One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [162]
Maggie’s house was also in darkness, which made my heart sink as I got out of the taxi. I’d already paid the driver, and he was trundling away even now. Still, I could easily walk to my house, I reasoned; it was only a few blocks away. I pushed open her gate and walked up the brick path. She grew the same plants as I did, which always made me smile: a tangle of unpruned honeysuckle and roses prevailed. Except… I didn’t really want to go home, I realized, hadn’t been there for days, was afraid to be alone there with my thoughts. What might I think, walking around my empty little house? No, I’d find Maggie wherever she was. Ring her. She’d be in a bar somewhere, with a girlfriend or two, maybe Sally and Alex. I’d join them.
I rang the bell, knowing she wasn’t in, but pressing it long and hard anyway, my eyes shut, almost leaning on it, taking out some of my pent-up emotion. No answer. And the curtains were drawn upstairs as well as down, as if she was away, even. Damn. I turned to go, wondering what plan B was. Obviously to ring her, but if she was out of London… maybe I’d ring Sally. I fished my phone from my bag, just as a voice, in a low undertone, filtered through the bay window.
I frowned. Turned back. Hastened to the window and pressed my face to the glass. I couldn’t see anything through the chink of curtain. But I could definitely hear movement.
‘Maggie!’ I banged on the glass, as it simultaneously occurred to me that she might be being burgled. Would I frighten thieves away? Might the door burst open any minute, and down the path hurtle a pair of six-foot youths with knives, ready to thrust at anyone in their way? Indeed, the door did fly open: I shrank back instinctively. There stood Maggie, in her white towelling bathrobe, looking flushed.
‘Oh.’ I gaped. ‘Sorry – were you in the bath?’
‘Yes, I bloody was! But I’m out now. Couldn’t get away from the interminable doorbell ringing. Thought the street was on fire. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘You look terribly pale.’ She peered at me.
‘Do I?’ I felt my cheek. ‘Bit tired, probably. Maggs, can I come in?’
She hadn’t exactly held the door wide and swept me through.
‘Um…’ She bit her lip, looked up and down the street. Her voice dropped. ‘Bit awkward at the moment.’
‘Oh?’
I suddenly realized she didn’t look particularly damp around the edges. Perhaps she hadn’t been in the bath at all. ‘Oh!’ It dawned. ‘You’re entertaing,’ I hissed.
‘Might be.’ She scratched her neck; looked sheepish.
‘Ooh, Maggie, you old dog. That was quick. Wait till Henry gets to hear, eh?’ I peered around her.
‘Well, quite.’
I was craning my neck right round the door now. ‘Anyone I know?’
‘Noo, noo,’ she lied, because you see, I know my best friend well. Can spot a whopper at three paces. I snapped my head back and stared at her in astonishment.
She looked sheepish. Shrugged. ‘Needs must,’ she muttered.
Needs must. My brain whirred furiously. ‘Not Carlos?’ I hissed eventually. Carlos owned the sandwich bar on Munster Road and had been flirting furiously with Maggie for five years. He was easily fifty, small, round, hirsute, swarthy, but very, very determined. He’d recently promised Maggie, sotto voce as he handed over her egg mayonnaise on brown, that, ‘one day, ’ee would ’ave her little tooshy.’ Maggie confessed she found this both terrifying and faintly thrilling, and over lunch we’d speculated exactly how hirsute he’d be, where it began – neck and wrists – where it all