Page 14 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘Are you sure?’

‘Course. I’ve done my manual handling training at work. I can carry boxes of photocopy paper without putting my back out, and everything.’

‘Sold.’ He pushed his hair back from his eyes. It was dark brown with lighter streaks that I assumed had been left by the sun, not by a hairdresser. ‘Let’s grab some breakfast first, though. Orla said it would be ten minutes, about ten minutes ago.’

So we ate and then returned to work, and on Sunday I found myself up early, ready to start all over again. That day we spent stripping wallpaper and removing floor tiles, because Luke said he didn’t want to do anything too noisy that would annoy the neighbours. Instead of fried eggs on toast, Orla produced a huge vat of minestrone soup for lunch, with homemade soda bread and butter. Then we began again.

And, at about half past three, I saw her.

I didn’t pay much attention to her at first. All day, a steady trickle of people had been passing the house: the Hossain family, who rented one of the flats opposite; a group of students on their way to the park for a picnic, laden with cool boxes and blankets; a couple of chefs from one of the restaurants on nearby Brick Lane standing in the sun having a smoke break.

But this girl was different. She was walking like she didn’t know where she was going – not strolling aimlessly or striding purposefully but pacing slowly, looking up at the tall houses and sideways at the railed-off square, then down at the map in her hand.

She looked about my age, but there the resemblance between us ended. I was tall and thin, cursed with the kind of boyish figure that was all knees and elbows. She was smaller and curvy, feminine even in her jeans and jumper. My hair was brown and not particularly clean, scraped back from my face with an old velvet scrunchie. Hers was blonde and in the sort of ponytail that involves tongs, back-combing and a tendril of hair wrapped and pinned to conceal the bobble.

Everything about her, from her glowing skin to her perfectly fitting jeans to the diamond stud I could see in her bellybutton between the waistband of her jeans and the hem of her spotless white jumper, spoke of money and time spent on her appearance.

I realised that instead of following Luke back inside the house, I was standing next to the skip, staring at her. As if she could feel my eyes on her, she stopped and looked back at me. Then the cadence of her steps changed and she came towards me, walking purposefully now, as if she knew where she was going when she hadn’t before.

‘Hi.’ She walked up to me, pushing her sunglasses up to reveal china-blue eyes. ‘This is Damask Square, right?’

She pronounced it differently from how I did, the ‘a’ drawn out to almost a drawl. American? I wondered.

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I was just looking at the house. Are there any other big houses around here or are these the only ones?’

‘The house?’ I could feel sweat trickling down from my hairline and wiped it away, conscious of my grubby hands. ‘There aren’t any others like this that I know of. Not as big, anyway. But I’ve only lived here a week.’

‘You’re renovating it?’ she asked, not that she needed to, given the skip and Luke emerging once more from the front door, lugging a rusty metal filing cabinet.

‘Our landlady is,’ I said. ‘I’m just helping out. I rent a room here.’

‘A room?’ She took a step closer to me, her expression suddenly eager, as if she was about to push past me and dart up the stairs. ‘As it happens, I’m looking for a room to rent.’

‘Then maybe you should come in.’ The words left my mouth, but for some reason, I felt reluctant to let her in – like I’d have any say in the matter. ‘You could speak to Orla, our landlady.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

She paused, the look of avid curiosity passing over her face again. ‘Orla who?’

‘Orla Clifford.’

‘Oh.’ Briefly, her face fell. But then she smiled and walked past me and Luke, in through the front door.

And in that moment, everything changed for all of us.

ELEVEN

10 MAY 2005

How different the house feels now! I was woken this morning not by the sound of rain coming through the leaking roof – which still leaks; it’s a specialist job to fix, according to Luke, who I have no reason to doubt – or even by the persistent kneading of Maud’s paws on my chest, but by the sound of a hairdryer – an unpleasant reminder that the electrics, like the roof, will need fully replacing by an expert at vast expense.

Beatrice was up, getting ready to go off to her nannying job – incredible to me, since Beatrice seems little more than a child herself. How different she is to Livvie, who from the moment she moved in has also mucked in, helping Luke with tasks that need an extra pair of hands, pulling up weeds with me in the garden, even topping up Maud’s water bowl if she’s passing and sees it running low.

Beatrice – well. There is something about her that I find mysterious. It’s not that she lacks maturity in contrast to the others: Luke is definitely an old head on young shoulders, and Livvie is clearly a girl who has had to grow up fast – when I ask her about her family, she answers as briefly as she can, and I sense that there is some deep hurt there she isn’t willing or ready to share with me, so I back off and resolve not to meddle until the next time curiosity gets the better of me.

Beatrice is different. She chats openly about her parents: her doting, overprotective mom and dad in Philadelphia who reluctantly allowed her to go off on this adventure by herself, only insisting that she find a Nice Job with a Nice Family before paying for her open return ticket. But I can’t help feeling that she is holding something back.