Today's Reading
"Dead," she says louder. "D. E. D."
"How do you know?"
"Because," she says impatiently, "he didn't answer when I knocked on the door before."
"So you assumed he was dead?" Daphne says.
"He's old," Persephone says. It was as if she were trying to explain math to a pair of stupid children. "You said so yourself. Old people die."
"Old people also take naps," I tell her, looking toward Ishaan's.
"But his boxes of vitamins are piled up on the doorstep," Persephone says.
"Nugget has been barking more than usual," Daphne adds.
I sigh, then heave myself out of my chair.
"Where are you going?" Persephone calls after me.
"Where do you think I'm going? I'm going to check if Ishaan is dead."
"But we have an interview to do!"
"I'll tell you one thing, if the old bastard has even a breath left in him, he's going to do this bloody interview."
"And what if he is dead?" Persephone asks.
I pause. "Then I'll kill him."
I really shouldn't say stuff like that. It's those kinds of comments that can land a girl in hot water. I should know.
Have you ever noticed there are two types of postal workers? There are the extremely helpful kind. The ones who pat the dogs, stow the package somewhere out of the rain, wait the extra minute for the elderly people to get to the door. And then there's Dwayne, our postman.
Dwayne, if you don't mind. Not Wayne. Not Dane. Dwayne. As if his mother had a stroke while filling in his birth certificate and the scrawl next to the name Wayne looked a little like a D.
As I arrive at Ishaan's gate, Dwayne pulls up on his scooter and retrieves a small square box from his satchel. More vitamins, no doubt.
"Not home?" Dwayne asks.
I point to the small pile of boxes already on Ishaan's doormat. "Apparently not. I can take it."
"Can't. Needs to be signed for."
For pity's sake. As if someone is going to steal his bloody vitamins.
"I'll sign," I say.
"Are you Ishaan Patel?"
"There is nothing less attractive," I tell Dwayne, "than a humorless man."
Dwayne returns the box to his satchel and moves to the next house, and I turn to the small pile of boxes already on Ishaan's doormat.
I rap on the door with the old knocker.
"When was the last time you saw Ishaan?" I ask Peter, who is wheeling his rubbish bin, and mine, out to the mouth of the lane for collection.
"Ishaan?" He thinks a moment. "Must have been a couple of days ago. He was bent over retrieving a package from his doorstep when I walked past. When he'd noticed me he shouted: 'Vitamin C!' Not 'Good morning. Have you ever thought about taking vitamin C?'
Or even 'Looky here, my vitamin C has arrived.' Just 'Vitamin C!' Then he disappeared back inside his house. Between you and me, Blind Freddy could see that Ishaan needs something a lot stronger than vitamin C."
"Ne'er has a bigger truth been uttered. Thanks, Peter."
He moves along, unperturbed, and I go to the window and peer inside. It is impossible to see anything through the dirty net curtains.
This excerpt ends on page 16 of the hardcover edition.
Monday we begin the book It Girl by Allison Pataki.
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