years, but maybe he had that day and hadn’t shown me. I sent him a message:
Did you send me something?
He replied a few minutes later.
You woke me, Ruby. Do you mean The Goldfinch? xx
No, not that, but thanks for buying it, I replied. Something arrived today and I wondered whether it was from you.
In the post? he said. Not me, babe. I don’t know where you live. I meant to ask for your address. Can you send it over? x
I didn’t reply to that. I ripped up the photo and threw it into the bin. I tried to focus on what I’d be doing this time next year. I needed to get away, I knew that. I found a property website on my laptop and started to search for houses far away from here. I looked at places I loved to visit: Edinburgh and York, London and Brighton. It took about five minutes to realize that I couldn’t afford a thing in any of those cities. I started to make a list of cheaper places that I could go to, then started to think about whether I wanted to stay in Britain or whether I should pack up and go abroad. I could wait until my parents came home, then go off to Melbourne. Perhaps I could stay with Fiona until I got myself sorted out.
Or maybe I should go traveling. Set off with no goal in mind, just me and a backpack. The thought flashed into my mind that I struggled to carry a couple of bags of shopping home. I’d go to the gym, then. Run every day instead of just when I felt like it. Become fit. Yes, traveling sounded amazing. Then I panicked. Traveling implied I’d return: What did I have to come back to?
Dave Matthews was singing “Some Devil” from my playlist. No wonder I was feeling depressed. I’d just clicked on Bob Marley’s “Everything’s Gonna Be Alright” in an attempt to cheer myself up when the phone rang. I swore under my breath when I saw an unfamiliar mobile number. Instead of being scared of it, as I had been, I was suddenly furious.
“Hello?”
“Hello, love,” said a man with a strong local accent. “Can you fit me in tonight? I can come round to yours.”
I looked at my watch. Tonight? It was already nearly eleven o’clock.
I softened my voice. “Sure, sweetheart,” I said. “No problem. But you’re new, aren’t you? I don’t recognize your number.”
“Er, yeah.” He was clearly trying to keep his voice low and hadn’t figured on a long conversation. I wondered for a moment about his situation. Was he at home, telling his wife he was about to walk the dog? In a moment of hysteria I wondered whether he intended to bring the dog along, too. Or was he at the end of a shift at work, trying not to let his boss hear him and thinking his wife would be none the wiser if he was late home, because she’d be asleep anyway? “I haven’t been to you before.”
“I thought not!” I wished then I had some wine in front of me to give me some courage. Why had I decided not to have anything in the flat? I tried to sound welcoming. “Where did you see my number, darling? I like to keep track of these things.”
“I saw it on Sex Works,” he said. “Thought I’d give you a try.”
I looked around for my whistle, but it was on the other side of the room and I couldn’t be bothered to move. “Sorry,” I said, though I had no idea why I was apologizing. “Wrong number.”
I did my usual routine of blocking his number, then pulled my laptop toward me. It was time to see what there was on me online.
* * *
? ? ?
Within seconds I’d found Sex Works, with its slogan “Some women are too easy.” It was a site for escorts, though it didn’t sound as though the women left their own home, so that was a bit of a misnomer. My first name was used—and mine’s uncommon enough in women my age around