Valerie was marching briskly through the misty streets of London, coat collar turned up against the drizzle, on her way to workwhen she stopped, rooted to the pavement with the uncanny realisation that shed left her mobile at home. With a groan, she spun on her heel and marched back, her shoes making odd, echoing taps on the hallway tiles of the red-bricked block of flats.
She stepped into the lift, pressed the button for the eighth floor, and as the machinery creaked and groaned with a life of its own, it shuddered violently and then stopped dead between floors, lights flickering dimly. She pressed every button, nothing except the ghostly hum of the building. The lift, with its faded mirrored walls and strange, shifting reflections, held her like a paused clock.
As she waited, her thoughts beginning to dissolve into uncertainty, voices drifted through the thin metal like whispers in fog. Was that her husbandGregory? His gentle tenor, soft as a late autumn breeze, lingered in the corridor outside.
My darling Violet, he purred, the name sliding lazily out as though on honeyed tea. I do miss you so, counting down the hours until we can be wrapped in each other once more.
Violet giggled, a light, chiming sound. Tonight, Gregory, we shall have all the time. After ten, when the streets are empty and the city forgets us. Is your wife working late again?
Shes always asleep before I leave, and gone before I return. Night shifts all week, Violet replied, her voice so warm it nearly steamed the glass.
Gregory fretted aloud, How long must one wait for a lift in this place?
Their footsteps echoed almost musically for four minutes by the iron-checked lift door, winding words and laughter, not noticing Valeries presence. At last, they trailed off, footsteps fading as they descended the stairs toward the street, leaving behind the scent of expensive perfume and Gregorys aftershave lingering in the lift shaft.
Fragments of conversation, like broken porcelain, kept replaying in Valeries dazed mind: Gregory whispering gratitude for stolen twilight encounters, Violet mentioning her husband always left before ten, and, in the swirl of voices, both Gregory and Violet naming namescatching Valeries own. And suddenly, with dreamlike clarity, she saw it all: Violet from Flat Forty, always saying good evening in the stairwell, now revealed as her husbands shimmer-eyed moonlit companion.
Valeries thoughts grew strange, kaleidoscopic. So thats why you always fancy a spot of fresh air before bed, Gregory. Eighth floor gets a lovely breeze at this hour, does it? She felt as if she were floating in the lift, the strange machinery holding her between time and space, plotting quietly.
The workmen, who all looked uncannily like forgotten footballers, finally pried open the doors and released her, but her head was ablaze with lightning ideas.
That evening, just as Big Ben tolled ten, Gregory announced with put-on nonchalance, Val, love, Im off for a bit of fresh air. Just need to clear my head.
Its pouring buckets out, darling! Valerie replied in mock alarm, peering through rain-lashed windows.
I wont melt, I promise. Ill take the brolly. Walking is good for the ticker, so they say.
Valerie gazed at him with cool amusement. Its not your lucky day today, Gregory.
He shrugged, cheerfulness forced. Dont believe in luck, only football results. Hour, tops, and Ill be home.
Gregory was back in thirty minutes flat, sopping wet, coatless and shivering, all his bravado melted by the rain. He knocked on the door, but Valerie only opened it the length of the security chain.
Wheres your umbrella? And your best suit? Werent you dressed?
Some blokes came up on the streettook the lot. Even my shoes. Imagine!
Your things are packed, Valerie said smoothly. By the bins. Do say hello to Violet from the eighth.
Who?
She closed the door very gently, and the chain rattled like a bell. Valeries footsteps faded into Coronation Streets opening music from the telly.
Thank goodness the children are all grown up and scattered round the country, she thought. Spared this shambles.
Gregory dashed downstairspassing the bins, he found his overnight bag and dressed fast, glancing around the empty street as if hoping for a taxi to appear from the shadows. Hed ring his mother in Kent. Butdreamlike againhis mobile was still somewhere in Violets flat, glowing in another dimension. He crept back up, hesitant, forced to knock on Valeries door to ask for a phone. As he waited, he pressed the lift button andof coursebecame trapped again, the entire building plunged into an electric dream, humming like a beehive.
When at last the lights revived, Gregory escaped into the corridor, but Valerie had already slipped away to work. He had no key to the flat she owned. Descending by foot, drifting gently in his own embarrassment, he met Violet, also with suitcase in hand, waiting outside the same haunted lift.
Is my phone with you? Gregory asked, face pale as custard.
Yesyour things too, she answered, eyes wide and shimmering with regret.
Together, they shared a silent descent. Down below, separate taxicabs waited, headlights swirling in the fogtaking them, dreamlike, in different directions entirely, as if none of this had ever been real.
