‘No, I just don’t answer the door,’ he said, still busying himself with his shelves. ‘Wouldn’t waste your time.’
‘So you were here all afternoon when I was knocking?’ I asked, for some reason, surprised.
He turned and gave me a look as though I was the odd one.
‘What if the building really was burning down?’ I asked. ‘You still wouldn’t answer?’
‘Perhaps you could push a little note under the door,’ he suggested.
‘And what if you don’t see it?’ I asked. ‘And you die and the newspapers are all, Ooh, if only the fire marshal had tried harder to get him out?’
‘I shall make an addendum to my will,’ Samuel replied, turning his back to me. ‘Goodnight, Ms Higgins.’
‘Goodnight, Dr Page,’ I said, quietly picking up his book from the desk and letting myself out of the office. ‘So nice to meet you.’
He was possibly the rudest, most insufferable man I’d ever met.
And somehow, I had to find a way to make him famous.
CHAPTER SIX
Friday, 6 July: Twenty-Eight Days to Go
‘I still can’t believe you agreed to this.’ Brian leaned back in his chair, pointing an accusatory pencil at Miranda. ‘The two of you made a bet with the idiot twins and now we have to find a way to make this creature popular? We’ve already got more work than we know what to do with, are you planning on adding a couple of extra hours into the day or something?’
My gaze wandered over to the picture on the back of Dr Page’s book. A small black-and-white photo of the man himself squinted out at me from the back cover, a constipated expression on his face.
‘It’ll be a good exercise for us,’ Miranda said. She was the queen of putting a positive spin on things. ‘We’ve never had to work with someone so … social media averse.’
‘In that we’ve literally only ever worked with people who are prepared to cut off a leg to be successful,’ I agreed. ‘Where’s the fun in that? This is a challenge, it’ll be great.’
An instant message popped up in the corner of my laptop screen. It was a gif of a dancing Leprechaun holding a pot of luck from Charlie. A second message popped up underneath it: ‘Thought you might need this’. I closed the app and turned my attention back to the meeting.
‘Whoever he is, all his accounts must be set to private,’ Brian said, scratching his armpit. Boys were gross. ‘I couldn’t find him on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram. Not even LinkedIn. I hope he’s hiding something good.’
‘He’s not hiding,’ I replied, turning Samuel’s book over in my hands. ‘He’s not on there. Or rather he’s not using his account. At all.’
‘This is ridonkulous,’ he protested. ‘Even my nana has Facebook and Twitter and she’s eighty-nine.’
‘I know, I follow her,’ I told him with a regretful grimace. ‘And I want to believe she doesn’t understand what she’s posting, Brian.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said, sadly shaking his head. ‘She does.’
‘I suppose he’s not the only human being in the world who hates the idea of posting his entire life online.’ I pressed my palms against my face, careful to cup my hands away from my mascara. We’d only just started and I was already exhausted. ‘You don’t see David Attenborough on Snapchat very often, do you?’
‘I’ve heard he’s got a secret Instagram account dedicated to snacks that look like Jesus,’ Brian said confidentially. ‘But you’ll never prove it.’
‘I think the social aspect of this is going to be a bigger challenge than the media bit.’ I ran my hands over the dull beige dust-jacket of Sam’s book. ‘He’d rather be with his books than posting on Instagram. Or brushing his hair. Or talking to humans. Or possibly anything else in the entire universe.’
‘This is truly all we have to go on?’ Mir asked, taking the big, heavy book from me and flipping through the pages. ‘“The official residence of the Lord Lieutenant was the Viceregal apartments in Dublin Castle where the Viceregal—” Oh my god, I’m so bored I just went blind.’
‘Maybe it’s a horcrux?’ I suggested. ‘It definitely feels evil.’
‘That photo is evil,’ Brian agreed. ‘Who took it?’
‘Someone who really hates him.’ Mir squinted at the unfortunate portrait. ‘It’s the most unflattering picture I’ve ever seen. Brian’s racist nan could have done a better one with her phone. Photo copyright Elaine Gibson?’
I tapped Elaine Gibson, photographer, into Google and came up with nothing.
