Then – 2nd April
It felt illicit, sneaking around to Dylan’s flat like this. Even more so than the occasions when he’d arranged to meet her in hotels. Then he’d text her an address and a room number and she’d find a way out of whatever she was doing, go to him with her head full of conversations, the things she wanted to tell him, the advice she needed him to give her. The only problem with those last-minute, snatched meetings was that she didn’t have the chance to dress for him and Ella had discovered that she enjoyed the process of putting together an outfit he would enjoy taking apart.
The boys she’d been with before him weren’t interested in how she dressed. As long as she was prepared to take it all off they were happy.
With Dylan there was a whole new layer of pleasure to be taken. She picked up on the small cues he gave without realising he was giving them. He preferred her to be understated and covered up, button-down-collar shirts and simple knitted dresses, slouchy boots and leggings and oversize tees big enough for both of them to crawl inside.
He told her not to wear too much make-up; she didn’t need it and it didn’t suit her. She was a PhD student now, remember? She wasn’t up north any more.
The old Ella Riordan was wiped away and replaced with someone more London-appropriate. The kind of girl who didn’t stand out for what she was wearing but for the force of her ideas.
She turned on to Murray Street and almost sprinted up the front steps, rang the doorbell already smiling to herself.
A man she’d never seen before answered and for a moment she thought she’d got the wrong address. She’d only been here a couple of times before and all the townhouses on this row were similar under the streetlights.
‘Is Dylan home?’ she asked.
‘Upstairs.’
The man let her in, eyed her head to toe as he did it. No insinuation in the movement, only curiosity, she thought. The same as she felt about him. He was kind of rough around the edges, gym-toned and bearded, smelling freshly showered but with a trace of cigarettes too. He slid a heavy security chain on and double-locked the door. It wasn’t a rough area but Dylan had explained before that it was always best to be careful.
‘Not seen you here before,’ he said.
‘You don’t live here?’ she asked.
‘Just dropped in for a couple of days.’
‘Dylan’s Airbnb?’
He smiled, crow’s feet cinching. ‘Warmest welcome in town.’
Ella knew what he was, supposed she wasn’t fooling him either.
‘You’re a bit young, aren’t you?’ he asked, heading into the living room.
Ella stopped in the doorway, saw another man waiting for him at a small, round dining table where a card game was in progress, just the two of them playing. The other man was younger, shaven- headed, dressed in boxers and a varsity T-shirt.
‘Is she joining us?’
‘She’s here for Dylan.’ There was the insinuation. ‘One of his “students”.’
He threw the quote marks around the word with his fingers and the men shared knowing smiles, which made her feel suddenly uncomfortable.
She went up to the attic, the men’s voices falling away behind her. The door to the attic flat was ajar, music playing low, something minimal and instrumental. It wasn’t what she expected him to like and it was different from what he played when they were together; it made her feel like she’d seen a part of him he usually kept hidden and she wondered what it meant.
He opened the door wide, kissed her quickly on the cheek. ‘I thought I heard you. Are you coming in?’
‘Might as well.’ She smiled. ‘Since I’m here.’
He hadn’t done anything more to the place since she was last there six weeks ago, despite the fact that they’d discussed him warming it up a bit, making it a little more homely. The walls were still bare, the sofa still didn’t have any cushions, and Ella would bet that when she looked in the fridge he’d have nothing but beer and jam and cartons of orange juice.
She dropped her satchel on to the table, near his laptop, where the music was coming from, slightly tinny-sounding and distorted now she was close to it. He took her parka and hung it up on the coat hook on the door, making a point of looking at the small enamel badge she’d pinned to the collar.
‘Boycotting Israel now?’ he asked. ‘Is that what the cool kids on campus are into?’
‘I went to a couple of meetings,’ Ella said. ‘They got quite heated, actually. There’s a group of students who want to block visits from Israeli scholars. They’re talking about picketing more events, bookshops, galleries, that sort of thing.’
She started to tell him about the various factions, which lecturers were involved, who was stirring up trouble for the sake of it and who seemed more ideologically driven, but he didn’t appear to be listening. He seemed more concerned with changing the music on his laptop and tidying away some paperwork into his bag.
‘There were some pretty scary individuals involved,’ she said, hoping that might pique his interest. ‘Incomers, you know? Not actually students.’
‘That’s common enough at unis these days. Lots of soft brains ready and willing to be manipulated.’ He smiled. ‘Coffee?’
‘Have you got any beers in?’
‘I think there’s a couple left.’
