After a minute or two had passed in silence, Victoria stood suddenly, almost knocking her chair over. “I’m going to make some tea.”
Kit started to get up. “I’ll make it.”
“No,” Victoria said, putting her hand on Kit’s shoulder, pressing her back down onto her chair. “I’ll do it. I can’t just sit here, I’ve got to do something.”
Kit sat down. Victoria filled an enamelled kettle at the sink and put it on the gas range.
The telephone rang, making them both jump.
Victoria lifted the cordless handset from the base station on the kitchen wall, squinted at the call display. She didn’t recognize the number, but it had a 514 area code. Montreal. “Oh, Christ,” she said. “It’s Patrick’s mother.” The phone continued to ring in her hand.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Kit asked.
“Do I have to? I barely know the woman.”
“I think you do,” Kit said.
“Yes, of course,” Victoria said, but as she reached to press the answer button, the phone stopped ringing. Praying for a busy signal, she pressed the button that dialled the most recent incoming call. No such luck; the call was answered on the first ring.
“Hello?” Eileen O’Neill said tentatively, as if unsure the call was for her.
“Mrs. O’Neill,” Victoria said. “It’s Victoria.” She almost added, “Patrick’s wife.”
“Oh,” Mrs. O’Neill said. “I just tried to call you.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”
“Is it true? My Patrick’s dead? Murdered?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. I’m very sorry.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“No. No, of course you don’t.”
“Mrs. O’Neill. Eileen. You’re not alone, are you? Is there someone with you? A friend, a neighbour, one of Patrick’s brothers?”
“What? No, there’s no one here.”
“Perhaps you could call someone?”
The kettle began to sing. Kit got up, turned off the gas, and resumed her seat. Victoria smiled wanly at her and she smiled back.
“I’m all right, dear,” Mrs. O’Neill said. “Don’t you worry about me. What about yourself? Are you alone?”
“No,” Victoria said, looking at Kit. “I’m not alone. I have a friend with me.”
“That’s good.” She paused, then said, “The police here couldn’t tell me what happened, except that Patrick was shot in a restaurant.”
“I don’t really know much more than that myself,” Victoria said. She told Patrick’s mother what little she did know, and when she was finished she said, “Tomorrow I’ll call the airline and book you a flight, then call you with the details. Is that all right?”
“Yes, that will be fine. Thank you.”
They said goodbye and hung up.
Victoria placed the telephone in the base station. “God, I need a drink,” she said to Kit. “Or six. Do you want anything?”
Kit said, “No, thanks.”
Victoria took an open bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and with a flick of her wrist twisted out the cork. She could feel Kit’s eyes on her as she reached a wineglass down from a rack over the kitchen island. Filling it, she returned to the table, leaving the bottle on the counter.
“I appreciate your being here with me, you know,” she said, looking into Kit’s blue-green eyes. “I don’t think I would’ve been able to cope earlier without you. But I’m fine now. You don’t have to stay if there’s someplace else you need to be.”
“No,” Kit said with a quick shake of her head. “I can stay as long as you like. Hugh can look after things at the studio tomorrow if necessary.” Kit reached out and touched Victoria’s hand. “I only wish there was more I could do.”
I bet you do, Victoria thought as she lifted her wine-glass as a pretext to breaking contact with Kit. She was immediately ashamed. On the tabletop, Kit’s long fingers intertwined and writhed like snakes. Victoria put her glass down and took Kit’s hand. It was small and warm and strong. She squeezed gently and Kit responded in kind.
“I’m sorry,” Victoria said.
“For what?” Kit asked in a hoarse whisper.
“For being not as good a friend to you as you are to me.”
“Let me decide how good a friend you are, all right?” Her right knee bounced up and down as her foot jiggled nervously.
Victoria released Kit’s hand. “Anyway,” she said, “thanks for staying with me.”
“Any time,” Kit said with a twitchy smile.
“Then, for god’s sake, have a cigarette before you jump out of your skin.”
“I’m all right,” Kit said. “But let me do something, okay? I bet you haven’t eaten.”
“I’m not really very hungry,” Victoria said, adding in response to Kit’s frown, “but I don’t suppose you’ll let that stop you, will you?” Kit grinned and shook her head. “Consuela left something in the fridge,” Victoria said. “It just needs to be heated in the microwave.”
“Lucky for you,” Kit said. Victoria smiled. Kit was a terrible cook. “I was going to order a pizza.” Kit opened the refrigerator.
“The blue casserole,” Victoria said. Kit took the covered casserole dish out of the refrigerator and peeked under the lid. “It’s some kind of lobster thing,” Victoria said. “Five or six minutes in the microwave should do it.” She had to show Kit how to set the microwave timer.
While the microwave hummed, Kit got out napkins, plates, and cutlery and set the table. Standing on a step stool, she took another wineglass down from the overhead rack. Victoria opened another bottle of wine. She almost dropped it as a sudden wave of anguish crashed over her, twisting in her chest like a knife. She slumped into a chair at the table and put her face in her hands.
“What’s wrong?” Kit asked. “Are you okay?” She looked stricken. “Oh, Christ,” she said, face crimson. “What a goddamned stupid question. Jesus, I’m sorry.”
Victoria raised her head. Her eyes burned. “It’s all right,” she said. She took a deep, unsteady breath, let it out through her nose. “For a second it felt like Patrick was still here and we were getting ready to have dinner together. Then it hit me that we would never get dinner ready together again.”
Kit moved a chair close to Victoria’s and sat down, putting her arm over Victoria’s shoulders. “That probably won’t be the last time that happens,” she said.
Victoria leaned into Kit’s embrace. “That’s reassuring,” she said grimly. The microwave beeped for attention. Kit started to get up. Victoria held her for a moment, kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Thanks,” she said, then let her go.
Victoria ate more than she thought she could, but between the two of them they didn’t make much of a dent in Consuela’s casserole. They did polish off the bottle of wine, however, although Victoria drank more of it than Kit did. Kit rarely drank more than a glass or two, and seldom finished the second.
“You’d get along with Joe Shoe,” Victoria told her. “He drinks even less than you.”
“Joe who?”
“Joe