The Switch - Beth O'Leary Page 0,75

hunched at his laptop reading about setting up charitable organisations on the Internet. He’s handling all the Silver Shoreditchers’ administration – he’s even made some posters for the club, with a little logo. It’s wonderful. I’ve been on at him for weeks about being more proactive in his career ambitions, but, if I’m honest, I’m a little shocked he’s got all this in him.

‘There!’ he says, standing back from where he’s just hung a large picture on the wall.

‘Wonderful,’ I say. ‘The perfect finishing touch!’

The picture is an enlarged black-and-white photograph of the building from the 1950s, when it still operated as a printworks. There’s a collection of people gathered outside, talking and smoking, their collars turned up against the wind. It’s a reminder that this place isn’t just a collection of individual homes, it’s one building, too, with a history of its own.

I smile, looking around the space we’ve created. It’s beautiful. There’s a rich red sofa facing those glorious windows, a long dining table pushed to the back of the space, and lots of small tables with charmingly mismatched chairs, ready and waiting to host dominoes and rummy.

I’m so glad I’m here to see this. And I’m even gladder that the reason I didn’t go home early is because Marian asked me not to. Hearing her say how much she needed this time with Leena, just the two of them … it was like something heavy lifting off my chest.

My phone rings. Fitz tracks it down and fishes it out of the side of the sofa. Betsy calling. Oh, damn, I meant to ring her. Until now I’ve called her every week – I just got rather distracted with all the renovating, and it slipped my mind.

‘Betsy, I’d just picked up my phone to call you, what a coincidence!’ I say as I answer, pulling a face to myself.

‘Hello, Eileen, dear,’ Betsy says. I frown. I am familiar enough with the tones of Betsy’s false cheerfulness to spot the signs of a bad day. I feel worse than ever for forgetting to check on her.

‘Are you well?’ I ask carefully.

‘Oh, bearing up!’ she says. ‘I’m calling because my grandson is down in London today!’

‘That’s lovely!’

Betsy’s grandson is an inventor, always dreaming up ridiculous unnecessary contraptions, but he’s the one member of her family who stays in regular contact with her, so that puts him high up in my estimation. If she knows his whereabouts, he’s called her recently – that’s good. Now he just needs to get his mother to do the same.

‘And this is the grandson who invented the … the …’ Oh, why did I start this sentence?

Betsy leaves me to stew.

‘The hummus scoop,’ she says, with great dignity. ‘Yes. He’s down in London for a meeting, he says, and I thought, gosh, what a happy coincidence, our Eileen is in London, too! You two must meet for lunch.’

I purse my lips. I have a feeling Betsy may have forgotten that London covers more than six-hundred square miles and houses more than eight million people.

‘I’ve already told him to call you and set it up. I thought you might be lonely there, and it would be nice to have someone to talk to.’

I don’t have the heart to tell her that I’m far from lonely. I was at the start, of course, but now I hardly have a moment alone, what with seeing Tod, planning the Silver Shoreditchers’ Club, gossiping with Letitia …

‘He’s dating, too, you know,’ Betsy says. ‘He might be able to give you some tips in that department.’

I pause. ‘He’s dating?’

‘Yes! That’s what he calls it, anyway. He’s using all these funny things on his mobile phone,’ Betsy says. ‘Perhaps he could tell you about them.’

‘Yes,’ I say slowly, ‘yes, that would be marvellous. Remind me, Betsy … what’s he like, this grandson of yours? Relationship history? Hopes and dreams? Political views? Is he tall?’

‘Oh, well,’ Betsy says. She sounds rather taken aback, but then the grandmother in her kicks in, and she can’t resist the opportunity. She talks nonstop for twenty-five minutes. It’s perfect. Exactly the sort of intelligence I’m after. And, even better: he sounds very promising indeed.

‘What a lovely man! How wonderful, Betsy,’ I say, as she eventually runs out of breath. ‘And he’s going to call me?’

‘He is!’ There’s a muffled sound behind Betsy. ‘I must go,’ she says, and I hear her voice tighten. ‘Speak soon, Eileen! Do try and ring me soon, won’t you?’

‘I will,’ I promise.