"Did your father tell you that I'm going back to England?” Georgina asked. She felt compelled to take the initiative, rather than wait for Andy to say something.
"Sure he did.” Andy opened and closed the bottom cupboards, until she found a towel hanging inside one of the doors.
It was the hand towel, not the tea towel, but Georgina lacked the energy to point out the error. “And you are okay about it?” she asked.
"I told him he must have misunderstood,” Andy explained, turning around, rubbing the towel vigorously over the first mug with cows.
Georgina stared at the girl in disbelief. Out of all the reactions she'd expected from Andy, a brazen confidence that everything would turn out according to her wishes hadn't even featured on her list of possibilities. “Why do you think it's a misunderstanding?"
"My dad's in love with you,” Andy said flatly. “You can't just leave him and go back to England."
Georgina swallowed, feeling something caught in her throat. She didn't want to be having this conversation, but neither did she want to simply take off the following Saturday, leaving Andy to make the discovery that she was gone. “What makes you think your dad's in love with me?” she asked. “Did he say something to you?"
Andy stared at her in horror. “Are you nuts? My dad would never talk about love and stuff. He'd rather be trampled to death by a herd of angry elephants."
For the first time in a week, Georgina felt the ghost of a smile on her lips. “In which case, how do you know?"
"I don't know.” Andy fidgeted, first scratching her nose, then pulling at her hair. “It's the way he talks about you. Like when he talks to me.” She frowned at Georgina. “Does he call you things? Like when he calls me ‘pumpkin’ and stuff.
Georgina tried to shrug it off. “It's no big deal. He calls me sweetheart. Or sometimes darling. It's just his way. It doesn't mean a thing."
"Don't you realize,” Andy said eagerly. “It's not just his way. He calls me ‘baby’ or ‘honey’ or ‘pumpkin'. You said he calls you ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling'. See? He never mixes them up. They mean something to him, but different things."
Georgina bit her lip. She realized the child was right.
"I thought you were worried about me.” Andy stepped closer. “All that stuff about kids being monsters to their step-moms.” She gazed imploringly at Georgina. “I wouldn't be a monster to you.” Her face crumpled and tears begun to stream down her cheeks. “Now that my mom's dead, I thought you'd be my new mom. All I need is you to marry my dad."
Georgina shifted uncomfortably. “What did he tell you?"
Andy shook her head, wiping the wet skin with a clumsy fist. “I found the ring when I was tidying up in his bedroom. First I thought, is this cool or what, Georgina's going to be my new mom. He had to tell me then. He said that he'd already asked you, and you'd said no."
Georgina heaved her body from the chair and trundled around the table. She draped her arms over Andy's shoulders and pulled the girl close. “I must go back to England. It's not that I don't want to be with you. It's that I have a completely different life over there. I have to get back to that life. You can come and visit any time. I have a flat in London, and a big house near the sea, where I grew up with my grandmother. That's in Brighton, on the south coast. You can come and stay with me any time you like."
"It's not the same,” Andy sobbed. “I wanted you to be my mom."
"I can't do that.” Georgina stroked the long dark hair. Tears stung like needles in her eyes. It had to be because she hadn't washed off her mascara. She kept blinking, which only made it worse.
"I hate you,” Andy said, her voice thick with anguish. “You make my dad fall in love with you and you make me like you, and then you just go away.” She pulled back and scowled up at Georgina. Her arms still clutched Georgina's waist, and the grip had changed into something desperate.
"You don't mean that,” Georgina said gently.
"Yes, I do,” Andy shouted through her tears. “I hate you.” Then she realized that she still clung to Georgina. With an angry shove she let go. She spun around and raced through the hall and out of the apartment.
Georgina stood still. Then she turned and took out a teabag and dropped it into the piglet mug that hadn't been washed yet. She poured hot water over the teabag, not realizing that the cup was overflowing, until the puddle trickled down to the floor and scalded her bare toes.
One week and one day. That's how long she had to make Andy understand and forgive her, so they could part as friends.
