An hour later, hunger forced Sinead out of her bedroom. She was hoping to avoid any small talk and reckoned Elliot was still in his room so that it should be safe to venture out for a sandwich. But she was wrong. She entered the kitchen and immediately saw him at the opposite end, standing side-on at the utility room window, looking out onto the garden. Instinctively, she was about to head back to her room and return to the kitchen later, but making a silent retreat with those stupid clunking crutches was impossible and he noticed her.
He said, ‘I really ought to tidy up this garden. Summer’s just around the corner. It’ll be nice to make use of it.’
Sinead froze in the kitchen doorway. Was he some kind of mind reader now? ‘Yeah, that’s a good idea. Don’t know how much help I’ll be at the moment, though.’ She tried sounding positive, but non-committal.
Elliot craned his neck and looked at her with his penetrating gaze. Sinead smiled and dismissed her paranoid thoughts. Of course he doesn’t know what you’re thinking. It’s just a coincidence. She couldn’t leave the room without it being obvious she was avoiding him, so she might as well get on with the small talk. ‘Looks like it’s been a while since any gardening got done.’
Elliot walked into the kitchen. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Another one of those jobs I’ve been neglecting.’ He opened the dishwasher door, pulled out the top rack and began unloading cups and glasses. ‘How are you feeling today, then?’
‘Yeah, fine.’ Sinead opened the cutlery drawer. ‘Pass me the knives and forks.’
Elliot removed the cutlery basket from the base of the dishwasher, took a few steps over to Sinead and handed it to her. Then he went back to his unloading.
‘Have you heard from your old housemates recently?’
‘No.’ The stainless-steel knives clanged as Sinead dropped them into the drawer. ‘Why would I?’
‘No reason. I’m just making conversation.’
Sinead picked a misplaced fork out of the spoon section and rerouted it. ‘I don’t know what they’re up to these days, and I don’t really care. I’m on a digital detox. No Facebook, Instagram or WhatsApp. I read somewhere that spending too much time on social media makes you depressed.’
Elliot finished with the cups and glasses, opened another cupboard door, and moved on to the crockery.
‘Are you missing work at all?’
‘Yeah, I am, actually. I miss being out and about, especially now the weather’s nice.’
‘Yes, it can’t be much fun standing on the streets in the middle of winter. Does your agency send you all over London?’
‘Pretty much. My team usually gets central or south London.’
‘I suppose some places must be worse than others. In terms of the type of person you encounter.’
‘Yeah, I guess so. I never really minded where we went. I like a bit of variety.’
‘Where might you have ended up this week, for instance?’
Sinead arranged the teaspoons so they stacked one on top of the other. ‘Dylan messaged me that they were going to be in either Bloomsbury or King’s Cross.’
‘Are those good districts to work in?’
‘Yeah. Big student area – they’re easy targets.’ Sinead closed the drawer and took the empty cutlery basket to the dishwasher. Picking out a spatula and a ladle, she went and hung them on the hooks above the oven.
Elliot took a cloth from the draining board and began wiping down the work surface. ‘It’s a tough job, fundraising. I couldn’t do it. What is it that appeals, exactly?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sinead paused and gave it some thought. ‘I like making a difference, knowing I’m doing something worthwhile.’
‘Lining the pockets of millionaire charity directors is worthwhile, is it?’
Sinead had heard this argument countless times before. ‘That’s not true. Most of the money goes to the people who need it.’
‘Really? I’d like to see some evidence.’
‘It’s easy to be cynical about charity. There’s been some bad press. But trust me, the money is definitely helping those who need it the most.’
‘I don’t think you believe that.’
There was that condescending tone again. ‘Oh really? What makes you say that?’
He worked away at a grease spot on the counter. ‘You tell people what they want to hear to get them to disclose their bank details. But it’s not the real reason you do the job.’
Sinead pretended to be amused. ‘Oh yeah – so why do I do it then? For the wages? Trust me, it’s not that well paid.’
Elliot stopped scrubbing. He looked her directly in the eye. ‘You love the thrill of manipulating people into giving you their hard-earned money. The power you feel is addictive.’
In mock amazement, Sinead opened her mouth and made a gasping sound. ‘Elliot! God… You really are a cynic, aren’t you.’
He was smiling, looking pleased with himself. ‘I’ve never understood why that word has taken on such negative connotations. A cynic is just the same as a realist, wouldn’t you say?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t think you know what you’re talking about. And you may not believe it, but I genuinely feel good about helping people, okay? That’s why I love my job.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean to offend. I’m sure collecting money for starving African children makes you feel warm inside. I’m simply suggesting that altruism is an inconsequential by-product of your primal need to dominate others.’
‘Wow. Yeah. That’s an interesting theory you’ve invented.’
‘You’ve chosen a socially acceptable job that allows you to act out your darker desires.’
Sinead headed to the kitchen door. ‘Well thanks for the psychoanalysis, but I’m going to have a lie-down for a bit. See you later.’
Sinead shut the bedroom door and stood with her back to it. The guy was getting stranger every day. She only went into the kitchen to make a sandwich, but ended up being deconstructed by her weirdo landlord. The fact that he felt free to say those things to her made Sinead feel deeply uncomfortable. They were definitely spending too much time together. She needed to get back to work. Maybe there were jobs she could do around the office; something, anything to get her out of this fucking bungalow.
She moved over to the bed, climbed on it and reclined against the pillows by the headboard. But as she mulled over the bizarre conversation, a troubling thought gnawed away at her: Elliot’s unwelcome assessment of her character wasn’t entirely wrong. The thought was too disturbing to contemplate further, so she grabbed her phone from the bedside table and found a game to play.
26
‘You’re Sinead’s friend, aren’t you?’
Dylan blinked and slowly nodded as he recognised Miles. Or rather, recognised Elliot.
‘Yeah. Hi…’ said Dylan.
‘Elliot.’ Miles said with a reassuring smile. ‘We met briefly when you helped her move in.’
‘Yeah, yeah. ’Course.’ Dylan nodded a few times. ‘How’s things?’
They were outside Waterstones on Torrington Place, opposite the south entrance of the main UCL campus. It had taken Miles most of the morning to track him down, having unsuccessfully scoured King’s Cross first before walking down to Bloomsbury and finding Dylan chatting to a pretty Chinese girl about third-world poverty. While waiting for an opportunity to casually stroll by and say hello, Miles had browsed the paperbacks by the window.