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a lift with Ian. With dismay and rising annoyance, Claire recognized the
truth of this revised understanding of events.
A feeling of panic welled in her chest. She urgently needed to speak to
Emma, to explain and apologize to her. But Emma was at work and
Claire did not know where that was. There was a phone at the house, but
she did not know the number. Ian would know, but he would want to
know why she needed it, and she was not yet ready to tackle him over
last night. With all other channels of communication blocked, Claire
decided to write a letter. Passing through the hallway to her small study,
she noticed the book on the hall table, the return of which had been Ian's
paper-thin excuse for his late night visit. Claire composed and wrote her
letter, dropping it in to the box in the foyer for the early collection,
hoping to repair quickly any damage done.
Emma was a woman on a mission. Impatient all morning, she dashed
into the city after work for some urgent sorting out with her landlord.
She quickly explained what she had in mind, then browsed the details of
the numerous properties owned or managed by them throughout the
area. She found two of interest to her no more than a few streets apart. It
was at this point that she had a stroke of luck. The firm's building
manager was going out to an address near to one of her chosen
properties and would happily give her a lift. Emma accepted with alacrity.
He made phone calls from the car while Emma took a look at the first
of the rooms. She approached cautiously, but was pleased with what she
found beyond the untidy front garden. On offer was a large corner room
with windows on two sides. The furniture comprised a double bed with a
scroll metal bed head, a large dark wood wardrobe and a wooden desk
and chair. An adjustable lamp, together with the light from the windows
made the desk a useful place for drawing or writing. A fancy old gilt
mirror hung above the mantelpiece. Below, an electric heater sat on the
hearth in front of the boarded over grate. Carpet and curtains all seemed
quite serviceable, although she would never have chosen a blue and
orange colour scheme, given a choice. All the windows open freely and,
given that this place was actually cheaper than Richmond Road (due to
its greater distance from the city centre, she supposed), Emma was
content that she had found her new abode. She quickly checked out the
upstairs bathroom, the kitchen and the rear garden. Finding no
unpleasant surprises from these quarters, she returned to the car to
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complete the paperwork and sort out payment. The room would be
cheaper in the long run, but right now she was being made to pay for her
sudden change of mind. Everything done, she returned to the house to
call a minicab from the payphone.
Returning to Richmond Road, Emma packed quickly, having acquired
next to nothing since her arrival in the country. Before leaving, she
remembered to check the mail for the last time, finding one dove grey
envelope in her slot. She then took the waiting minicab back to her new
address. Nick arrived just as Emma was shutting the front door. She
offered no explanation for her sudden departure, but she did ask him to
hold on to her mail until she could call for it in the New Year. Nick
agreed readily, sorry to see her go.
The house in Dartmouth Terrace had been empty when Emma had
inspected it earlier. On her return however, she heard signs of life from
the downstairs front room. Disembodied revving, excited commentary
and the scream of overworked tyres now blared from that former living
room. Emma descended from her room to the kitchen to make a drink.
Bone weary, she ached for a long lie down on her new bed. Picking up
her tea to go upstairs, Emma ran into the owner of that downstairs front
room. A woman in her thirties, she was startled to see Emma emerge
from the kitchen.
"My God," she said, clearly Irish, "I thought I was all alone here for at
least another hour."
"Sorry I made you jump, said Emma, offering her hand. I've just
moved in upstairs. I'm Emma."
"Gerry. Geraldine to my mother. I didn't know anyone was moving in
today."
"No, it came as a bit of a surprise to me too."
Gerry looked at her quizzically, but Emma did not elaborate.
"Do you drive?" asked Gerry.
"Sorry?"
"Do you drive?"
"That depends. If you are asking whether I have a licence, then the
answer is yes. But if you want to know if I have a car, the answer is no."
"What was your last car?"
"A Mini," Emma replied, bemused.
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"Colour?"
"Red, with the flag of St George on the roof."
Gerry nodded, saying to herself, "That would be right, or the mark
two Volkswagen Beetle. Same thing."
"I learned to drive in a Beetle," offered Emma. "A silver one. It
belonged to a friend. It was already pretty ancient when I got to have a
go. I passed my test in it."
It seemed innocuous enough small talk to Emma, but Gerry, her face
glowing with delight, gripped Emma's elbow saying,
"I can see that you are fascinated by this too. I have so much to share
with a fellow enthusiast. Come on, I'll show you."
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