Philip Mercer arrived carrying a photograph in a stiff brown envelope. He was smaller than Iris expected, neat in a gray coat, with a narrow face and fine white hair flattened by the rain. He stood just inside the doors as if he had forgotten what happened next in a shop. She went to meet …
Daniel lived on the second floor of a house with a porch too narrow for sitting on and a doorbell that sounded as if it resented the work. He opened the door before Iris could ring it twice. “You found it.” “Your directions were alarmingly specific.” “The navigation sends people to the alley.” “I thought …
In the living room, Daniel sat beside Iris on the sofa as if he had brought his entire concentration with him. She could feel it in the stillness of his hand on her knee. His mouth had been less still in the kitchen. She was trying not to smile about that, and failing. “What?” he …
By Thursday afternoon, the missing trousers had acquired the power to make Iris doubt every cupboard she opened. The alterations department was not badly run. That was the explanation she kept making to nobody, which suggested she no longer entirely believed it. Customers’ clothes were tagged. Repairs were logged. Finished work lived in the tall …
On Tuesday, Iris found herself lying to a stranger about why she wanted a room. “Just exploring,” she said. The stranger, a property manager named Tess Reed, unlocked a glass door on Mill Lane and switched on the lights. They flickered twice before settling. “Everybody says that. Mind the lip on the floor.” The room …
Mrs. Vale arrived for her curtains at four fifty-three, which made her seven minutes early and Iris feel as if she had been given a present. Priya brought the long wrapped parcel from the stockroom. Mrs. Vale apologized three times, explained that she worked in a care home and could not leave until somebody else …
The green dress looked better standing up than it did while Iris attempted to pull on her tights. She had one foot in, one foot caught, and an expression in the mirror that made her think of a heron swallowing something uncooperative. The silk slipped off her shoulder. She sat down on the bed before …
On Sunday morning Iris moved the dining table six inches toward the window. There was no practical reason for it. The room was the same shape. The chairs still fitted. But she had wanted it closer to the light for years, and Colin had preferred the symmetry of the rug beneath it. Now the rug …
At ten past nine on Saturday, a woman in a purple hat asked Iris whether everything was really going. “Everything in the sale,” Iris said. “Including that?” She pointed at the brass service bell. “No. We still need that.” The woman rang it, apparently to confirm the judgment, and went upstairs in search of bed …
By nine o’clock Friday morning, Iris had discovered that the conference-room camera made her look like a woman being interviewed about a flood. “Higher,” Daniel said. She lifted the laptop onto a sample book of curtain fabrics. “Better?” “Now you look as if you have curtains.” She moved it again. On the screen, the small …