‘Let me try Facebook,’ Brian said, swiping up on his iPad.
Immediately, FB produced seven results for Elaine Gibsons in London. Four were considerably older than our new neighbour and none of the remaining profile pictures really screamed photographer. One was a cartoon of a flying pink elephant and one was an actual baby. Which just left the slightly artsy, half-face photo of what looked like a thirty-ish woman but could just as easily have been the Turin shroud for all the filters she’d applied.
‘Info is private but her photos aren’t,’ Brian said, clicking through. ‘Schoolboy error.’
Two seconds later we were seven years deep in carefully framed selfies and Snapchat filters. There was no way this woman was a professional photographer.
‘Open that one,’ I said, pointing at an album labelled ‘The Worst Christmas Ever’.
And there he was, tagged as Dr S. Page, frowning with a too small Santa hat perched on the top of his seemingly giant head. And there he was again, sat around the dinner table, still not able to crack a smile. And again, sulking under the mistletoe. This time wearing what was supposed to be an ugly Christmas jumper but in Samuel’s case it looked to be much more stylish than the rest of his clothes.
If only it were closer to Christmas. These were comedy gold and I’d have made him a meme in five seconds flat.
I tapped on the tag but it went to a private page with literally zero content. Eurgh.
‘His girlfriend took his headshot,’ Brian said. ‘Red flag, red flag.’
‘Even she can’t make him look good and she loves him,’ Mir said, pressing her fingertips into her temples. ‘Annie, this is giving me stomach ache. What are we even going to do with him?’
‘Fitness blogger?’ I suggested, fully aware of the straws I was clutching at. ‘Body positivity?’
‘I’m positive I don’t want anything to do with his body,’ she replied. ‘Geek appreciation? Like body positivity but for nerds.’
‘Maybe he’s a gamer?’ I said. ‘That would be great.’
‘Yeah, if that game is pontoon with your grandma,’ Mir said. ‘We saw him walk past the other day with a flip-phone.’
‘How about a travel blogger?’ Bri ventured. ‘Long-distance, far-away-from-here travel?’
‘We’re not losing this bet, so we’d better come up with something,’ I told them, setting my shoulders. ‘What makes Sam aspirational and relatable?’
‘He’s certainly winning the ‘Don’t Give a Fuck Olympics’, so that’s something,’ Miranda replied.
‘It’s the rest of the historians out there I feel sorry for,’ I said. ‘They can’t all look like this.’
‘He really leaned into the stereotype,’ Brian said, pressing his hands against his face as he stared at a photo of Samuel posing next to a Christmas tree while the family dog beside him licked its own bum. ‘He’s more like a historical artefact than a historian. All we need to do is take a half a dozen photos of him and tag them #ICantEven. It’ll be a million hits overnight.’
Miranda’s eyes lit up in agreement.
‘We only use our powers for good, remember?’ I replied, pinching the coin pendant on my favourite necklace tightly between my thumb and forefinger. ‘Content always takes the high road and that doesn’t sound very high.’
‘You’re high,’ Brian said, screengrabbing the shots of Sam from his girlfriend’s Facebook page. I wasn’t sure how it was possible, but each photo looked worse than the last. ‘Bet’s off, right?
There’s nothing we can do with this man, Annie.’
But I couldn’t call off the bet. That would mean admitting defeat. Yes, I liked the sound of a month’s free rent, but I liked the idea of rubbing Charlie Wilder’s nose in our victory forever more even better.
‘There’s always something we can do,’ I argued. ‘All right, so he probably isn’t going to be everyone’s must-watch YouTuber by Monday morning, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t an audience for what he does. And don’t worry about the girlfriend, they’ve broken up.’
Brian let out a sad ‘pfft’.
‘Can’t imagine why it didn’t work out. Is the man bun on purpose?’
‘I think not.’ I searched for the right words to describe Sam’s aesthetic. ‘He’s definitely a fixie short of a full hipster.’
