I checked the window locks, pulled the blinds full length to the sills, and unplugged all the appliances. I had a phobia over power surges and lurking fire hazards. Perhaps I procrastinated a moment too long. I opened and shut doors several times over, checked and re-checked under the bed and at the back of the wardrobe, before I finally left the flat.

It was always going to be raining. A wet sheet of warm persistence mocked my picnic hamper. It was exactly six thirty when I got to my car. I kept looking at my watch because timing was of the essence. I hoped an evening of casual surprises would mask all the meticulous planning.

‘Bit wet for a picnic love.’ Mr Jacobs from next door winked from under his flat cap as he marched past tugging his collar up around his ears. Under a large umbrella he disappeared round the corner. He would remember later that it was six thirty because he had gone to buy a last-minute lottery ticket.

Rush hour had slowed the traffic right down and as I crawled through Friern Barnet towards Whetstone, I became irritable. I should have left earlier. I imagined Mitch watching television, a can of lager in one hand, remote control in the other. He would be putting off work till the last possible moment. When I arrived he would forgo the marking altogether and leave it until tomorrow.

It was six forty-five by the time I reached Whetstone, the persistent rain now a summer torrent. A golden oldie hour on the radio was playing old favourites. The Beach Boys, Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison and The King provided a fanfare to usher my arrival. A man in the traffic queue next to me smiled. I turned the volume up and smiled back. Perhaps he guessed where I was going.

It was one minute to seven when I parked up outside Mitch’s flat in Barnet, smug that my scheduling had worked out. I looked towards the window of his flat. A faint light filtered through the curtains. He was at home.

The rain had slowed to a trickle and I threw my hood down and freed my hair as I stepped out of the car. The front door was open and as I entered, clutching the hamper, I glanced sideways at my reflection in the hall window. Ten years ago I’d used a mirror in a similar hallway, brushed my hair and reapplied lipstick to bolster my doubts. This time it was a glance; nothing more.

71

Arthur

I didn’t mind the wait. In fact it was electrifying and the excitement was almost unbearable.

I wandered round the sparsely furnished space, noting the minimalist masculine take on interior design. Two large black and white canvases hung on magnolia-coated walls. They were bland photographic shots of random skylines. Laminated floorboards were strewn with striped rugs, probably cheap purchases from a Moroccan bazaar.