Later that morning, Jackie Rose is called in again to see her commanding officer. This time he gets up from behind his desk and comes to the door to greet her, ushering her into the room with a directorial arm. She sits in the same chair but Warbeck, instead of reassuming his position behind the desk, perches on its edge. His crotch is approximately at her eye-level.
“Thanks for popping in again,” he says, like she’s doing him a favor rather than following a command.
“No problem. I was desk-bound today anyway.”
He smiles weakly and makes an ambiguous noise in his throat, then his manner becomes more serious. “Listen, Jackie, we’ve had something come in. You know that Debbie McGee case?”
“Cheryl Lavery?”
“Yes. I’d like it to be your priority.”
It’s such a sudden change of direction, Jackie isn’t sure how to respond.
“There’s no catch,” he continues. He stretches out his arms in a sort of reconciliatory gesture. “I’ve been thinking about what you were saying. About the safety of women on our streets. It should be our number-one priority. And this particular case is a good one to take a stand with.”
“That’s great,” says Jackie. “Obviously, I couldn’t agree more.”
“Yes,” he says. “So I’m allocating you some more resources. I want you to take a team out—begin today, if possible—and start asking questions. We’ll print some posters, featuring Cheryl, start an online campaign. And I’ll be doing a press conference later. You’re welcome to speak at that as well if you like, but dealing with those awful people—journalists, I mean—is just such a hassle. You don’t need distractions like that.”
“I don’t mind either way,” says Jackie, “but in general I’d rather be out on the street, chatting to people, collecting information.”
“That’s where your talents lie. You’re one of the best, in fact. You always have been.”
Soon afterwards, Jackie leaves the police station and heads out onto the streets.
Luxury Flats
Bastian rolls over in bed. He stretches his arm out to the warm dip in the sheets. There was someone beside him and they have left an indentation like a dimple in a smiling face.
He dreamt of Laura again.
Before he bumped into Glenda in the club he’d not thought of Laura or that short period of his life in a long time. When he and Rebecca got back together, it was as if the memory of Laura was repressed to cope with the absence. Now he finds himself thinking about her all the time, and the memories don’t come in stages but all at once. They shoot through him like an X-ray, revealing that which is tender.
As Bastian wakes, the details fall away like water off a body stepping out of a swimming pool. He remembers the sound of her laughter and the shape of her breasts.
He blinks as bright sunshine streams through a crack in the curtains, and he smells fresh coffee. The curtains are pulled aside and the coffee is on his bedside table and Rebecca is standing above him. Bastian feels guilty for the dreams and half-dreams.
Rebecca looks stressed. Bastian has started to appreciate what a deeply anxious person she is. She worries about everything: about work, whether or not she is working hard enough, whether she is doing well, whether the people at her work like her really or whether they are only pretending to like her. When Bastian probes her on this, she can’t give a reason why they might be pretending, although she did once confess that she pretends to like people all the time when she actually doesn’t, so it is only logical to assume that other people do the same.
He thanks her for the coffee and reaches across to take hold of it, cradling the hot mug between his hands until it is cool enough to sip. He watches her get dressed. Rebecca skips back and forth between the bedroom and the en suite bathroom then the living room to the kitchen. Bastian hears the toaster ping and Rebecca comes through to the bedroom with a piece of buttery toast clasped between her teeth, and she holds it there while standing on one foot and slipping the other into a pair of black tights.
Bastian thinks that tights are strange and he tells Rebecca as much. Then he says, “Isn’t it weird that men and women wear different clothes.”
“Weird how?”
“Just strange. Like, it’s one of those things that you become so used to, you don’t ever think to question it, but then sometimes, for instance, just now watching you put on those tights, you realize it’s kind of bizarre.”
“You could say that about anything,” Rebecca replies. It is sometimes difficult to read her expression and tell whether she finds something humorous or exasperating. On this occasion, he suspects both. “Would you like to wear women’s clothes, Bastian?”
“Not especially. They seem kind of uncomfortable. Especially tights. It’s just that it’s strange that I’m not allowed to. Or, rather, I am allowed to, but it would be perceived as a dramatic statement about my identity when actually, when you think about it, why should anyone care?”
“How radical of you.” This time, she is making fun of him, but he thinks it’s in a friendly way. She goes back to the kitchen and Bastian hears her pour some coffee from the cafetière into her thermos flask and screw on the lid.
Rebecca tries to get to work at 8 a.m. every morning whereas Bastian doesn’t start until nine, so she gets up earlier and has usually left before he’s dressed. She brings him a cup of coffee and he sits in the bed they share for a while as he slowly sips.
“Do you fancy the cinema tonight?” he calls through to the next room.
Rebecca doesn’t answer immediately but pokes her head around the bedroom door and says, “I would love to, but I have to work late
