‘I’ll get a blanket. And a book!’ Lorna bounced up the stairs. From outside, the dog yapped and leaped at the door, which opened with a rush of frigid air.
Lorna put on the thuds and bangs she called music. She must have forgotten about the blanket. But nothing, the pounding music, panting dog, the cold draught – nothing could keep Claire awake. She slept, scissored up and frozen on the sofa, wrapped in codeine.
25
When Claire woke up it was still light. She remembered taking more pills with tea, too sweet with honey, and then it had been dark, but that must have been a dream because she woke up on the sofa in exactly the same position she’d fallen asleep in. The side of her head felt tender, bruised under its own weight on the cushion, and her tongue was dry and cumbersome. Her ankle throbbed dully when she carefully swung it over the side, but it seemed a little better than it had been – yesterday? The weather had calmed down too. Cheerful sunshine filled the kitchen and edged into the living room, along with an odd collection of smells, individually pleasant but mixed, faintly sickening.
Limping sleepily to the kitchen, she called out to Lorna, ‘Oh I’ve been asleep for hours. You should have woken me up! Have you had your lunch?’
But Lorna wasn’t there, Marianne was. There was a CD player on the table – she must have brought it over – pouring out big band music from the forties. And that smell . . . baking, coffee, cigarettes, and something else impossibly sweet: flowery, and too much of it.
Lorna and Marianne had been busy. The table was covered with goodies. Muddy-coloured gingerbread coated in gelatinous blue icing and enormous cinnamon rolls; half an apple pie and some melting ice cream; and a two-litre bottle of ginger beer.
‘All Lauren’s idea, especially the ginger beer. Very Enid Blyton! She said she’d never tried it, so I said that we’d get it as a treat, to see if she liked it.’
‘Where is she?’ Claire lumbered onto a chair.
‘Oh, she’s upstairs. She’s putting on a little show. Very exciting.’
‘Did you go out, then?’ Claire was sitting with her leg up on a kitchen chair, watching Marianne bustling about the kitchen, cleaning. Her idea of cleaning was very similar to Lorna’s: great smears of gingerbread mix remained on the surfaces, the floor was dusted with flour.
‘We had to! You were dead to the world. I camped out in your spare room last night, to keep Lola company. You don’t mind me calling her Lola, do you? It’s such a sweet little name.’
‘No, no, of course not. Lord, I’ve been asleep all that time?’
‘Codeine. It’ll do that.’
‘Oh my God.’ Claire pushed a dry hand through her greasy hair. ‘I can’t believe it! That’s terrible! L— Lauren must have been so worried.’
‘Oh she was fine. We played Monopoly, then did a bit of shopping.’
‘I was really asleep all night?’
‘Out like the proverbial.’
‘I’m so sorry! I must give you the money – for the pills and the food and everything.’
‘Oh, no need to do that.’
‘I will though. I must. It’s not fair of us to impose on you like this. I mean, you must have your own life to get back to . . .’
‘Well, I write. I’m a writer. So I make my own deadlines.’ Marianne put a bit of wet kitchen roll on the bottom of her boot and wiped up some of the flour.
Of course she’s a writer, thought Claire. That’s why she doesn’t seem to do anything. ‘What are you working on at the moment?’ she asked politely.
‘Oh, so many things. My main focus at the moment is the screenplay.’
‘Oh?’
‘I really shouldn’t talk about it, though.’ Her eyes were unfocused.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, it’s all secretive, what I’m doing. It’s a commission from someone pretty big. All I can tell you is that it’s a suburban murder mystery.’
‘Oh, that sounds interesting,’ said Claire, all interest dead.
‘Yes, so that’s why I’m here in this godforsaken place. To get some peace, finally be able to work, you know? London can be so distracting.’
‘You come from London?’
‘Near London, yes.’ Marianne looked pointedly at the floor to discourage any more questions. There was a pause, and Claire realised that Marianne was about to ask where they were from in return. Her fuzzed brain searched for a plausible answer. If she told her, surely the story of the fire would come up, and Marianne might put two and two together? Perhaps she could claim that they were from one of the towns nearby; that might explain Lorna’s accent. She waited for the question, her stomach tight, before finally realising that it wouldn’t come. Marianne wasn’t interested – in Claire, at least – and relief drove out pique. The woman’s self-absorption would make everyone’s lives a lot easier.
‘Well, thanks again Marianne. For looking after Lauren. She can be a bit of a handful.’
‘Oh, she’s a darling. No, she reminds me so much of myself when I was that age. She has great potential, hasn’t she? Her dancing! I could tell that she’s a natural dancer just from seeing her walk across a room.’ She was sitting down now, back straight as a board, chest out, one hand waving the flame of her lighter to the filter of her cigarette. ‘It kills the harmful fibres,’ she explained. ‘It’s better for my voice.’
‘Oh, yes, you’re a singer, aren’t you?’
‘Well, not here! In London, yes, and other places. But, my God, Karen—’
‘Claire.’
‘Claire, what do people do in the country?’ She drummed uneven nails on the table and blew smoke out of the side of her mouth. ‘Before I met you guys I was going crazy. Cccccraaaaazzzzy, as Lola says.’
‘I think it gets more crowded in the summer.’
‘Oh God, I’ll be long gone by then!’ She yawned and stretched. ‘Book launch in April.’
‘For a screenplay?’
‘No, not a proper launch, of course. More informal. A party. I’ll get friends around, caterers, Mexican food, people will bring their guitars. Like that. You guys will have to come.’
Claire felt dizzy. ‘Perhaps I’ll have something to eat.’
‘No, no, let’s wait until she comes back. She was very insistent on having breakfast with you.’