off the hallway that led toward the two guest bedrooms. She was right; the television was there—a monstrous screen hidden behind wooden doors built into a bookshelf. On the table (thankfully not glass) in front of the couch, there was a universal remote on top of a laminated card listing at least a hundred channels.
There was also a large wooden desk in the den, and Kate noticed a sticky note on its surface. It listed the name of a wireless account (“Angel Face”) and a password. It made her realize that she ought to check in with her parents, and also with Corbin, to make sure he’d made it safely to her own flat.
Kate retrieved her laptop and adapter from her suitcase, stopped back in the kitchen for a mug of black coffee, and returned to the den. She marveled once again at the expanse of the apartment. She sat at the desk, the leather chair creaking authentically. She had many e-mails, mostly junk, but one from her mother and one from Corbin. She opened Corbin’s first:
Kate,
It only took the driver a few false turns but we finally found your beautiful flat, and I read your incredibly thoughtful note. I’m ashamed I didn’t write a similar thing for you, and I have no excuse, but once I’m used to the jet lag I will send you an exhaustive list of good bars and restaurants near my apartment. I promise.
Quick question: I see you have a washer but don’t see a dryer. Am I missing something?
More later. I’m looking forward to the next six months.
Corbin
Kate wrote back:
I am too. When I walked into your place, I thought that I must have come to the wrong apartment. How gorgeous. I’m truly ashamed of my measly flat with a washing machine that also thinks it’s a dryer. It is a dryer, as well, that’s why you’re so confused. There are instructions in the drawer on the left of the sink, I think. My advice, however, is that if you start a clothes wash don’t expect dry clothes for at least a day. Please don’t hesitate to write with any more questions. I really am in love with your apartment. Best, Kate
P.S. Thanks for the lovely champagne, which is gone, of course.
Next, Kate read her mother’s e-mail—“so proud of you, darling”—and responded to that as well. She sipped at her coffee, so much better than the instant coffee she was used to drinking. She could hear a police siren in the distance and suddenly remembered the night before, falling asleep, and how she could see police lights on her ceiling. Had that been real, or part of a dream? For a moment she didn’t know, and she was filled with a sense of dread again, the same feeling she’d had when she found her pills in her purse after being sure they weren’t there. Am I losing my mind? she thought. Then told herself: No, it wasn’t a dream. It had definitely been real. Maybe something actually had happened with the girl from down the hall.
Kate unpacked her toiletries, then showered in the en suite bathroom. The shower was enormous, the head coming straight out of the ceiling, dumping a deluge of water. Again, Kate thought of her own flat in London, the bathtub that had been converted to a shower with its rubber tube that was always flopping out of its holder. After showering, Kate dressed in dark tights and her favorite Boden dress, and decided that she would brave the outside world. Before coming to Boston, she’d studied Google Maps images of her neighborhood and located the nearest pharmacy and the nearest market. Her plan was to go out and get the basic essentials to get her through the next few days. On Monday, she was starting at the Graphics Institute in Cambridge, about five subway stops away. She was not looking forward to that particular ride, but she knew she could do it—her therapist in London had had her take the tube several times as practice.
“The tube’s a choice,” Kate had said to Theodora. “I can take taxis everywhere.”
“It’s all a choice, isn’t it,” her therapist had said back to her. That placid northern accent had irritated Kate to no end when she had first met Theodora, but she had grown used to it, just as she’d grown used to the halo of curly hair and the purple jumpers.
“Well, I don’t choose to skydive, either. You’re not going to make me