The room near the station had stairs Beth had not seen in the photographs.
That was the first thing she told me when she rang on Friday evening. The second was that the shared kitchen closed at nine.
“It’s a guesthouse,” I said.
“Apparently that means guests must stop needing food on schedule.”
Her preview job would finish after nine. The larger launch could run later. She could buy sandwiches, certainly; she could also choose not to begin her new life planning around someone else’s kettle.
“I’ve found another possibility.”
“Is there pressure to decide tonight?”
“Only from me. The woman said to see it first.”
That was reassuring. Beth described checking the journey to the venue, the cost and the length of the arrangement. She had written the questions herself. The support worker had helped her think through things she might overlook when tired, but hadn’t selected a destination for her.
“There’s a notice period,” Beth added. “I wanted to understand it before I agreed.”
I could hear pages turning. She wasn’t looking for someone to tell her to be brave. She was finding out what tomorrow would actually require.
I was helping Poppy cut paper bats at the dining table. One had five wings. I covered the mouthpiece long enough to assure her that nature was full of surprises.
“Go on.”
“A room with a woman Imogen knows. She lets it for a few weeks at a time. Close to the venue and the bus route.”
“Have you seen it?”
“I’m going now. With the support worker. She had time at the end of the day.”
I felt myself about to produce a list of questions she had probably already considered.
Instead, I asked, “What would help?”
“Could I ring afterwards?”
“Yes.”
She rang an hour later. The room was plain, the agreement clear, the woman cheerful without being curious. There was a shelf in the fridge. Beth spoke about that shelf longer than she spoke about the bed.
“It’s a better fit,” she said.
“What about the first booking?”
“I’ve cancelled it within the terms. No charge. I’ve got the email.”
“And the money?”
“I’ll send Priya the new cost. It’s a little less. Same arrangement, just a different place.”
On the table, Poppy’s bats were drying beside the newspaper. Tom came home and stood looking at them with genuine pleasure.
“Which one’s mine?”
“The wonky one,” Poppy said.
He accepted it graciously.
I took Beth’s call into the kitchen.
“Does Martin know tomorrow’s the day?”
“I have a plan for telling him. I’m not going to explain it over and over until he agrees.”
“All right.”
“That sounds like you want to ask more.”
“It means I’m trying not to.”
She laughed, and the laugh made me less anxious than any promise could have done.
Later, Celia rang to ask whether Beth had confirmed the guesthouse. I told her Beth was handling her arrangements.
“Of course. Only I need the right paperwork.”
“Best ask her.”
“I have sent a message. No answer yet.”
“She’s had a full day.”
Celia agreed. She asked about the library, listened while I described my extra shift and remembered to ask whether Poppy had enjoyed dressing up. It was a kind conversation. I did not spend it wondering what else she wanted.
Afterwards, Beth messaged to say she had sent Priya the revised cost and Celia a note that the arrangements were changing. The original request still contained the guesthouse address.
I’ll sort the receipts when I’ve actually paid, she wrote.
It sounded sensible. We were discussing somewhere she would sleep, not transporting a state secret. Still, I was glad she had not asked me to circulate her new address.
At half past eight she called once more.
“Vivienne’s upset.”
“About the room?”
“About not being consulted.”
I looked into the sitting room. Tom and Poppy were hanging bats across the window. The wonky one occupied the centre.
“You aren’t required to hold a vote.”
“I said that. More politely.”
“How did she take it?”
“She said she hoped I knew what I was doing.”
Neither of us answered that for a moment.
“Do you?” I asked at last.
“Enough to do tomorrow.”
“That sounds like quite a lot.”
She told me she wanted an early night. Her bag was packed. The portfolio was inside it, with the certificate wrapped in a jumper.
“It’s silly to take the frame.”
“It matters to you.”
“Yes.”
That was the end of the argument.
Before we hung up, I asked when she wanted me to check in.
“After the preview. Not while I’m working.”
“Agreed.”
I put the phone down and joined my family by the window. Poppy gave me a strip of tape. Tom asked whether Beth was all right, and I told him she was sorting out somewhere to stay.
“Where?”
“She hasn’t told me.”
He looked surprised.
I realised, with relief, that I didn’t need to know.