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find the number I’d jotted down where could reach him at in my little notebook. Someone picks up after only the second ring. It’s a woman. “Can I speak to Mr. Scarlett, please?” I say politely.
    For a moment, the line goes silent.
    “There’s no Mr. Scarlett here. You’ve got the wrong number,” the woman tells me.
    “But …that’s not possible. Listen. I’m Grace Lawson. I’m renting the little apartment in Adler Street. Mr. Scarlett gave me this number, so that I could get in touch with him when I got here. I arrived from America today and I really need to speak with him.”
    “Sweetheart, I told you there’s no Mr. Scarlett here. As much as I’d love to help—you’ve got the wrong number.”
    That just isn’t possible. “But you live in Adler Street in Whitechapel?” I try once more.
    “I live in Spitalfields,” the woman says, distinctly annoyed. “And I don’t know any Adler Street.”
    Spitalfields is right next to Whitechapel; I’d seen that on the map. Perhaps I just got the neighborhoods mixed up. Or the street name is wrong.
    “Are there apartments in your building?” I’m clutching at straws now. I wait with baited breath.
    “Yes, there are apartments here,” she answers. “But they’re all occupied, there aren’t any available for rent, as far as I know.”
    The air escapes from my lungs. That was my last hope. When I don’t answer right away, I can hear the woman on the other end sighing, annoyed.
    “Listen, I can’t help you, OK, love?”
    “But Mr. Scarlett …”
    “I’m really sorry, dear. Have a nice day.”
    There is a click. She hung up.
    I sit there, frozen, with the receiver in my hand. I feel rising nausea and I suddenly go cold, as I realize what this all means.
    The man I thought was my landlord was obviously a con artist who just wanted to get his hands on the three-hundred-pound deposit. The apartment doesn’t even exist—but how was I to know that? It looked real online, affordable, and close to the center of town.
    I mentally slap myself. That was probably the whole point! That’s what made me find the offer appealing and I had no chance of checking it out properly from the US. I was satisfied with the email confirmation, which probably isn’t worth the paper I printed it out on. Gosh darnit!
    But that’s not even my biggest problem. If the apartment doesn’t exist, I can’t take my black monster suitcase and move in. I have no roof over my head, and no idea how to find another affordable apartment quickly enough. I could stay at a hotel or a bed and breakfast, of course, but that won’t work in the long run.
    Hot tears are stinging my eyes. It’s not just about the money I’ve lost and the fact that I now have to search for an apartment again. It’s that I feel so let down. By London. By my dream of a lovely time here. I hadn’t imagined it would be like this.
    I wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands and quickly go over to Annie’s office. Luckily, she’s alone right now; her colleague’s desk is empty.
    “What’s wrong?” she asks at once, sounding worried, as I let myself fall heavily onto the free desk chair.
    In a broken voice, I tell her what happened to me. By the end, I have to fight back tears of anger and disappointment.
    “It’s so unfair,” I complain.
    “And what did you say the bloke was called, who pretended to be your landlord?”
    “Will Scarlett,” I tell her.
    “You know that’s a famous character out of Robin Hood, right?”
    I look at her blankly. “No,” I admit. I feel dumb. I’d better get used to that feeling, as it seems to be a permanent condition. In order to explain myself at least a little, I add: “I don’t know much about literature.”
    Also that seems embarrassing. But, as I already told Jonathan Huntington, I like working with numbers, not letters. When I find art appealing, it’s not the written word I’m drawn to but works of art, paintings, and sculptures—something concrete.
    And