Waiting for Wednesday

then I push her down again. Some
friend.’
    ‘Except you remembered that story, and
passed it on.’
    ‘Yeah. I can see her now, telling me.
Grinning.’
    ‘What did she look like when you knew
her?’
    ‘Little and thin, with long, dark hair
that was always falling over her eyes, and a huge smile. It used to take over her whole
face. Gorgeous, in an odd kind of way. Like a monkey. Like a waif. She wore eccentric
clothes she picked up from vintage shops. Boys loved her.’
    ‘Does she have family?’
    ‘Her mum died when she was little.
Maybe things would have turned out differently if she’d had a mother. Her dad,
Lawrence, was lovely – he doted on her but he couldn’t keep her in order, not even
when she was small. And she has two brothers, Ricky and Steve, who are several years older
than her.’
    ‘Thank you, Agnes. I’ll tell you
if I find her.’
    ‘I wonder what she’s like now.
Maybe she’s settled down, become respectable. Kids, a husband, a job. It’s
hard to imagine. What would I say to her?’
    ‘Say what’s in your
heart.’
    ‘That I let her down. So odd, though,
how it’s all come back like this – just because of a silly story I told to poor
Rajit.’
Frieda – you haven’t answered my
last phone calls or my emails. Please let me know that everything’s all right.
Sandy xxxxx



THIRTY-THREE
    Frieda walked home slowly. She could feel the
warmth seeping into her body, hear her feet softly tapping on the pavement. People moved
towards her and then flowed past, their faces blurred and indistinct. She saw herself
from the outside; the thoughts that streamed through her brain seemed to belong to
someone else. She knew that she was tired after all the nights of wakefulness and
disordered dreams.
    She did not go straight to her house but
turned aside to sit awhile in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It was a small, green square,
bright with blossom and new tulips. In the middle of the day it was often full of
lawyers in their smart suits eating their lunch, but now it was quiet, except for a pair
of young women playing tennis on the court at the far side. Frieda sat down with her
back against one of the great old plane trees. Its girth was tremendous and its bark
dappled. She closed her eyes and tipped her face to the sun that fell through its
leaves. Perhaps she should do as Sandy said and go to New York, where she would be safe
and with the man she loved, who loved her and who knew her in a way that no one else in
the world ever had. But then she would no longer be able to sit in the shade of this
beautiful old tree and let the day settle around her.
    When she got up again, the sun was sinking
lower and the air was beginning to feel cool. She thought wistfully of her bath. And she
thought of Chloë, took out her mobile and made the call.
    Olivia’s voice was ragged. Frieda
wondered if she’d beendrinking. ‘I suppose Chloë’s
been telling you all sorts of horrible lies about me.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘It’s no good pretending.
It’s no good anyone pretending. I know what you all think.’
    ‘I don’t –’
    ‘Bad mother. Fucked-up. Wash our hands
of her.’
    ‘Listen, Olivia, stop!’ Frieda
heard her own voice, harsh and stern. ‘You need to talk about this, it’s
clear, but I’m not washing my hands of you. I’m ringing up to talk about
Chloë.’
    ‘She hates me.’
    ‘She doesn’t hate you. But
it’s probably a good thing if she stays with me for a few days while you sort
things out.’
    ‘You make me sound like a sock
drawer.’
    ‘Say, one week,’ said Frieda.
She thought of her tidy, secure house invaded by Chloë’s mess and drama and
experienced a feeling of near-panic. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow evening and we
can talk about what you’re going through and try to make some kind of plan to deal
with it. Half past six.’
    She turned off her phone and put it into her
pocket. Her own plan was that she was going to go home, have a very long, very hot bath
in her new and beautiful bathroom and climb into bed, pulling the duvet over her head,
shutting out her thoughts. And hope that she wouldn’t dream, or at least that she
wouldn’t remember her dreams.
    She opened her front door. Several pairs of
muddy shoes lay on the mat. A leather satchel. A jacket she didn’t recognise.
There was a nasty smell coming from the kitchen. Something was burning and an alarm was
making a piercing sound that felt to Frieda as though it was coming from inside her
head. For a moment