Free Rebound by Aga Lesiewicz Page A

search of nibbles. I find Alden, the spaced-out young man, feeding Wispa big chunks of roast chicken.
He’s quite apologetic when he sees me, but I let him off for overfeeding my dog, making him laugh with the story of Wispa’s monstrous appetite. He turns out to be quite sweet and
isn’t stoned at all. He’s an aspiring film director, freelancing as a director’s assistant, a harsh reality job that most aspiring directors have to do to survive. He met Tom and
Samantha on the Greek island of Skopelos, only to discover that they were neighbours in Highgate. Samantha is a doctor (don’t I know it!) and Tom has a dental practice in Soho. They’ve
been really nice to him, looking after his cats when he’s away on shoots and feeding him when he’s around. Alden’s girlfriend sings in a band and is away touring quite a lot, but
I must come to her next gig at XOYO in Shoreditch. He’ll get some freebie tickets for me. Then he asks about my work and actually listens when I tell him about the recent upheaval. I’d
normally find him quite attractive, a charming little boy locked in the lean, almost ascetic body of a young man, but I realize I’m completely switched off to the charms of other men at the
moment. Despite my evident obsession with the Dior Man I actually quite enjoy talking to Alden. We both feel reluctant to go back to the sitting room, but eventually we decide it would be impolite
to stay in the kitchen any longer. I’m suddenly keen to join the rest, as I’m struck by the thought that Samantha will have noticed Alden and I are missing and probably thinks
we’re shagging on the kitchen table. It’s paranoia, I know, but in every paranoid thought there must be a grain of truth.

Thirteen Days Earlier
    It’s Sunday morning, but I wake up with a sense of purpose. It’s my Garden Sunday, one of the rare occasions when I put a bit of time and energy into the jungle at
the back of my house. I know very little about gardening and I choose not to do it on my own. I have Pia, the Danish gardener extraordinaire, come to help me once a month. I know it’s not
enough for my overgrown garden, but it’s better than nothing. Even with one day every month Pia manages to do wonders with all the plants and bushes, the names of which I don’t even
know. Garden Sunday is also a day all my friends know I’m at home and they can pop in any time, providing they bring a bottle of Prosecco with them.
    Pia arrives at 10 a.m. on the dot with a precise plan of action in her head. I’m sent off with a shopping list to the garden centre in Ally Pally and when I come back the work’s
already started. I feel a bit superfluous standing over Pia’s shoulder, so I make myself useful by brewing some fresh coffee for both of us. Pia, before she became a professional gardener,
used to run her own garage. She knows as much about cars as she knows about plants; she’s one of those women who’s perceived as an immediate threat by men because she encroaches on
their field of expertise. She’s not a lesbian, although she’d make a fabulous one – or so I’m told by Bell, who never misses an opportunity to see Pia and I bet will turn up
at some point today. She’s rather petite, with a mane of curly red hair and Pre-Raphaelite looks. You wouldn’t think she’d have enough strength to pull a single weed out, but
I’ve seen her handle a sixty-litre bag of compost as if it were a packet of crisps.
    Wispa adores Pia and she’s busy helping her, digging holes wherever Pia puts her tools down. Over mugs of steaming coffee I tell Pia about Wispa’s escape the other night.
    ‘How did she do it?’ Pia’s looking at the fence.
    ‘Actually, I have no idea.’ I’m annoyed I haven’t thought about it earlier.
    ‘Let’s find it and fix it, so she won’t run away again.’
    We go along the garden fence, looking for a missing panel or a hole she may have dug. Everything looks intact.
    ‘Could she have jumped