The phone call came at a quarter to eight, when it still wasn’t fully light outside; a chilly drizzle spattered the window-panes and spread a fine gauze over the skyline, so that nothing was entirely clear and rooftops and trees acquired a blurred, mysterious air. Marnie hesitated. Her slice of bread was under the grill and already done on one side; her coffee was brewing in the cafetiere; a newspaper lay open on the table beside the plate and the jar of marmalade. This was her peaceful time of the day. She had already been out for a run and taken a shower. Now she was wearing her dressing-gown, scrubbed and virtuous, the pleasurable ache of exercise in her limbs, in a kitchen that smelt of toast, detergent and the basil that grew in a pot on the window-sill, which she watered every morning. Eva and her boyfriend would be asleep for hours, the door shut on the unimaginable squalor of their room. The unblemished day lay ahead of her. Reluctantly, she picked up the phone.
‘Hello? Marnie here.’
‘Marnie?’ The voice, overlaid by a static crackle, was not one she immediately placed, though it was oddly familiar and, as certain smells can, awoke a powerful but elusive memory.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘ This is Oliver. Oliver Fenton.’
‘Oliver?’ She frowned, and her grip tightened on the phone. The morning tipped into strangeness. ‘But – I mean, what –?’
‘I know this is unexpected. I’m calling about Ralph.’
‘Wait,’ said Marnie. ‘Please hold on for just one moment.’ She put the phone down carefully, noticing that her hands were shaking slightly, and went to turn off the grill. The toast was just beginning to burn, its crust singeing. She poured herself half a cup of coffee and picked up the phone again, turning her back on the ordered morning she had prepared for herself and looking instead out of the window. In the flats opposite, a man in boxer shorts was eating cereal straight out of the packet. ‘Sorry,’
she said. ‘I had to – Ralph, you said?’
‘You need to come and see him.’ The voice bounced, losing syllables. It sounded as though Oliver was shouting through a high wind.
‘I need to come and see him,’ she repeated stupidly.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He’s dying.’ A young woman in combat trousers carrying a polystyrene cup of coffee was passing beneath the window now; Marnie gazed down at the straight white parting in her sleek black ponytail. She walked very gracefully, like a dancer. ‘Marnie?’
‘I’m still here.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I can’t hear you very well.’
‘I said, he’s dying. And he wants to see you.’
‘But I –’
‘He’s in his cottage in Scotland. I’ve booked you on a flight to the nearest airport. It’s about sixty miles from here.’
‘Hang on. I can’t simply – as if –’
‘The plane leaves at three twenty this afternoon. From Stansted. You just need to show your passport.’
‘I have to go to work today.’
‘Someone will meet you there,’ continued Oliver, as if she hadn’t spoken.
‘You’re breaking up.’
‘I said, someone will meet you there. OK?’
‘Oliver, wait! You have to tell me – I mean, why?’
‘I can’t do it alone,’ he said. Or she thought he said, through the crackle.
‘Wait!’ The wind blew down the line at her and she shuddered, imagining she could feel its cold breath against her skin. ‘How long for?’ she shouted against it. ‘Hello? Oliver? Are you still there? Can you hear me? Damn.’
Frowning, she returned the phone to its cradle. Her hands were no longer trembling, but she felt cold and oddly heavy. She took a gulp of coffee, but it was tepid and bitter, so she poured it down the sink. She threw the toast into the bin. Put the marmalade back on the shelf. Folded the paper so the headline (‘Family die in fire’) was no longer showing, and sat at the table, shutting her eyes and resting her head in her hands. She wanted to think but for a while no thoughts came, no images, even, just a voice in the darkness repeating words that made little sense. ‘It’s Ralph . . . He’s dying . . .’