Читать книгу Lost and Found - Jane Sigaloff - Страница 16

Chapter Five

108,102,96,94,88…Ben squeezed the brake and focused on the house numbers. Last week, safely on the other side of the Atlantic, this had seemed like a great idea: one knight, minus shining armour—well, more of a boy scout—doing a good deed for a damsel likely to be in distress. But at this precise moment he couldn’t help thinking that a stamp would’ve been far simpler. Added to the fact that he wasn’t sure whether he was there out of guilt, gratitude or just sheer curiosity.

Gemma flopped onto the sofa, cold bottle of lager in hand. The relief of pyjama bottom on sofa cushion was blissful. It had been a mundanely hard day in PAsville, most of the afternoon had been spent in Excel hell, and her eyes ached from sustained concentration. Fortunately Sam and EJ were checking out the latest influx of actors trying to make the transition from the big screen to the small stage, so the flat was hers for the evening.

Stretching out, she wondered how early she could go to bed without losing every self-respecting girl-about-town point. Almost all her friends with new babies were in bed by ten…and up at one, three and five. Surely she wasn’t getting broody? Well, maybe a little. And it wasn’t that she was short of male attention, but she’d always wanted to believe in The One, a sole soul mate, yet judging by the forest of wedding invitations on Sam’s mantelpiece, it did seem to be more about timing. In which case she should probably be out strategically sipping cocktails or salsa dancing. She knew she wasn’t going to meet anybody lying in front of the TV.

Ben took a look around as he slowed down. Aside from the roar of his Vespa—well, more angry wasp buzz—it was an eerily quiet road. And tidy. Window boxes added carefully thought-out finishing touches to newly painted windowsills and lovingly glossed front doors in muted blues, reds and greens. A smattering of estate agent boards signalled the transience of Battersea’s young residents as they moved onwards and outwards in search of more affordable space and room to park the inevitable people carriers. Shiny scooters broke up the Audi TT, MG, VW and Peugeot party, and Ben added his to the nearest bay. Strolling towards his final destination, he peered into the front rooms. Ikea envy. His foot was still nowhere near the first rung of the property ladder.

As he reached the front door of number 68, a large three-storey Victorian semi, he ruffled his hair. He knew better than to complain about an unruly mop when most of his mates were desperately trying to hold on to theirs, but it was a constant challenge to persuade it to lie flat, especially when there had been a helmet involved. Licking his finger, he held it firmly on the most independent tuft.

Houston, he had a problem. He’d carried the diary three and a half thousand miles and now there were three bells.

Johnson.

Brooks.

Washington.

And a perfectly acceptable communal letterbox. But surely that would be cheating?

Uncharacteristically tense, Ben rechecked the package in his hand. A sweat broke out in the small of his back as he remembered his broken promise to Ali, and he flapped his T-shirt to try and cool himself down. Flat 3. He checked his watch. Nearly eight-fifteen.

Taking a logical guess, Ben pushed the top bell.

A crackle of static. ‘Halloh…who is speaking, please, thank you?’

He seemed to have been connected to somewhere in central Europe. ‘Hi. Is that flat 3?’

A child shrieked in the background. Maybe two. Ben shook his head. He should have known that British electricians installed bells in whatever order they fancied. Bob the Builder should really have been Bodge the Builder. If he ever turned up at all, that was.

‘Heylow?’

His adult self compelled him to stay. ‘Sorry to bother you. Wrong apartment.’

‘No party here.’

‘Wrong bell. Wrong flat. Sorry.’ Ben wondered why he was shouting. Should have posted it. Should have posted it.

Without giving himself a nanosecond for second thoughts Ben went for the bottom buzzer and leaned in closer to the door. He couldn’t hear a bell ringing anywhere. He pushed it again, for longer this time. Second time lucky? He was sure the letterbox was winking at him.

Startled from semi-consciousness, Gemma sat bolt upright. She definitely hadn’t ordered any food yet, and a quick glance at the video clock confirmed it was far too early to be out for the count in pyjama bottoms. Leaping to her feet, she picked up the intercom handset while her heart made a supreme effort to pump enough blood to her brain to prevent her from passing out.

‘Hello?’ Gemma had tried her best not to sound dazed, confused or asleep. Listening to herself, she had failed on all three counts.

‘Is that flat 3?’

A delay. To reveal or not to reveal the information? At least she had stopped seeing stars now.

‘Hello? Are you still there?’

‘Yes…’ It was a tentative response.

‘Hi. Sorry to disturb you. My name’s Ben…’

Ben? Gemma didn’t think she’d ever had or known a Ben. She’d heard of plenty: Hur, Johnson, Affleck… In which case she could be Gemma from the block…well, maybe with a serious amount of work, a bit of Juicy Couture, longer hair and industrial hair irons.

Two floors down, all Ben could hear was breathing. ‘You don’t know me, but I have a package for you. If you’re flat 3, that is…’

Package for you. The three magic words every girl longs to hear. Open Sesame. ‘I’ll be right down.’

As she replaced the handset Gemma wondered whether she should be a bit more circumspect. It wasn’t your prime-time delivery hour. But she was sure all the e-mails she’d received about female safety involved quiet car parks and Rohypnol.

As she peered down from the sitting room window she could just about make out a bloke on his own. No TNT or FedEx van, but he didn’t look like an axe murderer. In fact from this distance he didn’t look bad at all. As for a package…disappointingly it appeared to be no more than a big envelope. She was still staring when he looked up at the house, obviously searching for a sign of life. Ducking down out of sight, she scrambled to her room, grabbed her combat trousers and, pulling them on over her pyjama bottoms, practically flew down the stairs, releasing her hair from its scrunchie en route.

‘Hello!’ She was unnervingly cheery.

Ben just stared. She was somehow…could she be too messy? He wasn’t usually messyist. Unless… Of course. This had to be Gemma. In which case, she was much more attractive than he’d imagined. He was thrown.

‘Um, hi. I’m really sorry to interrupt your evening…’ Now what was he going to do?

‘No worries.’ The honest truth. Gemma was face-to-face with a slightly nervous but definitely attractive man. Normally it took her months to meet one of this calibre, and that was after extensive searching, misspent evenings in bars and multiple cocktails. Never on her doorstep. Granted, if you were being pedantic, it wasn’t her doorstep, exactly, but for the purposes of this moment it would do nicely.

All he had to do was feign ignorance. How would he know the author even had a flatmate when, as he had reminded himself repeatedly on the way over, he hadn’t read it?

‘This is for you. I mean, it’s yours. I just thought I’d bring it over and drop it off as I was in the area.’ Ben stopped himself. Suddenly this was a ridiculous situation.

‘Thanks.’ Curious, Gemma took the padded envelope from him, still wondering if she was being overly trusting. But she was sure letter bombs and anthrax were never hand-delivered, and he wasn’t wearing enough layers to be a suicide bomber. Plus the vibe was definitely a good one. Classic Adidas, dark jeans, leather jacket, motorbike helmet under his arm and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a hint of an American accent going on. All excellent. Her prayers had been answered. The brat pack had finally come to Battersea.

‘Thanks.’ She said it again and, at a loss as to what to do next, went with convention and closed the door, watching the moment slip through her fingers in slow motion.

‘You’re an idiot, Fisher. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.’ Ben walked back to his bike slowly, muttering to himself. He’d handed over the only reason he had for ever being there, and still had no idea who the mystery author, EJ or NG were. And now he was far more interested than he had been even two minutes ago.