‘Really. How?’
‘Here we go, here we go. Oh, poppet, you paused it, thank you!’ Marianne bustled back in. Claire wondered how much she’d heard from the kitchen, how much she knew already. ‘I brought the rest of the Jammie Dodgers and a little whisky for Claire; just a little one.’
‘Oh, I really don’t want it.’
‘Well, you look like you need it. God knows you do, doesn’t she Lauren?’
‘She looks awful,’ Lorna said flatly.
‘No, really, I’m fine. Let’s watch this thing.’
‘I’m leaving it here, just here by your foot, so don’t knock it over. OK, OK, Lauren, press play.’
The soap opera clips provided a meta narrative to the drama in the living room. At the start, both Claire and Marianne would exclaim when they saw something that they recognised from their youth: who shot JR, or the catfight between Crystal and Alexis in Dynasty. Claire took a drink after all; all her nerves were quivering and the alcohol dampened things down just enough that she could act naturally. And the more natural she was, the more annoyed Lorna became. She sat wrapped in the blanket, eating crisps, ignoring the women, but, by groaning loudly when they spoke and skipping past bits they were commenting on, she succeeded in freezing the atmosphere in the room.
Number five on the countdown was a recent plotline from EastEnders. A terrible fire in the house next door had almost taken out the Queen Vic. Petrol had been poured down the drains, through the letterbox, down the stairs. There were clips of a crying teenager, bruised, in the shadow of a threatening man.
‘. . . and when Tracey took matters into her own hands, all hell broke loose . . . ,’ intoned the narrator, over a clip of the threatening man swamped in smoke, trapped under burning wreckage, ‘. . . and while Tracey said she wasn’t to blame, PC Palmer thought otherwise . . .’
The teenager screamed her confession at her co-star. Abuse. Going on for years. Couldn’t put up with it any more. And then it started happening to her little sister!
‘Oooh, that’s juicy!’ said Marianne, taking another biscuit.
‘. . . nationwide protest when Tracey was sentenced for murder . . . even the Prime Minister had an opinion.’
‘Oh my God. Doesn’t he have enough to do, without commenting on silly soap operas?’
‘Shhhhhhhhh!’ hissed Lorna.
‘. . . and the sentence was lifted, the Walford One was released, and Tracey will return to the show, after the actress who plays her – Lauren Sharpe – finishes her stint as Roxy Hart in the West End production of Chicago.’
‘Oh my God, how far-fetched can you get?’ Marianne spoke through crumbs.
‘What’s far-fetched mean?’ asked Lorna slowly.
‘It means really, really unlikely. Never going to happen in real life.’
‘Why not?’ Claire tried to sound idle.
‘Oh God, Claire. Because in real life, I mean, you can’t go around killing people, even if you think they deserve it.’
‘People do, though,’ said Claire.
‘And they get caught, don’t they?’ replied Marianne.
Claire’s mouth was dry. Neither she nor Lorna looked at each other. The TV blared on. ‘Sometimes they do. I suppose. It depends on how clever they are,’ she murmured.
‘They’d have to be supernaturally clever to get away with something like that.’
‘It’s just a story though,’ said Lorna. ‘It’s not like it’s real.’
Claire stood up suddenly. ‘I’m going into town.’
‘What for?’ Lorna asked now. Claire could feel her eyes on her, but she didn’t meet them.
‘I noticed that you’re running out of your special shampoo. You said you needed the one in the blue bottle, didn’t you?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Well, there’s hardly any left.’
‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘I won’t be long. And really, this isn’t my cup of tea after all; Auntie May will watch the rest of the countdown with you, won’t she?’
34
Claire’s heart pulsed in her throat and her hands clenched the steering wheel. After a few miles she realised that she was driving too quickly, that her jaw was painfully clenched. Adrenaline was sour at the back of her mouth. I should pull over, she thought, get some air, but a new, less sensible, alien instinct kept her going, pushing down her foot on the accelerator, raising a chuckle in her throat. Happy. She felt happy, but not just happy, no. She was victorious, and giddy with it, like a boxer trapped on the ropes who suddenly, inexplicably, wiggles free and, energised, dances away to the amazement of the crowd. She had duelled with Lorna, and she had won. Won!
The countryside whizzed by, and the sea, a shining blue, peered from between cliffs. ‘I could go to the beach,’ thought Claire. ‘I don’t even have to get that shampoo like I told them. I could go shopping! I could – I could read a newspaper and have a cup of tea!’ And she laughed, a full-throated, joyful laugh, the first laugh like it since Mother had died. She opened the window and shook her hair in the breeze. She’d won! But what will it be like when you go back, Claire? What then? You’re going to get punished for this, you know it. ‘Well, if I’m getting punished, may as well get punished for a good time,’ she said out loud, and made the turn into the outskirts of Truro.