Seventeen hours later, London met me with damp wind, stone buildings, and the kind of gray sky Californians always describe like an apology. I loved it immediately. Heathrow was all glass and announcements and controlled movement, and I moved through it as if still holding my breath from the day before. Immigration stamped my passport. My hired car took me into the city past rows of brick terraces, black cabs, cyclists slicing through traffic with suicidal confidence, and church spires rising unexpectedly between office blocks. The driver spoke only twice, both times to ask if the temperature in the car was all right. I could have kissed him for not making small talk.
My temporary flat in Clerkenwell was small, high-ceilinged, clean, and tastefully impersonal. White walls. oak floors. A narrow balcony over a courtyard. A kitchen the size of one corner of Betty’s. I set my suitcases down in the bedroom, placed Betty’s pearls on the dresser, and sat on the edge of the bed without taking off my coat.
Then I turned my phone back on.
Notifications erupted across the screen so fast it looked like a slot machine paying out.
Brett: Babe what the hell is this
Brett: The key doesn’t work