Chapter 36

CHAPTER 36

She goes to the bar the next morning to collect her jacket, which the bartender hauls out of lost and found.

"This yours too?" he asks, holding up Les Misérables .

"No," she says, and sets about determinedly knocking out the rest of the top-ten-things-to-do-in-Denver list: a botanic garden, a zoo. They're rubbish.

Her plans for when she gets back aren't going great, either. She was intending to get Amos to the flat and then send him into the attic, but he's insisting on a cafe. I just think a coffee out of the house would be better , he messages when she pushes. To ensure we keep it measured.

You start a fight with a departing husband once . Why is he so keen to keep things measured anyway? How about accepting that things are going to be unmeasured?

This rejection feels like the others, wrapped up into one: like Carter, like swiping and messaging and knowing there are hundreds of men out there who would date her, even marry her, but not knowing how to get to them.

Her safety net has always been: well, if she really wanted, she could just get a new husband.

But not if Amos is in New Zealand.

She can't permit it. She is done with messaging people and awkward first dates and the supposed thrill of discovery; she's done, she will find a spouse and she will stick with him or else she will settle into her own comfortable life with her friends and she will not, she will never again, go on a date . Just sofas and taking things for granted for ever. She cannot wait to take someone for granted again.

First, she's going to need to get Amos into an accommodating mood, which isn't going to be straightforward because "accommodating" has never been his way. But she has learned a lot from her different husbands. She can do this.

○○

Back home, it's hard to distinguish her general post-flight malaise and jet lag from her extremely bad mood. She checks the ladder to the attic, leaves it down in readiness.

She's seeing Amos on Sunday, so she has time. First she thinks about excuses to get him back to the attic. Then she thinks about getting him drunk, but that's going to be hard in a coffee shop. Finally, she looks up drug-habit-husband's friend Padge. She remembers only approximately where he lives but he has a website advertising his marketing consultancy and his exact address is listed on a domain registry, which seems careless for a drug dealer but she supposes he's very much a hobbyist.

She dresses in grey leggings, and a big dark-blue jumper, which is woollen and she does think about fibres catching, but (1) she's never met Padge in this world so it would be weird for him to suspect her, and (2) presumably even hobbyist dealers don't go to the police to report that someone has taken all their drugs.

○○

Breaking into his flat is easy enough. She fakes up an electricity bill with her name and his address, so that she can pretend to live there. Then she prints it out at work on Thursday, and on Friday she calls in sick (her boss won't be happy about it right after a holiday, but hey, she's leaving soon). She has to wait outside Padge's for five hours before she sees him leaving, which is a bit nerve-wracking. But the locksmith she calls doesn't even ask for proof that it's her place; she has brought the fake electricity bill for nothing.

And once she's inside, Padge's ice-cream containers are rammed with little bags. She shakes everything out into a Tupperware box and heads home, changing train carriages when someone comes in with a dog; she's not sure whether all dogs can smell drugs, or just the police ones.

She has until 3:30p.m. Sunday to work out what all the little bags are and what they do.

○○

Alcohol would have been less suspicious. But she has to work with what she can get, and Amos still won't meet at the house, won't meet at a pub, better to keep it quick ; she even has trouble getting him to come to Norwood Junction.

You're the one who wants the paperwork done , she sends in the end. You can at least get the overground

This sort of blame game is exactly why I want to meet in public , he sends back, but agrees. I want us to try to be civil.

I would love to be civil , she types, then thinks: does that seem sarcastic? I do not mean to sound sarcastic , she adds. Let us engage civilly in this process.

○○

She gets to the coffee shop five minutes early, enough time to order both of their coffees and stir the ground-up pill into his. She's tried this at home: it does work, though the coffee might look gritty at the bottom. His two sugars will help; she took a tiny, tiny sip of her trial run, and couldn't taste anything off.

"Hey," she says when he turns up. "Got you a coffee."

"Hi," he says. "Thanks. So, Denver!" he adds. "That sounds like fun!"

Given that his list of things to disapprove of has in the past included hiking, mountains and the entirety of the United States of America, perhaps, she thinks, he really is putting in an effort at this civility thing. She puts on her widest smile. "Yeah, I felt like a break, found a cheap flight, thought I'd give it a go. Everyone was friendly, the landscape is beautiful." It does, when she puts it like that, sound quite cool, the spur-of-the-moment adventure of it.

Although maybe not compared to the other side of the world. "So," she says. "New Zealand!"

"Yeah. I've always wanted to go back, ever since, you know."

"Our idyllic honeymoon?" She's looked up photos.

Now that she thinks about it, travelling around the world on a whim doesn't sound cool; it sounds like someone who is desperate to make a dramatic change but who will get to another country and find that it's still just him there, alone, no happier than he ever was. Or maybe not alone— suddenly moving to New Zealand does have the air of an unspoken… for a woman hanging after it.

Well, it's none of her business. And in an hour, it won't be any of his either.

"Where are you heading?" she asks.

"Wellington," he says.

