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I lost my nerve in a very British way. I went and stood in the kitchen and made tea.
Tom found me there ten minutes later, still in his Dracula cape, a plastic fang hanging out of his mouth. He took one look at the mug and the black ribbon on my wrist and howled.
“You’ve been given the key! You absolute legend! And you’re down here making a brew?”
“There was a woman,” I said. “In red. She said she was waiting.”
“Ah. Her.” Tom grinned and tapped the side of his nose. “I’m not saying a thing. Rule of the house, mate. Nobody says who anybody is.” He got himself a beer, leaned on the fridge and softened a bit. “Listen. You’ve had a rough couple of years. You don’t have to do anything up there. That’s the whole point. Everybody who goes up has said yes to whatever they’re doing, and anybody can stop anything with one word. It’s the safest room in London.”
“That’s actually quite reassuring.”
“Library’s quiet, if you want quiet. Blue ribbon. Some woman’s been in there with a book for two hours, looking like she’s waiting to be talked to.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Or there’s the back door and the garden, and nobody will ever mention it again. Your choice, Ben. Honestly.”
The key sat in my hand. Warm and heavy, and absolutely mine to use or not.