Chapter 23: The Green Door

My old flat was exactly as I had left it, down to the dishes in the rack.

The plastic flowers stood in their vase on the windowsill.

There was a thin layer of dust on the petals.

I looked at them for a long time.

Then I carried the vase down three flights of stairs.

I put it in the bin by the front door.

The old woman from the ground floor was watering her plant on the step.

"You're back," she said. "I thought you'd gone for good."

"I have. I came for my books."

"The niece has been asking after you. She wants to know if the cane worked."

"Tell her it was the best cane in the city."

She patted my arm and went back to her plant.

It took me four hours to pack.

I had less than I thought.

There were two boxes of books and one of clothes.

There was my mother's kettle, and the grey coat that still smelled faintly of tea and rain.

The landlord signed the release without looking up from his phone.

At six, I stood on the pavement with the boxes stacked beside me and a taxi on its way.

I had two hours before my flight.

I knew where I would spend one of them.

The Alder Room had a green door and a brass plate, and a doorman I did not know.

I had gone in through the kitchen entrance for two years.

I stood on the front step in my good coat, with my hair down.

"Can I help you, miss?" the doorman said.

"I used to work here."

"Members and guests only, I'm afraid."

"Let her in," said a voice behind me.

It was the club manager, a wide, tired man with a ring of keys.

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