Lost and Found. Jane Sigaloff

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