The weekend became a weekend of lists for Georgina. She had lived by lists all her life. First there had been the neatly printed reminders Grandma Ethel had hung around the big house in Brighton, trying to bring order into a life disrupted by a grieving and willful child.
'Switch off lights when leaving room.’ ‘Check tap is turned off.’ ‘Put milk back in refrigerator.'
Georgina wondered what Grandma Ethel would have done, if she hadn't been a bright child who learned to read at four. Perhaps there would have been pictures, the kind you get with flat-packed IKEA furniture in lieu of written assembly instructions.
When Georgina got older, she compiled lists of her own. Schoolwork to do-TV programs to watch-books to read-clothes to wear-food to eat. Eventually the obsessive nature of the behavior dawned upon her. She learned not to write things down, but to keep the lists inside her head instead.
Then, when she started working at Pacific Bank, right after graduating from Oxford, the world became a heavenly place where Georgina not only lived by lists, but also studied lists made out of numbers. In them, she found patterns that others couldn't see, until she pointed them out.
Lists spoke to her. They comforted her and made her world safe and orderly.
When she had a list, she always knew what to do next. A list, or a flowchart.
But there had been nothing in her flowchart that told her what to do with Rick Matisse after she achieved her objective of seducing him.
When a project ended, the results were filed away, and a new project was taken up. That's how it worked. Rick Matisse had been filed away. Her new project was being the Head of Compliance, and getting an improved level of output from morons like Simon.
Georgina shifted in the kitchen chair. She picked up a pencil and inspected her latest list. She scored a tick against ‘Defrost refrigerator'. What was next? She ran her finger down the page. ‘Pack bed linen'. She sprinted up and strode into the bedroom and began to pull sheets and pillowcases out of the closet.
At the end of the day, she fell into exhausted sleep on the partly stripped bed.
Sunday was no better.
Georgina dedicated the entire day to packing away the rest of her clothing. When the clock struck nine that evening, painful cramps tore through her stomach. First she thought she'd picked up a bug. Then she realized she'd forgotten to eat. In the back of a kitchen cupboard she found a box of butterfly pasta. She boiled the pasta and made a cup of soup to pour over the top.
After she'd eaten, she realized she'd packed away all her office clothes and had nothing to wear for work. She opened all the cardboard boxes she'd already sealed, and made a heap of clothes over the bedroom floor, until she found what she wanted.
It was all right, because repacking everything would keep her busy on Monday night.
Busy, while she waited for Andy to come up and say all was forgiven and they could still be friends.
Monday night came and went, and so did Tuesday and Wednesday. There was no knock on the door, no message on the answering machine, and no note pushed under her door.
The lists that kept Georgina busy got more and more complex.
On Wednesday night, she made an inventory of every one of her outfits, now neatly sealed inside the cardboard boxes once more, and planned what to wear each day during her first three months in London.
She typed up the list in her computer, neatly blocking the days into weeks, starting from January second, although that was only a part week.
On Thursday, she compiled a menu for the whole of January, including the brand of chocolate bar she'd have with her afternoon tea each day. She could remember fourteen different brands, including two she'd never tasted.
The one list she didn't make was a list for Christmas. She refused to acknowledge that the festive season was near, and she'd be alone again in Brighton, in a cold rambling house filled with dark furniture and the ghost of an unloved child.
Rick scowled at his daughter.
"You've got to do it,” Andy insisted. “You always have to ask at least twice."
"How would you know?” Rick grunted. He was doing push-ups on the living room floor, and Angelina had just made him lose his count.
Andy grinned. “I looked it up on the Internet."
Rick slanted an angry glance at her.
"That's what you always tell me when I ask you questions,” Andy told him. “You say, stop asking me, go Google it. Why can't I say it back to you?"
"Grown-ups give orders. Kids take them.” Rick heaved another five push-ups leaning only on his fingertips. Then he lowered himself on the floor and rolled over on his back and started a set of crunches.
"Stop that, Dad. I'm trying to talk to you."
"And I'm trying to work out."
"That's all you've done all week."
