Free Thursday's Children by Nicci French Page A

any,’ said Sandy. He put his hand on the small of Frieda’s back. ‘Shall we go?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It was like a hotel room,’ he said, when they were out in the street. ‘Where next?’
    Next was Hampstead, and tiny. The pictures on the website were misleading. It was a bijou first-floor flat cleverly carved out of an inadequate space. There was a miniature kitchen, like a boat’s galley, and a shower room scarcely large enough to hold the shower. The chandelier of coloured glass and the capacious leather sofa gave the living room a claustrophobic feel. The bedroom was painted red and one wall was lined with mirrors.
    ‘Horrible,’ said Sandy, when the agent left them alone.
    ‘Creepy,’ said Frieda.
    ‘And expensive.’
    ‘It’s Hampstead. Look, you can see the Heath from here.’
    ‘Yes. You don’t need to look like that.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Anxious.’
    ‘Was I looking anxious?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I love you for coming back like this.’
    ‘But?’
    ‘But it feels as if I’m being given no choice.’
    ‘You mean that you don’t want my sudden return to force you into a commitment you might not want to make.’
    She didn’t reply, just stared out over the green wilderness in the distance.
    ‘I know what I’m doing, Frieda. This is what I want. You’re as free as you ever were. But this was my wake-up call.’
    ‘But your job …’
    ‘It’s not a problem. There are openings here. What was I doing, living on the other side of the Atlantic from you? I realized what I always should have known – that there’s no point being with you if I’m away from you. After all –’
    ‘Done?’ asked the agent cheerily, coming into the room.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Any questions?’
    ‘No.’
    The big basement flat in Bermondsey was well within Sandy’s budget and, what was more, it had a garden that was large by London standards, with a little patio and a murky pond at the far end where they spotted a single mottled goldfish. But it smelt damp; the ceilings were high and the rooms dark, cold and comfortless.
    ‘I like the brickwork,’ said Frieda, trying to be upbeat.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And there’s a fireplace you could open up.’
    ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘It needs work, of course.’
    ‘It’s not right.’
    ‘You’re sure?’
    ‘I was sure the moment I walked through the door. You can weigh up all the pros and cons and practicalities, but first you have to fall in love.’
    ‘I agree.’
    ‘We did, didn’t we?’
    ‘Yes. We did.’ Frieda touched him briefly on the cheek. ‘I’ve been wondering. Where are you going to live while you’re looking?’
    ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to move in with you. I’ll stay with my sister and spend time with you when I can. I’m going to buy a place, get a new job, and return to the life I shouldn’t have left in the first place.’
    ‘If you’re sure.’
    ‘I’m sure.’
    ‘Where next?’
    The flat in Clerkenwell was on the ground floor of a beautiful late-Georgian house. It was flanked by a few similar buildings, a fragment of a street that had otherwise long ago been bombed or bulldozed. As the young man showing them round explained, the owners had separated in the midst of renovating it. It felt as if they had just walked out, leaving their broken life behind them. Units were ripped from the kitchen floor; a partition wall had been half demolished; a cracked marble fireplace had been removed and was leaning against the wall. There were paint pots and brushes on a trestle table; a ladder in the middle of the living room; clothes spilling out of drawers in the bedroom; books in piles waiting to be claimed. But the rooms were large and light, with windows running almost to the floor and exposed beams. The back door led out to a tiny walled garden with a fig tree in the corner where the city suddenly felt miles away.
    ‘It was their project,’ said the agent, dubiously. ‘It’s got great potential.’
    ‘I can see that,’ said Frieda,