He fetched two bottles of Peroni from the fridge and Ella saw, across his shoulder, how empty the shelves were. He snapped the tops off, passed her one. ‘I shouldn’t be encouraging this, should I?’
‘It’s okay,’ Ella said. ‘I’m a big girl, I can handle one beer.’
‘Do you need it?’ he asked, going over to the sofa.
He had an unerring way of knowing when she was down, Ella had noticed. She’d come in here full of talk, but he’d seen through the excitement in a moment. It made her feel better about his apparent disinterest in what was happening on campus, knowing he cared about that, but he just cared about her more.
‘I didn’t think it’d be like this,’ she said, dropping down next to him.
She curled up then changed her mind, kicked off her boots and stretched her legs out over his thighs.
‘How did you think it would be?’
‘Just . . . different, I suppose.’
‘More exciting?’
‘Maybe.’ Ella took a drink of her beer. ‘I didn’t think it would take this long to settle in. I’ve been here almost a year and I’ve done nothing. I hardly know anyone.’
Dylan frowned, absent-mindedly rubbing her knee. ‘You’re making an effort, though, putting yourself out?’
‘I’m trying,’ she said, thinking of the people in her shared house she just hadn’t clicked with, the people she’d swapped numbers with who never called, all the groups she’d signed up to and meetings she’d attended, looking for a circle she could make her own. Somehow it had all come to nothing. ‘Do you think it’s my background?’
‘Being a northerner?’ he asked, and smiled. ‘There are plenty of you lot in London, Ella.’
‘You know what I mean.’ He was going to make her say it. ‘Garton.’
‘I seriously doubt anyone you’re running into knows you started police training,’ Dylan said. ‘How would they?’
‘There are records, right?’
‘Records of why you left, yeah. And anyone who’s weird enough to background-check you will see what happened and realise how meaningless it is.’
Ella wanted to believe him but couldn’t. Something was holding her back and she was sure it wasn’t anything she was doing.
‘It’s like, I’ve got this list of people I need to talk to for my PhD,’ she said. ‘Two dozen women, all involved with the miners’ strike, all active and easily accessible, very vocal women who take every opportunity they can get to keep the story alive. So, I reach out to them and almost every single one has ignored my emails. You tell me why that is?’
He threw his hand up, half shrugged.
This wasn’t what she expected from him. Dylan was supposed to be the wise, older head. Have all the answers, give the perfect advice at the perfect moment.
‘It takes time to settle into a new place,’ he said weakly.
‘I’ve given it time!’
‘You’re putting too much pressure on yourself. You’ve not even finished your first year, for Christ’s sake.’ He gestured at her with his beer bottle. ‘You’re a perfectionist and a control freak and you need to learn to let go. People can find that very intimidating.’
‘Nobody gets this far in life without being . . . ambitious and careful about their work, do they?’ She heard how snotty she sounded, tried to dial it down. ‘If I wasn’t, I’d be back in Durham working in some shitty office, staring at spreadsheets all day and looking forward to my one night out a week with the girls.’
‘Or you’d be walking a beat in Durham, picking up the girls when they fell down drunk in the street on their weekly night out.’ Dylan grinned at her and she felt her mood lighten, slightly.
‘I so wouldn’t be a uniform,’ she said, playing along. ‘Not a control freak like me.’
‘No, course not. You’d be a detective inspector by now.’
She laughed at the idea, imagining a boring, navy trouser suit and polyester blouse with sweat patches under the arms. Saw herself, so stupidly young and even younger-looking, walking into a crime scene, squatting down to peer at a dead body she would vow to get justice for.
That was almost her life. The one her father wanted for her and the one she’d thought she wanted too. But it was always his dream and, within days of beginning her training, she realised just how badly he’d misled her about the profession. Deliberately or innocently, she’d never know, but the Garton he waxed lyrical about was not the one she found herself in. Not just the physical space, which had been redeveloped and renamed, although the old name still stuck, but the culture. The bad old days were over, he promised her. No more racism, no more homophobia or sexism; this was the modern police force she was entering.
He failed to appreciate that modern sensibilities and attitudes hadn’t changed everywhere at the same pace and that only made it worse when you walked into a pocket of resistance.
Dylan squeezed her leg. ‘It’s going to be fine, Ella. Trust me. You just need to be a little more patient and a lot more proactive.’
She finished the rest of the beer, washing away the defence she wanted to mount. He knew how patient she’d been, exactly how hard she was trying. That was the unfairest advice he’d given her yet. But, if he thought that was the way to go, she’d do it. She would stun him with how wildly, dangerously proactive she could be.