Page 31 of One Last Gift

She smoothed down her hair, which was currently sitting just above her shoulders, as she exited the lift, the only person to do so. Then she came to a halt completely. In the lift, she’d been able to pretend to herself that it was OK, that she wasn’t that high up, that she was safe. But now there was no pretending. With glass walls all around her, the fact that she was so much higher up than anything else around her hit her with full force. And oh God, she couldn’t look. Actually wanted to squeeze her eyes shut. But refusing to look out of the windows didn’t stop her stomach from swooping, her mouth going dry. Why? Why had Tom done this to her? She wanted to turn around, get straight back into the lift, and keep her eyes closed until her feet were safely on the pavement outside—back at ground level.

But she couldn’t. She had started this now—and she’d forever regret it if she didn’t see it through. So she let out a slow, shaky breath and, keeping her eyes firmly ahead, headed for The Oblix. She stopped at the entrance to the restaurant, glancing around the interior—a classy, semicircular bar with stylish backlighting formed the centerpiece of the room, at which a few people sat on high, white-backed chairs. It was bright inside—obviously, Cassie thought scathingly to herself. One entire side of it was glass-paneled, looking out across London. She allowed her eyes a nervous flick. From here she could see the Thames, Tower Bridge bringing the two sides of London together.

It reminded her of the time Tom had tried to make her go on the London Eye. She’d met him and Amy for brunch, and he’d gotten all excited by the idea, given none of them had ever done it before—Londoners who let all the tourist attractions pass them by. She’d adamantly refused. The idea of sitting on what was effectively a giant Ferris wheel and swinging around unstably at the top of it had been too much. She’d ushered Tom and Amy over to it, had told them she had to meet a friend and that it would be a lovely romantic activity for the two of them—not that she had ever felt like a third wheel around them. She’d thought Tom had bought it at the time, but now, looking back, she was increasingly sure he’d seen right through her, as he always did.

A waitress with her hair scraped back into a harsh ponytail, eyes framed by black eyeliner, walked over to her and smiled in a way that indicated she was smiling because she was supposed to, not because she wanted to. Cassie shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I, umm, booked a table. Cassie Rivers.” She’d been too nervous to just show up, in case they didn’t have room—it was the Shard, after all. Which had turned out to be good foresight on her part—she’d only gotten a table due to a cancellation. It had felt a little like fate, like Tom had somehow, from somewhere, made it so.

The waitress showed her to her table—one right next to the glass window. Or wall? She sat, angling her little brown armchair away from the glass as subtly as she could. Why had they put her right at the edge? Didn’t they know that glass could shatter at any moment? She tried to push aside visions of falling—her palms felt clammy enough as it was.

The waitress placed a menu down on the small round wooden table, took away the second place setting in a way that made it very obvious Cassie would be eating alone. “I’ll give you a moment to decide what you’d like,” she said, sounding bored. Cassie felt self-conscious as the waitress left, unsure of what to do with herself. She should have brought a book or something—no one questioned it when you sat alone reading.

She glanced out through the glass panes. London really did look stunning from up this high, made more so by the bright blue backdrop of the day, the sunlight catching the odd glass window and winking back up at her. Stunning, yes, but was it normal that it still didn’t feel like her home, even after more than three years here? She could appreciate the beauty of it, and she loved parts of it, but sitting up here, looking down on the city…It made her realize just how exhausting it was, too. In constant movement, everything and everyone. And maybe it was just because she was exhausted right now, maybe she was just struggling with everything in Tom’s absence, but she felt the weight of it pressing down on her. The need to keep up with London, keep on the treadmill, keep fighting for more money so that she could afford to live here, working her way up the events scene.

The waitress reappeared before Cassie had even picked up the menu. “What can I get you?” She hadn’t brought out anything to write with, apparently confident in her ability to memorize Cassie’s order.

“Umm…” Cassie picked up the menu, then put it back down again. “I’d like the afternoon tea, please.” Tom had told her what to order, after all. Though it felt ridiculous, ordering afternoon tea for one—and from the raised eyebrow look she was getting, this woman with her excessive eyeliner was definitely judging her.

