Lifesaving for Beginners

screen. Page one of one. I type ‘Chapter One’. Then I close the lid of the laptop, put it into the bag and put it under the stairs, behind a case of wine.
    I go out. Sit in the cinema. I can’t remember the name of the film. Subtitles. German, maybe. I go to a sushi bar. The food goes round and round on a conveyer belt. I drink a glass of wine. Then I go home.
    As soon as I open the hall door, I see it. A light, flashing on my answering machine. A red light. In the darkness of the hall, it looks sinister. It looks like bad news.
    It’s probably nothing. Someone selling broadband. Or asking me questions about the telly programmes I like. For a survey. My viewing habits they call it, when they ring.
    The car keys are in my hand, my coat is on, so I turn, away from the light, the red flashing light, close the door and back down the hallway. I don’t wait for the lift. Instead, I take the stairs two at a time and don’t stop running until I reach my car. I get in and turn on the radio – loud – and light a cigarette, even though I am not supposed to smoke in the car.
    Rain lashes against the window and blurs my view as if I’ve been crying, which I haven’t because I don’t, as a rule.
    My breath is coming hard and shallow now. If I didn’t know myself better, I might think I’m having a panic attack. I roll down the window and pitch my cigarette out. Sheets of driving rain sting my eyes and my cheeks but the coldness of the air feels good. I stick my head out of the window and drink it in, like it’s a good stiff Merlot. I start the car and begin to drive.
    Here’s what I love about driving. Even when your mind is someplace else, you can drive. You don’t have to think about it. Not really. I don’t make a conscious decision to go to Minnie’s. All of a sudden, I’m just there. Pulled up outside her and Maurice’s huge pile in Ballsbridge. That’s the only good thing about accountants coupling up. Money is no object.
    I smoke one more cigarette before I ring the bell, taking care to hide the butt in the hanging basket. I push it deep into the soil at the back. Minnie has an eye for butts.
    Minnie says, ‘Oh shit. What’s happened?’
    I say, ‘Charming,’ although it’s true that I rarely call at their house, mostly because Maurice is often there. And I never come without ringing first. From Minnie’s point of view, I can see how this looks.
    Minnie says, ‘Sorry, sorry, it’s just . . . come in, come in.’
    I say, ‘Is Maurice here?’
    She shakes her head. ‘He’s gone to his Mensa meeting.’ And there you have it. Maurice, it seems, is a genius. The only thing Maurice has ever done that might denote a modicum of genius is get Minnie to marry him. Lots of people wanted to – men and women alike – but Maurice was the man who managed it. God knows, you’d have to have some – grudging – respect for that kind of achievement.
    Minnie leads the way to the kitchen, which is like a kitchen in a restaurant with its gleaming stainless steel and its football-stadium proportions. The radio is on. Front Row on BBC Radio 4. I look at Minnie, who shrugs. ‘There was a programme about famous recluses. I thought it might amuse me.’
    ‘Recluses are usually just famous for being recluses. Take Howard Hughes, for instance. I bet you can’t name one of the films he produced.’
    Minnie ignores the question, which means she doesn’t know the answer.
    ‘They compared Killian Kobain to JD Salinger.’
    ‘About time.’
    ‘No. Not the writing. Just the fact that a couple of killers were found with copies of The Catcher in the Rye , either on their person or in their houses. And a copy of one of your books – The Secrets You Keep – was found in Catherine Nevin’s walk-in wardrobe.’
    ‘Is she the one who’s in the slammer for paying a bloke to polish off her husband?’
    ‘Black Widow Nevin. Apparently, she had passages marked in your book. Murdery-bits. In pink highlighter pen.’
    I shake my head. ‘Murderers just don’t have the same edge anymore, do they?’
    Minnie sighs. ‘She’s no Jack the Ripper, that’s for sure.’
    She switches off the radio and says, ‘Sit down,’ and I do. The fact is, my legs feel funny. Like I’d just done a spinning class. I took one once. I can’t believe anybody goes a second time.
    Minnie puts on the kettle. When she reaches up to the press for cups, you can see the beginnings of a slight swell of her belly against her top.
    ‘Could I