Rick ignored her and started counting his reps out loud.
"Dad, please,” Andy begged. “Ask her again. This is your last chance. Georgina told me she's flying out on Saturday. That's tomorrow. You've got to do it tonight."
"Georgina's not the kind of woman who changes her mind,” Rick huffed between sit-ups.
"You didn't ask properly,” Andy said. “There's got to be something you can do to change her mind."
"Such as?"
"Did you tell her you love her?"
Rick stopped mid-crunch. His fingertips rested against his temples, elbows pointing out. “What's that supposed to mean?"
"You didn't, did you?” Andy gave him a victorious scowl. “I knew it. That's what you did wrong. You're supposed to say that."
"I frigging well asked her to marry me.” Rick almost yelled at her. “That should be enough for any woman."
"It's not,” Andy said stubbornly. “You're supposed to tell her you love her. That's the most important part. I bet you didn't do it."
"Georgina's smart. She can figure it out,” Rick muttered. He rose up and wiped his arms with the towel that had been folded to make a pillow against the hard floor. The grey vest over his torso was soaked through with sweat. His newly cut hair was still long enough to pull into a curl in the damp. He raked his fingers through it, annoyed that he had done one more thing for Georgina, even though she'd never see him again.
"No, Dad.” Andy's voice was exasperated. “You've got to tell her. Trust me. I'm a woman."
Rick felt his lips tug into a smile. “So you are, pumpkin. Heaven help me when you get old enough to date."
"Are you going to do it?” Andy reached out for his hand. “Are you going to ask her again?"
Rick tossed the towel over his shoulder. “I'm going to take a shower. You'd better be in bed when I come out."
"Dad! It's only ten."
"Bed time,” Rick ordered. “Scoot."
Andy pouted. Then she burst into a grin. “I get it. You don't want me to get in the way while you practice what to say. It's real easy, Dad. I love you. Say it after me. I-Love-You.” She danced around him. Then she scampered out of the way, hooting with laughter when Rick tried to swat her with the towel.
A few moments later, Rick stepped under the shower and stood there a long while, letting the cascade of hot water wash away his sweat and his troubled thoughts.
He'd be damned if he understood women. He'd always been a man who recognized the word ‘no’ and accepted its meaning with a good grace. Was this the one occasion when he should assume that no didn't really mean no? Should he ask again?
After toweling himself dry, Rick dressed in a pair of freshly laundered jeans and the white shirt Georgina had once said she liked. Then he pulled open the drawer on the nightstand and took out the small velvet box.
He really needed to take it back to the jeweler and get a refund. He'd been meaning to do it every day for the past two weeks. He was honest enough to admit that his lack of time due to other chores would only last until tomorrow, when Georgina was gone. Then he would go downtown and return the ring.
At the press of a tiny catch, the lid sprung open. Even in the dim light the diamond glittered inside, twinkling ‘forever’ at him. He snapped the lid shut and folded his fingers into a fist over the box. Then he stormed out through the front door, and up the stairs, until he came to a halt outside Georgina's door.
He stood there quietly for several minutes. What was he going to say? The right words wouldn't form, not even inside his head. And what good would it do anyhow? His fist tightened, until the corners of the little box dug into his skin.
Georgina was not the sort of woman who didn't know her own mind. Asking her again would achieve nothing—it would only embarrass them both.
He turned and left, descending the stairs in defeat.
Andy stood waiting for him at the door. “Well?” she said, her eyes shining with anticipation.
"It's no good, pumpkin.” He lowered his head and brushed his hand over her hair. “I'm sorry."
Andy wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into his stomach. “It's all right, Dad. It will be all right with just you and me."
He held her tight. She wasn't making a sound, but he could sense her crying. It was there in the way her body shook, and how the thin material of his white shirt felt damp against his skin. He only just managed to hold back his own tears, having failed not only himself, but also his child.
That night, Georgina worked her way through everything in her apartment. Each piece of furniture had a numbered label. Her master schedule listed forty-seven items. The labels were color-coded, according to the room each piece belonged to in her London apartment.