He dials the texted numbers, hands her the phone. ‘Cops,’ he says. ‘Small world.’ And then walks silently as she explains the situation to the operator.
‘Thank you,’ she says, handing the phone back.
‘No problem.’
‘I’d be surprised if they manage to get any money out on them anyway.’ Liv smiles ruefully.
They are at the restaurant, a Spanish place. The lights are off and the doors locked. He ducks into the doorway and she peers in through the window, as if willing it to show some distant sign of life.
Paul consults his watch. ‘It’s a quarter past twelve. They’re probably done for the night.’
Liv stands and bites her lip. She turns back to him. ‘Perhaps she’s at mine. Please can I borrow your phone again?’ He hands it over, and she holds it up in the sodium light better to see the screen. He watches as she taps a number, then turns away, one hand rifling unconsciously through her hair. She glances behind her and gives him a brief, uncertain smile, then turns back. She types in another number, and a third.
‘Anyone else you can call?’
‘My dad. I just tried him. Nobody’s answering there either. Although it’s entirely possible he’s asleep. He sleeps like the dead.’ She looks completely lost.
‘Look – why don’t I book you a room in a hotel? You can pay me back when you get your cards.’
She stands there, biting her lip. Two hundred pounds. He remembers the way she had said it, despairing. This was not someone who could afford a central London hotel room.
The rain is falling more heavily now, splashing up their legs, water gurgling along the gutters in front of them. He speaks almost before he thinks: ‘You know what? It’s getting late. I live about twenty minutes’ walk away. You want to think about it and decide when we get to mine? We can sort it all out from there if you like.’
She hands him his phone. He watches some brief, internal struggle take place. Then she smiles, a little warily, and steps forward beside him. ‘Thank you. And sorry. I – I really didn’t set out to mess up someone else’s night too.’
Liv grows progressively quieter as they approach his flat, and he guesses that she is sobering up: some sensible part of her is wondering what she has just agreed to. He wonders if there is some girlfriend waiting for her somewhere. She’s pretty, but in the way that women are when they don’t want to draw male attention to themselves: free of makeup, hair scraped back into a ponytail. Is this a g*y thing? Her skin is too good for her to be a regular drinker. She has taut legs and a long stride that speak of regular exercise. But she walks defensively, with her arms crossed over her chest.
They reach his flat, a second-floor maisonette above a café on the outskirts of Theatreland, and he stands well back from her as he opens the door.
Paul switches on the lights and goes straight to the coffee-table. He sweeps up the newspapers and that morning’s mug, seeing the flat through a stranger’s eyes: too small, overstuffed with reference books, photographs and furniture. Luckily, no stray socks or washing. He walks into the kitchen area and puts the kettle on, fetches her a towel to dry her hair, and watches as she walks tentatively around the room, apparently reassured by the packed bookshelves, the photographs on the sideboard: him in uniform, him and Jake grinning, their arms around each other. ‘Is this your son?’
‘Yup.’
‘He looks like you.’ She picks up a photograph of him, Jake and Leonie, taken when Jake was four. Her other arm is still wrapped around her stomach. He would offer her a T-shirt, but he doesn’t want her to think he’s trying to get her to remove her clothes.
‘Is this his mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re … not g*y, then?’
Paul is briefly lost for words, then says, ‘No! Oh. No, that’s my brother’s bar.’
‘Oh.’
He gestures towards the photograph of him in uniform. ‘That’s not, like, me doing a Village People routine. I really was a cop.’
She starts to laugh, the kind of laughter that comes when the only alternative is tears. Then she wipes her eyes and flashes him an embarrassed smile. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a bad day today. And that was before my bag got stolen.’
She’s really pretty, he thinks suddenly. She has an air of vulnerability, like someone’s stripped her of a layer of skin. She turns to face him and he looks away abruptly. ‘Paul, have you got a drink? As in not coffee. I know you probably think I’m a complete soak but I could really, really do with one right now.’
He flicks the kettle off, pours them both a glass of wine and comes into the living area. She is sitting on the edge of the sofa, her elbows thrust between her knees.
‘You want to talk about it? Ex-cops have generally heard a lot of stuff.’ He hands her the glass of wine. ‘Much worse stuff than yours. I’d put money on it.’
‘Not really.’ She takes an audible gulp of her wine. Then, abruptly, she turns to him. ‘Actually, yes. My husband died four years ago today. He died. Most people couldn’t even say the word when he did, and now they keep telling me I should have moved on. I have no idea how to move on. There’s a Goth living in my house and I can’t even remember her surname. I owe money to everyone. And I went to a g*y bar tonight because I couldn’t face being in my house alone, and my bag got nicked with the two hundred pounds I’d borrowed from my credit card to pay my council tax. And when you asked if there was anyone else I could call, the only person I could think of who might offer me a bed was Fran, the woman who lives in cardboard boxes at the bottom of my block.’