Chapter 2 A Stranger on the Stairs

I woke up on Saturday with a mild headache and a clear memory of everything I wished I could forget. The heels in my hand, my bag spilling across the ground, and Daniel's polite nod as I sneaked into my compound like a burglar.

I decided to avoid the stairs and balcony for at least a week. By ten o'clock, however, my empty fridge forced me out, and I returned from the market with far more shopping than I could carry.

Daniel was coming down the steps in a grey T-shirt and joggers. It was unsettling. The man on the balcony looked freshly ironed; this one looked like he'd been allowed to relax. "I'm fine," I said, just as one of the vegetable bags slid down my arm. He caught it before it hit the ground. "Clearly." "I had it." "Of course you did." He took the rice and the two heaviest bags without asking again. "Ground floor, right?" "How do you know that?" "I watched you hunt for your keys last night. It wasn't hard to work out." I groaned. Please don't bring that up. "I won't." He held the gate open with his elbow. "Although I'll say, most people would have abandoned the bag. You went back for every single lipstick." "Most people would have been sober." "That's fair." He smiled, a little crooked, and for a moment I forgot to be embarrassed. "I'm Daniel, by the way. We've said hello a few times and I still haven't introduced myself properly." "Barbara." "Barbara," he said, as if testing how it sounded. "Nice to meet you properly." At my door, he set the bags down carefully, refused to come in, and glanced at the eggs. "They survived." That's the real victory." "Thank you. Really." "Anytime." He went back upstairs, and I stood there much longer than necessary, holding a tray of eggs and trying to work out why my face felt warm. I don't like owing people. It makes me restless, and when I'm restless, I bake. I had bought too many apples, so an apple pie on Sunday afternoon was practical, not sentimental. That's what I told myself while the kitchen filled with cinnamon and I worried about the crust. I cut a generous half, covered it with foil, and climbed the stairs before I could talk myself out of it. He opened the door with his sleeves rolled up and a laptop glowing behind him. For a second, he looked blank. Then he saw the plate. "This is for carrying my shopping," I said. "So we're even." "You didn't have to do that." "I know. That's why it counts." He lifted the foil, and his face changed in a way I didn't expect, as if I'd handed him something far more important than pie. "You made this?" "Yes. Don't look so surprised." "I'm not surprised. I'm just not used to people baking for me." It was a strange thing to say, and he seemed to realize it, because he cleared his throat and thanked me again, more briskly this time. I went downstairs thinking about the first half of that sentence and not the second. An hour later, I found a bottle of red wine outside my door with a yellow sticky note on it. Pie review: dangerous. Someone should regulate this. - D. I laughed out loud, alone in my front space, like an idiot. After that, our paths seemed to cross more often, though I couldn't tell whether it was coincidence or simply that I had started noticing him. On Monday morning, I was locking my door when he came through the gate, carrying two cups of coffee. "I made too much," he said, holding one out. I looked at the cup, then at him. "You made too much?" "That's what I'm saying." I took it. "Convenient." He smiled. "Very." On Tuesday, a courier left a package for him with me, and he came down that evening to collect it. He found me at my small table with a laptop, a plate of beans, and a very bad mood. "Rough day?" "My client wants the same report in four different formats." "Did they say why?" "They don't need to. They're the client." "Ah." He nodded gravely. "My condolences." I laughed, and somehow he stayed for twenty minutes, talking about nothing in particular. He worked in logistics, which he described as "moving things from one place to another and apologising when they arrive late." He was hopeless with plants. There was one on his balcony that he admitted, with some shame, had been dying since March. "Water it less," I said, "and move it away from the glass. It isn't dying. It's being drowned and cooked at the same time." "That's a harsh review." "It's an accurate one." By Thursday, the plant had been moved. By Friday, it had a new leaf. "It listens to you," Daniel told me, looking genuinely pleased, and I decided I would think about why that made me smile later. On Saturday, his friends arrived. I was taking out the trash when I heard them, two men laughing and arguing on the stairs. One was tall and loud, with a gold chain. The other was shorter, in glasses, with the look of someone who had been dragged along. Daniel came behind them carrying a bag of ice and looking resigned. "This," announced the tall one, pointing at me, "must be the pie." I blinked. "Sorry?" "Ken," Daniel said. "What? You said there was a neighbour who bakes. I'm just identifying her." He held out his hand. "Ken. That's Sam. We've known this one since university. Don't believe anything he says about us." "He hasn't said anything about us," Sam added, "which is suspicious, because he never says anything about anyone." "I said she baked," Daniel said mildly. "You said it twice." Ken grinned. "For you, that's a speech." Heat crept up my neck. "I'm Barbara. It was just a pie." "It's never just a pie," Sam said. "Honestly, it's good to see him." He stopped, as though he'd suddenly realised he'd said too much. "Since... you know. It's good to see him out of the house." There was a very small silence. Ken looked at Sam. Sam looked at his shoes. Daniel looked at neither of them. "Upstairs," Daniel said, in a calm voice that wasn't quite his usual one. "Both of you. Be useful." They went. Daniel stayed half a second longer. "Ignore them. They have no home training." "They seem nice." "They are. Mostly." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Then he followed them upstairs. I stood there with the trash bag in my hand, thinking about that one word. Since. Since when? I could have asked him. I almost did, twice that week. But the sky turned grey that night, the rain came down, and the question stayed upstairs with him. Yet, I couldn't stop thinking about Sam's words. It was good to see him out of the house. I had known Daniel for barely a week, but somehow, I was beginning to notice the little things he never said. And now, I couldn't help wondering what had happened to him before I came along.