Page 6

“Years of practice having spent my entire career working doors,” I explained. “I can hold an umbrella and numerous bags as well as kick a door open without breakinga sweat.”

I was going for humorous entertainment, trying to put the guy at ease. He’d done as he was told, which was one good result of this little outing. He was showered and dressed, or at least, he was wearing washed-out airline pyjamas. I knew because Gray always brought them home for me. I had a selection of airlines available for my nightly comfort needs.

“American?” I questioned.

“British. Born and bred,” he said, looking confused, but that wasn’t what I’d meant. With that crisp London accent, he was probably privately educated, and a high earner too, living in one of these townhouses.

“No, I mean the… What do they call them? Loungewear. It’s got the American Airlines logo on the front.”

“Oh.” He still seemed confused. I would have been too. I wasn’t the best at communicating, or making friends, but I did have some skills to fall back on.

“I brought biscuits. I’m usually a plain-digestive kind of man; I like shortbread, but days like this call for milk chocolate Hobnobs. Oaty and crumbly with that nice, sweet kick.”

Dylan still looked like he had no idea what to do with me.

I’d never been inside any other house on this road but ours. As a private gated community, this wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood for garden parties and socialising. We nodded politely at each other but mostly kept to ourselves. This basement flat, though, was surprisingly similar to mine, I noticed, as I looked around for somewhere to put down the cups of tea. Clinical. Pale walls, a TV, a bed in the middle of the room and a small kitchenette on the side. And a table. I had one too, but Dylan’s was more like an old desk, with leather visitor chairs on either side. Too posh to put the cups on.

“Lost the coasters,” he said.

Yes, he was definitely a Brit. The kettle in the corner. A ripped-open foil of teabags. Not a coffee maker in sight. My kind of guy. I handed him his cup and sat, making myself comfortable. “My son has this contraption of a coffee maker upstairs. It’s like some kind of steam engine. Took me a long time to get the hang of making myself a simple espresso.”

He took the seat opposite and placed his hands on his lap, like he didn’t know what to do with the tea in front of him. I nodded and gestured to the cup, a drink-it-whilst-it’s-hot motionwith my hand.

“Not keen on instant coffee.” He was a quiet man. Not a conversationalist then. “I like a nice latte at times.”

“You have a family?” I opened, but the shock on his face stopped me in my tracks.

Dylan Scotland. Thin. Pale. Had probably once been a very handsome man, all cheekbones and a sharp jaw. Now he looked broken. Or maybe I only saw him as that because this was the first time I’d seen him when he wasn’t crying.

It was nicer when he wasn’t crying.

“I’m sorry,” I said gently.

“Don’t.” His voice was just a huff.

“I don’t mean to pry, and I don’t expect any answers. I have no agenda here, Dylan. Can I call you Dylan? Mr Scotland sounds too formal for a friendly cup of tea. Biscuit?”

He watched as I opened the packet and held it out to him. I watched as his slim fingers took one of my meagre offerings.

He broke the biscuit in half, letting the crumbs fall all over his lap. Not that he seemed to notice or care. His bed was unmade, the space around him in gentle disarray.There was rubbish on the floor, the bin in the corner had stopped overflowing a while ago, and that line of milk bottles had clearly been there so long they’d become part of this room’s charm.

I wondered what was upstairs. If he even went there. The door at the top of the stairs was closed, no line of light underneath.

The same way my home looked. Where I missed that very same light. The sounds. The laughter.

We were living in identical silence.

He gave no reply to my earlier question, so I offered up another one.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

An open question. Yes or no. I wasn’t prying, but something was off here. I hadn’t seen the kids in years. Perhaps there had been a divorce? People were usually open about things like that.

“I’ve lived here for almost seven years now,” I continued, grabbing myself another biscuit. I chewed, swallowed, followed it down with a gulp of tea. A very nice brew. “Good cuppa, this. But as I was saying, I’ve been too busy with my grandchildren, and then I was working, and I honestly never paid attention. I haven’t been a very goodneighbour, and I apologise for not having introduced myself properly before. I briefly spoke to one of your nannies at some point, I believe.”

“It’s just me here,” he said with a touch of panic in his voice.

“Big house for just one man.” I hoped he was following where I was going.