Page 82 of When We Were Young

Emily

I’m hot off the Eurostar and I’m exhausted and hungry, but I need to see Magda.

I stop off at the florist around the corner from her flat. When I press the buzzer, her son answers.

‘Is Magda home? It’s Emily.’

There’s a grunt at the end of the line, and I’m unsure whether it’s negative or positive. I’m deciding whether to buzz again when the door hums and clicks open.

When I reach her floor, she’s waiting at her door. Her expression is hard to read. I don’t know how badly I’ve offended her.

‘Come in,’ she says, when I hand her the flowers.

‘I won’t stay long.’

But the vodka comes out and I do stay long – far too long.

She has a way of eliciting far more from me than I was planning on sharing. But it’s less intrusive now. I’ve got used to her and I’m even starting to enjoy it. It’s like therapy.