“Right. There’s quite a few options, though.” She indicated the menu, and Cassie frowned down at it. There were far too many options, in her opinion, so that the choice felt constraining rather than liberating. If she ever had her own place, she’d make sure that there were good choices, but not too many. “Do you want me to come back?”

“No,” Cassie said, her voice squeaky. “No, it’s fine. I’d just like the normal afternoon tea, please, no champagne, and you know, normal tea is great and, umm, do I need to pick the sandwiches and everything?”

“Or you can have a selection?” the waitress asked in that same bored voice.

“A selection,” Cassie said firmly. “A selection is great.”

The waitress nodded, picked up the menu, and turned.

“And umm,” Cassie said quickly, before she could leave, “are you Rose?”

The woman turned and raised her eyebrows again—they were very finely plucked, Cassie noticed. “No.”

Right. Helpful. Really bloody helpful. “Do you know someone called Rose?” she asked patiently. “Who works here, I mean.”

The woman hesitated before saying, “Yes. Do you know her, then?”

“She, ah, I think she knew my brother. Tom Rivers.” Her heart contracted painfully, saying his name, like it always did. “I don’t suppose you could…ask her?”

The woman gave her a suspicious look, then shrugged. “OK.”

The waitress left, leaving Cassie alone once more. She glanced around the room—they’d clearly been going for a contemporary, New York vibe, with the trendy armchairs, dark floor, and low ceilings, and lots of yellow lights and golden details around the room. The buzz of other people’s conversations washed over Cassie. In front of her were two women, heads bent toward one another as they talked. The one facing Cassie glanced up, saw Cassie watching. Cassie immediately got out her phone, tried to look busy.

As had become an hourly obsession over the last few days, Cassie checked the progress of her GoFundMe. Eventually, after much wheedling, she’d convinced Linda to go for it—with the compromise that anyone who donated would have a special loyalty card that entitled them to certain perks. Josh and Hazel had been the first to donate. She’d gotten Hazel to tell her mum to spread the word around the village, knowing full well that Linda wouldn’t do it herself, and had put it on Facebook. They’d had a few donations already, and Cassie was trying to stay positive, but the odd twenty pounds here and there was not going to cut it, she knew, and the scale of it, combined with the time pressure Linda was facing, was starting to feel overwhelming.

The same waitress with the eyebrows and the eyeliner brought over a pot of tea and a china cup for her, setting both on the table. Cassie bit her lip. Did this mean that Rose wasn’t around? Or that she’d refused to come and talk to Cassie?

“She’s busy,” the waitress said, as if reading Cassie’s mind—or her expression. “But she said she’ll come over.” Cassie felt a wave of relief and nodded in thanks before pouring herself some tea. This was OK, this was good. She was here, and Rose was here—she had to have the next clue, surely.

She lifted her cup of tea, saluting the air. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long,” she said quietly, “but I’m here, like you wanted. I wish you were here to see it.” She took a sip, used the liquid to swallow away the lump in her throat. She couldn’t cry, not in public.

She put the cup down. The china was oddly similar to the china Linda had in her pub to serve coffee after meals—white, with a rim of decorative blue and purple flowers. It made her think of a time when she and Tom were little—she must have been around eight or something. She’d been invited to a friend’s birthday party at school—Simone Simmons, who had invited everyone in their class to a birthday tea party. It had sounded so cool and grown up, and Cassie had been so excited, but then she hadn’t been able to go, because she’d been ill. Hazel had raved about it at school the Monday after—about how posh it had been, and how there were people actually serving them, and there had been so many cakes and sandwiches, and they’d gotten to drink adult tea, and there had been a magician there. Cassie had tried really hard not to cry or be jealous in front of Hazel, but when she got home, she’d locked herself in her room and sobbed into her pillow. It was the type of thing that was ultimately insignificant, but it had felt so important at the time.

Tom knocked on her door. “Cassie, come on, please come out.”

“No. Go away.”

“Come on.”

“No,” she said on another sob.