I’m a bit early.’ ‘That’s okay. I’ll let you in.’ I put down the phone and went outside. When I opened the street door she was paying the taxi driver through the window. A younger, softer-looking woman than I’d pictured from her telephone voice, but dressed tough in cargo pants and a denim jacket with biker embroidery. Her backpack had a hard shell like a piece of body armour. ‘You don’t have a doorbell,’ she said, as the pink Cabs for Women taxi made a U-turn and went back up Leicester Road. ‘No, I had an intercom but it was swiped.’ ‘I scratched around there on the pillar, in case it was under the ivy, but then I thought, no, I’d better phone.’ Holding up one of those thumb-and-pinkie telephones the comedians use. ‘Good idea.’ ‘Oh, I’m Janie,’ she said, as we went inside. ‘Obviously.’ ‘Neville. I was just finishing breakfast. Would you like something? Coffee? It’s Ethiopian I believe.’ ‘Juice would be nice.’ She’d seen the split oranges next to the juicer.
