the room, then drag my trolley across the carpet and close the door.
As I’m pushing my trolley along the corridor, I glance up at a clock on the wall: 11:11 a.m. I smile. It sounds silly, but whenever I see this time, morning or night, I feel it’s a sign. Of what, I’m not sure. A reassurance, a reminder that there might be more to life. I’m not talking about magic. I don’t believe in magic, but I do believe things aren’t as clear-cut as most people think. It’s 11:11 because that’s the minute Teddy was born. Nearly ten years ago. On our living-room floor. His labour lasted less than two hours, his sudden appearance taking Ma by surprise. Later, in the hospital, he looked at me for the first time, his blue eyes—not watery blue like mine but bright, beautiful cornflower blue—unblinking.
When the clock ticks to 11:12, I go on. And since I’m still not quite paying attention, I push my trolley straight into Leo.
“Oh, sh-shit, I’m sorry,” I say. “Did I hurt you? I’m—”
He smiles at me as if this is the most amusing notion. “No,” he says. “I’m fine.”
“Great. Thank God for that. If you sued me, I—I’d be totally fucked.” I stare at him, slightly horrified. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so—”
“Don’t worry,” he interrupts before I can make a total prat of myself. “I won’t sue you.”
“Thanks.”
I continue staring at him, though now I’ve run out of words. And there he is again, still looking slightly out of place, as if he belongs elsewhere. Today he reminds me not of a silver birch but a rare limber pine, uprooted from Utah and replanted in this genteel greenhouse of a hotel.
I gaze at him. He gazes at me. His gaze is odd, different—slow and intimate—as if he knows me all too well. As if he knows what I’ve been up to, as if he knows everything I’ve ever done. I hope not. His look unsettles but, strangely, doesn’t scare me. It’s intimate, yes, but not invasive. Like an offering at an altar. A gift given without asking anything in return.
Finally, I give him a curt nod, drop my eyes, and shove my trolley on, its ancient wheels dragging through the thick carpet. It’s probably my imagination, but I feel his gaze stay on me as I walk away, as close and warm as if he were pressing his palm gently to my back.
8:31 a.m.—Scarlet
“Hello, Walt.”
“Hey, Scarlet.” Walt pauses at the counter. “Shall I go straight through?”
“Great.” Scarlet nods. “I’ve got a batch of brownies cooling in the kitchen—if you fancy a bite before you start?”
The electrician grins. “That’d be fantastic, thanks.”
When Scarlet returns a few minutes later, with two brownies and a mug of builder’s tea, Walt has pulled up a chair to her grandmother’s table and is saying something to make Esme smile. Scarlet could kiss him for that, but baked goods, and the small fortune she’s paying him—£90 call-out fee, £120 per hour labour, £365 for parts plus VAT—to fix her dishwasher, will have to do. Naturally, the fucking thing had waited till it was two months out of warranty before breaking.
The bell above the door rings. Standing behind the counter, Scarlet glances up to greet the first customer of the day, but the words remain unsaid, hanging helplessly in her open mouth. She watches the man walk towards her—holding himself so straight and still that he seems to glide across the floorboards. His eyes are a startling blue, his hair pitch black, falling in curls over his ears. When he extends his hand, Scarlet thinks she hears Esme gasp. Or perhaps it’s her.
“I take it you’re the owner of this fine establishment?” His voice is deep, soft.
Scarlet manages a small nod. She’d thought Walt was all right, though not the type she’d look twice at in passing. For this man, women must stop in the street and stare. She takes his outstretched hand.
“I’m Eli,” he says. “Ezekiel Wolfe. My friends call me Eli.”
“Scarlet,” she says, having momentarily misplaced her surname.
“A pleasure to meet you, Scarlet.”
He smiles that brilliant smile again, and Scarlet feels she’s being bewitched, drawn in. Like those suicidally tenacious moths that bump their bodies against bright lights until they die.
As Ezekiel Wolfe begins to extricate his hand from hers, Scarlet glances down to see sparks at her fingertips. Real sparks, as from a lighter before it catches a flame. Impossible. She blinks and the sparks are gone.