‘What’s his message?’ Mir stuck out her tongue as she delved into The Lord Lieutenants of Ireland with renewed commitment. ‘What does he want people to know?’ I flicked through my own Instagram feed and pondered the question. What did I want people to know about me? My Instagram feed was full of pictures of me, Mir and Brian, my favourite views and a few carefully framed flat lays displaying my prized possessions, colour-coordinated, of course. That was the version of me I put out there.
‘We need to find out,’ I told them. ‘Everyone wants something and we can help him get it.’
‘So how do we lure him into social media?’ Brian asked. ‘What does he want?’
A bed, a proper pair of pyjamas, a sense of humour and some social graces.
‘I think he needs a friend,’ I said.
‘I would have said a haircut and a good meal,’ Miranda sighed. ‘But a friend might be a good start.’
‘Shall we go and talk to him then?’ I closed my laptop with a happy click. ‘Maybe we could all go for dinner. Isn’t it two for ten pounds at the King’s Head on a Friday?’
Brian and Miranda both looked at me.
‘We?’ Brian replied. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘From what you’ve told us, I think this is going to take a gentler touch,’ Mir agreed. ‘One at a time. Me and Bri would only overwhelm him.’
‘Just so you know, I hate you both,’ I grumbled as they gathered their things and retreated to their desks.
‘We believe in you, Annie!’ Miranda cheered while simultaneously ripping into a packet of Quavers. ‘You can do this.’
‘Bet you she can’t,’ Brian whispered loudly, a puckish smile on his face. ‘Twenty quid says he tells her to do one again.’
‘You’re on.’ Mir mimed shaking hands across the office. ‘Money’s as good as mine.’
‘Have you already forgotten how we got into this mess in the first place?’ I groaned. ‘It’s like you’ve literally learned nothing.’
‘If I win the twenty quid, I’ll buy you dinner,’ she called after me.
‘Fine,’ I said, rubbing my grumbling stomach. ‘The bet stands.’
‘That’s my girl,’ Mir said with a grin. ‘Go get him, tiger.’
‘Knock knock.’
Just as I’d hoped and fully expected, Dr Page was hard at work behind his desk, all traces of his campout vanished.
‘Did you unlock the door again?’ he asked.
‘Hello, Sam,’ I said, slipping the key back in my pocket and ignoring the question. ‘I brought you something.’
‘No one calls me Sam.’ His hair was back up in its man bun but his beard was running free and wild. He wore jeans at least four sizes too big for him and if I ever found out where he was getting all those awful shirts, I would have them in The Hague on crimes against humanity faster than you could say ‘Nehru collar’. Thankfully, I had no way of knowing whether or not he was still wearing the Bart Simpson boxers.
‘I like Sam,’ I said. ‘It’s a good name. Solid. Friendly. Who wouldn’t like a Sam?’
‘No one calls me Sam,’ he said again. ‘They call me Samuel or Dr Page. Or in your case, that man down the hallway who is considering a restraining order.’
‘I was in the coffee shop, trying to justify buying pastries and I thought, I wonder if Sam fancies a croissant.’ I took a seat before he could ask me to leave and placed a small, white cardboard box and huge, steaming cardboard coffee cup in front of him. ‘I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to try the almond croissants yet but they are amazing. Life-changing, in fact. You can’t have one every day because you’ll get diabetes and die, but oh my god, what a way to go.’
I pushed the box towards him but he didn’t move.
‘Go on,’ I kept pushing it with the tip of my finger until it was butting right up against his keyboard. ‘You know you want to.’
‘I’m allergic to almonds,’ he replied. ‘Please take it away before it kills me.’
‘Noted,’ I said, grabbing the box back and nursing it on my knee. ‘You probably don’t want the almond milk latte either then.’
I reached for the coffee cup with an apologetic smile. Sam did not smile back. Sam looked really quite annoyed.
‘I have a fire marshal question,’ I said. ‘How many books do you think you have in here?’
‘Three hundred and seventeen,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘Why is that a fire marshal question?’
‘Fire hazard,’ I replied. ‘All those books, no second exit. It’s important for me to know all this stuff.’
