“I wouldn’t be listed, either,” she said, “if I lived in a place like this.”
“I think it’s the first time you’ve ever seen me in a shirt,” he said.
“Exactly!” She tightened their linking arms. “See? I told you. You’re ready.”
He typed in 182.
* * *
—
In the lift, he shifted his feet, he was so nervous he might throw up, but in the corridor he was better. It was rendered white, with dark blue trimmings. At its end was the greatest view of the city you could imagine. There was water everywhere—the salty kind—and a skyline that felt within reach.
On the right you could see the Opera House.
To its left was its constant running mate:
They looked from the sails to the Coathanger.
A voice stood up behind them.
“Goodness.”
Her eyes were sweet and smoky.
“You look exactly like him.”
* * *
—
Inside, the apartment was a woman’s.
There was no man there, no children.
It was somehow immediately obvious.
When they looked at the former Abbey Dunbar, they knew she was, and had been, beautiful. They knew she had great hair, good clothes, attractive in every way—but even so, there was love and loyalty; this was no Penelope. Nowhere even close.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked.
They spoke together. “No thanks.”
“Tea? Coffee?”
Yes, her eyes were grey and glorious.
Her hair was as good as television—she had a bob to knock your socks off—and you needn’t look hard to see the girl again, as bony as a calf.
“What about milk and cookies?” said Carey, an attempt to lighten the mood. She played Abbey; she felt she had to.
“Hey, kid.” The woman smiled—this older version—and even her pants were perfect. That, and a priceless shirt. “I like you, but best be quiet.”
* * *
—
When Clay told me about all this, he said the funniest thing.