"Wow!" It's so much easier to be wide-eyed and impressed when she knows she won't have to deal with him for long. She can nod and say "That sounds great" and "No wonder you want to get the paperwork sorted out, I think that's a sensible idea" and smile and let it slide off.

"And," Amos is saying, "I never loved London."

He did try moving to Berlin in her original world, but he moved back pretty damn fast. "Absolutely."

Another ten minutes on the delights of Wellington, and she can't tell whether the pill is working. "Would you like another coffee?"

"Oh, it's my turn," he says, and starts to stand.

"No, no. You slogged it over here. The least I can do is get the coffees."

The second crushed-up pill is from a different bag, in case the first batch didn't work. She stirs it furiously by the counter. "Sugar's already in," she says, as she puts the cup down.

"Thanks!" he says, delighted. Is he just happy that she's agreeing with him, or is the first coffee starting to take effect?

Another five minutes on how great it is that they're getting the paperwork done, and something is definitely happening. "Are you a bit warm in here?" she tries.

"Yeah!" he says. "I am!"

"Maybe we should get some air," she says. "Have a walk and talk through the details. We can hop into another cafe to deal with the documents."

"Yeah! That's a great idea!"

They walk up the road, Amos back on New Zealand, how good the wines are, the mountains, how London has never been right for him.

"I know," she says, "I know. You're going to be so happy."

"Not that London isn't great too," he says, generously, with an expansive gesture that takes in the worst of the local fish-and-chip shops, a puddle, a dead pigeon, a carpet shop that has been there for as long as she remembers but which she has never once seen open, and a tree that's still just bare branches even though it's almost May.

"Why don't you drink some apple juice?" She hands him a bottle from her bag, pre-prepared with vodka.

"Yes!" he says. "I love apple juice. Do you feel okay? I don't."

"Do you want to sit down? We could go to the flat? We're just around the corner."

"Ohhh, I don't know if that's a good idea."

"It is," she says. "It's a great idea. Maryam's downstairs, remember? We can ask her to check on you. And I've still got your old jacket, for hiking in New Zealand. That grey one, remember? It was expensive." Even a sober Amos surely wouldn't remember whether he had at some point in the last seven years owned a grey jacket that might be useful for his imaginary hiking future.

At the entrance to the flat, he looks up the stairs.

"Come on," she says. "You can have a nice sit-down and a big drink of water and I'll call you a cab."

He fumbles for his phone, which she has already taken the precaution of removing from his pocket. "Katy," he says, "I should let her know where I am."

Katy! There's a Katy. She holds the phone up in front of him. "Yeah," she says, "you've got a message from her. Come on." At this point she can absolutely not let him wander off unaccompanied.

"Why are you being so mean?" he says, frowning.

"You're right, I'm sorry, I'm being mean now and I was mean when we were married, and that's why it didn't work out, it was all my fault. You're going to be much happier. Katy will never be mean. But you'd better come up and get your phone and your jacket before you go home."

"I feel terrible ," he says. "I think you should get Maryam," and then he leans over and throws up on one of the steps, and it sinks into the carpet and pools at the edge and dribbles over the next step below, and it is, of course, disgusting, but the best and most hygienic way to clear up a husband's vomit is to adjust the universe so that it was never there in the first place.

"I've messaged her," she says, "she'll be up in five minutes." Maybe the vodka was a mistake.

On the landing Amos leans against a wall. She was right to leave the ladder down in advance. She pours him a glass of water in the kitchen.

"Where's…where's my phone?" he says.

"I'll give it to you once you've got your big grey jacket. You need to climb up to get it and then Maryam will come and check on you."

He doesn't look good. Arguably, she shouldn't have trusted the unlabelled pills she stole from a plastic bag in an old ice-cream container belonging to an ex-husband's marketing friend named Padge.

"Come on," she says. "Up the ladder. Your jacket. Remember?"

"Okay," he says, drinking the whole cup of water, still standing upright, good. He hands it back empty, and feels his way along the wall towards the ladder. He looks up.

"Can…can you get it?" he asks.

"No, I twisted my ankle." And she takes his hand and places it on a rung.

"Okay," he says, and slowly sags towards the ground, then releases his hold on the rungs and lies down.

Fuck. "Okay, deep breaths, concentrate on staying awake." She can't give up. Her last couple of days have been pretty illegal, and Amos is in no state to head back out into the world. She just needs to get him up there. Is there TaskRabbit for crime support? People talk about friends that would help you move a body but would anyone do that for her? Honestly, she thinks, just Bohai; he's the only one who would understand the context.

"Wallpaper," Amos says; he's lying on his back on the landing, looking into the living room which is still only half-painted, and she feels more embarrassed by that than she should under the circumstances.

She calls Bohai.

The beeps of an international call before he answers. "Hey," she says.

"Oh, hi. Is this urgent? Cos—"

"Yes," she says. "It's urgent, sorry. I drugged my husband and he's kind of semi-conscious and I can't get him into the attic."

Bohai is silent for a moment.

"Okay," he says. "Right. Uh. So, I'm engaged."

"Yeah, you said."

"No," he says, "I mean, like, really engaged. I've met someone."

"You're married . You can't be engaged."