‘I’ve got some very rare texts in here,’ he said, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Very old, very fragile. I can’t even touch them without gloves. If there’s a fire risk, I need to know.’
‘Should be fine.’ I turned to take in the sheets of paper stuck to the glass. They had been taped up with such care. ‘Is that what the paper is for? To keep the light off the books?’
‘What?’ Sam looked puzzled. ‘Oh no. That’s to keep people out. I didn’t realize the building would be quite so … social.’
‘Did anyone explain to you what a co-working space was before you signed up?’ I asked. He shrugged, unaware or unconcerned, it didn’t matter. ‘Most people here are pretty chummy.’
‘I’m not most people,’ he said bluntly. ‘Now, is there anything else I can help you with? I’m quite busy.’
‘Just trying to be neighbourly, given your situation,’ I slipped the pastry box back in my tote bag, not entirely upset about the idea of eating them all myself. ‘Where’s your blow-up bed gone?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ he said, tapping on his keyboard and refusing to make eye contact. ‘And I’m really very busy, so if you’re done—’
‘When I broke up with my ex, I didn’t really deal with it that well at first,’ I said before he could finish. Sometimes the best course of action was to just keep talking until they gave in. Not often but sometimes. ‘It wasn’t until a few days after it really hit that we were over. It’s the little things, isn’t it? No one to go to the pictures with, no one to laugh at your in-jokes. Whenever we drove anywhere, whoever was in the passenger seat would always put their hand on the person who was driving’s thigh and I remember the first time I went out in the car after he left, I got halfway to Tesco and had to pull over because I was sobbing like a baby.’
I pulled my fingers through the ends of my ponytail, combing out a stray knot, wishing he would do the same.
‘That sounds terrible and I’m very sorry,’ he said robotically. ‘And now you’ve unburdened yourself, do you think you might let me get on with my day?’
I should have known he wasn’t going to make this easy.
‘I truly think you’d feel better if you talk about it,’ I told Sam, taking a sip of the coffee I’d brought for him. ‘Whenever me or Miranda are going through a tough time, we always feel better after we’ve talked it through.’
‘Two questions I will surely regret,’ Sam replied, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Who is Miranda and why should I talk to you about my personal life?’
‘Miranda is my business part
ner,’ I said with a patient smile. ‘And my best friend. Since forever. Well, since we were eleven, which is a very long time these days. And you should talk to me because I’m here and I’m nice and because spending twenty-four hours a day in your office is unquestionably unhealthy behaviour. I don’t want to have to be the person on the Ten O’Clock News six months from now, saying “We’re all so surprised, he was always so quiet and polite …”’
‘I shall try to make a point of scheduling my rampage on a day when you’re out of the office,’ Sam said, ‘Thank you for your concern, but I don’t think it qualifies you to act as my relationship counsellor.’
‘My sister is a proper psychologist!’ I exclaimed, making him jump. ‘Totally qualified and everything, she’s very good.’
‘And my brother is a brain surgeon, but that doesn’t mean you want me rootling around inside your skull, does it?’
‘Is he really?’ I asked with suspicious eyes.
‘No,’ Sam replied coolly. ‘He isn’t.’
‘That would be good though, wouldn’t it?’ I said, taking another sip of too hot coffee. Should have got it iced. ‘Very Grey’s Anatomy.’
He pressed his hands hard against his head and let out a surprisingly shrill shriek for a grown man.
‘You’re not going to leave, are you?’ He peered out at me from between his fingers, without moving his hands away from his face. I offered him a winning smile and a thumbs up. Sam threw his hands up in the air and took a deep breath and I could sense victory.
‘Get your coat,’ I ordered. ‘Let’s go and get a coffee that won’t kill you.’
He picked up a red-and-black plaid donkey jacket.
‘Actually, leave your coat,’ I said. ‘Let’s just go.’
In the bright, unforgiving light of a summer’s day, Sam looked downright sickly, his baggy clothes hanging off his tall frame, giving the impression of a consumptive tramp. Blinking into the sun behind his glasses, he followed me through the streets, muttering, huffing and generally making noises you might expect to hear from your grandad’s odd neighbour.