him. I think I just wanted someone else with me. This is my first ever visit to what could potentially be a