"No, I told you, she was having an affair, the guy left his wife and they're together now and I was just enjoying the time on my own, but then, I don't know, I met someone. For real."

"You've met five hundred people," she says, "come and help me and then fucking meet someone else—"

"Yeah," he's saying, "yeah, fair, okay, let me think. I'm on holiday, though, it's a three-hour drive to get home before I can get back in the cupboards. And then it could be another hour to find a life in London and get over to yours. Shit, Lauren, semi-conscious? He can't wait four hours, you have to call an ambulance."

"But he's right here. He's so close. I'll never get him in the attic if I don't do it now. And how do I explain the drugs? What if he thinks I was trying to kill him? Come on, there has to be something."

"I'm thinking," he says, "I am, I want to help."

"Okay," she says. "Then help! I really liked Michael but I still fucking helped you when you were eavesdropping on that guy—"

"I know," he said, "I know . But—Lauren, I like this one, I really like her. I don't want to go. Let me think."

She can't deal with this. "No problem," she says, "he's opening his eyes," though he isn't, "he's fine."

"Don't hang up—"

"I'll let you know when I'm done. Don't call an ambulance."

Phone down. He calls back; she ignores it. Maybe he really is three hours from home, but it's suspicious that he led with I'm engaged and not the magic cupboard is hours from here . Either way, she's on her own. She fills another glass of water and spatters it with her fingers on to Amos's face, then squats down and shakes him.

"Your phone is in the attic," she tries. "I heard it ringing."

"Why? What," he says.

"Kitty. She was calling you."

"Kitty?"

"Katy." She had known that, she was just being spiteful. "Katy keeps calling. It sounds important. It might be an emergency."

He tries to sit; gives up. "Can you get it? My phone."

"I can't," she says, "I twisted—" then abandons it, he's not in a state for explanations.

"Calls a lot," he says. "Always calling. She's like that. S'probably just.Bored."

"Come on, Amos," she says. "I know you can do it."

And she thinks about the moment in that other world when he traded cakes with her at Rob and Elena's wedding, his slice of not-much-icing for her slice of far-too-much, which was nice, of course it was, but wasn't it also just a little bit awful? A quiet performance of knowing her so well, a hint of old claims in front of her new husband?

She thinks as well about how much of a dick he was about keeping things measured , and even about getting a train to Norwood Junction. And how she really doesn't like him, and certainly doesn't love him, but still probably, furiously, reluctantly cares about him, and she can tell because the other bad husbands can't annoy her like he can. It's the tangle of shared experiences and the resentments and the jokes and the relief at it being over—they're not good feelings but they are feelings.

One last try, then.

She climbs the ladder, right into the attic, then turns on her hands and knees. Looks through the trapdoor on to Amos where he lies on the ground beneath her. "Amos," she calls. "Amos." The light glows above her, flickers, crackles, the static in the air. "Help," she says. "Please help me. I'm stuck."

Amos opens his eyes and looks up at her, blinks. She remembers when she met him, so many years ago, at some bar she didn't want to be at, and they stood in the corner being mean together.

"Please," and if he doesn't come now then that's it, it's over. And she's not faking her tears, which blur her view of him and the landing and the future. She hears the crackling sound rise, looks at the light bulb, sees it flare again and shatter and turns away quickly, shards of glass on the rough floorboards around her.

She just needs him to climb. "Please help me," she says, and gathers herself and smashes one hand hard on the broken glass, shouts, it hurts more than she thought it would, and she holds her injured hand out through the trapdoor, within his line of sight when he opens his eyes. "I'm hurt, Amos," she says, which is true, "please, I need you to climb up, something's going wrong," and the electricity is humming through the attic and she is bleeding and crying so much she can barely make out what's happening below but there's movement, a blur, as Amos finally, finally pulls himself to sitting, and then to standing, his face close below, looking up.

"Lauren?" he says.

"Yes," she says. "Please help me."

And he takes one step up the ladder, and another.

She lies back from the trapdoor to give him space, and closes her eyes, and nausea surges through her, and his head comes in, and his body, then there he is on his hands and knees in the attic, and she looks up at him. "Thank you," she says. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry."

And she rolls back past him and out through the trapdoor, ungainly, too quick, glass embedded in one hand, dragging splinters down the ladder, and she lands heavily, squats, and she looks up and sees that one of Amos's feet is sticking out and she has to climb back up and shove it into the attic as he moves himself around. And what if this is the time it doesn't work? But she looks away and looks back with her heart pushing against itself, and—

It works.

The foot is gone.

The pain in her hand, the panic in her chest.

And she closes her eyes.

It's worked, it's worked, and her time of being single comes to an end, and her pages of searches about New Zealand and divorce and drugs disappear, she thinks, from her browser history, and Carter forgets the Englishwoman who followed him at a bar, and Amos is somewhere far away and fine, and everything is okay again.

The husband who descends barely matters; she's not going to keep him. She lies on her back on the floor on the landing. She doesn't care. She can deal with him in the morning.

The phone rings: Bohai. She answers. "It's okay," she says, and hangs up, and closes her eyes again.