And then there are the flowers. On the day I moved in, they were lying on the doorstep—a huge bouquet of lilies, still wrapped in plastic. No note, nothing to indicate whether this is something he does for all his new tenants or a special gesture just for me. I send him a polite thank-you anyway.
Two days later, another, identical bouquet arrives. And after a week, a third—exactly the same arrangement of lilies, left in exactly the same place beside the front door. Every corner of One Folgate Street is filled with their heavy scent. But really, this is getting to be too much.
When I find the fourth identical bouquet, I decide enough’s enough. There’s a florist’s name printed on the cellophane wrapper. I call them and ask if it’s possible to change the order for something else.
The woman on the other end comes back sounding puzzled. “I can’t find any order for One Folgate Street.”
“It may be under Edward Monkford? Or the Monkford Partnership?”
“There’s nothing like that. Nothing in your area, in fact. We’re based in Hammersmith—we wouldn’t deliver so far north.”
“I see,” I say, perplexed.
Next day, when yet more lilies arrive, I pick them up, intending to throw them in the bin.
And that’s when I see it—a card, the first time one’s been left, on which someone has written:
Emma, I will love you forever. Sleep well, my darling.
THEN: EMMA
It’s just as wonderful as we hoped. Well, as I hoped. Simon goes along with everything but I can tell he still has reservations. Or perhaps he doesn’t like feeling beholden to the architect for letting us live here cheap.
But even Simon is pretty amazed by a showerhead the size of a dinner plate that simply turns itself on when you open the cubicle door, that identifies each of us from the waterproof bracelet we’ve each been given to wear, and remembers the different water temperatures we like. We wake up on our first morning with the light in the bedroom slowly fading up—an electronic sunrise, the street noises muffled to silence by the thick walls and the glass—and I realize I’ve had my best night’s sleep in years.
Unpacking, of course, takes no time at all. One Folgate Street already has lots of nice things, so our old stuff simply joins The Collection in storage.
Sometimes I just sit on the stairs with a mug of coffee, my knees tucked under my chin, drinking in how nice it all is. Don’t spill the coffee, babe, Simon calls when he sees me. It’s become a standing joke. We’ve decided it must be because I spilled the coffee that we got the house.
We don’t ever mention Monkford calling Simon a prick, or Simon’s non-reaction.
Happy? Simon asks, coming to sit next to me on the stairs.
Happy, I agree. Buuuut…
You want to move out, he goes. Had enough already. I knew it.
It’s my birthday next week.
Is it, babe? I hadn’t remembered.
He’s joking, of course. Simon always goes way over the top for things like Valentine’s and my birthday.
Why don’t we invite a few people over?
A party, you mean?
I nod. On Saturday.
Simon looks worried. Are we even allowed parties here?
It won’t get messy, I say. Not like last time.
I say this because the last time we threw a party, three separate neighbors called the police.
Well, okay then, he says doubtfully. Saturday it is.
—
By nine P.M. on Saturday the house is packed. I’ve put candles all the way up the stairs and outside in the garden and dimmed the lighting right down. The fact that Housekeeper doesn’t have a “Party” setting does make me a bit worried at first. But I’ve checked The Rules and “No parties” isn’t on the list. Maybe they just forgot, but hey, a list is a list.
Of course, our friends can’t believe it when they walk through the door, though there are plenty of jokes about where’s all the furniture and why haven’t we unpacked yet. Simon’s in his element—he always likes to be the envy of his friends, to have the most exclusive watch or the latest app or the coolest phone, and now he has the best place to live. I can see him adjusting to this new version of himself, proudly demonstrating the stove, the automatic entry system, the way the electric sockets are just three tiny slits in a stone wall, how even the drawers built under the bed are different on the man’s side and the woman’s.
I’d thought about inviting Edward Monkford but Simon persuaded me not to. Now, as Kylie’s “Can’t Get You Out of My Head” ripples through the crowd, I realize he was right—Monkford would loathe all this noise and mayhem and dancing: He’d probably make up another rule on the spot and throw everyone out. Just for a moment I imagine that happening—Edward Monkford turning up uninvited, turning off the music, and ordering everyone to get out—and it actually feels rather good. Which is stupid, because after all it’s my party.
Simon goes past, his hands full of bottles, and leans in to kiss me. You look great, birthday girl, he says. Is that a new dress?
I’ve had it for ages, I lie. He kisses me again. Get a room you two, Saul shouts over the music as Amanda pulls him into the knot of dancers.
There’s a lot of booze, a little bit of drugs, plenty of music and shouting. People spill into the tiny garden to smoke and get yelled at by the neighbors. But by three in the morning everyone’s starting to drift away. Saul spends twenty minutes trying to persuade Simon and me to come on to a club but despite having done a couple of lines I’m exhausted and Simon says he’s too drunk and eventually Amanda takes Saul home.