‘Zoe Marsh,’ she said.
While he glanced at his computer screen and tapped on his keyboard, I studied Zoe’s perfectly made-up face, her blemish-free skin, her full lips, and her perfect eyebrows. I tended to hide my brows under my fringe. I’d never got the hang of plucking, and now power-brows were the in thing, and I hadn’t got the first clue how to shape and fill them. I’d been a bit of a tomboy when I was a kid, so never acquired the skills to be feminine – but it had never bothered me.
Zoe owned a salon in Islington, so knew ways to highlight her beauty, and make men notice. ‘Come along to my salon sometime,’ she’d often said. ‘I could do your colours.’ I never had. I suppose I was happy as I was, with my boxed hair dye, and my cheap-as-chips make-up.
We’d met at a yoga group about six months ago and hit it off. I’d seen her a few times before we finally got chatting, and admired how she’d managed to make all the moves look so graceful. Whereas I’d made the mountain pose look more like a molehill. I was quite sporty – fastest in my class at the hundred-metre sprint when I was twelve – but elegant yoga poses, I struggled with.
‘So you’re both booked in for a facial in an hour,’ Connor said, looking up from the screen.
‘I don’t suppose you could book me in for a full-body massage,’ Zoe said. Her words were tangibly flirtatious.
‘Sorry, we’re fully booked,’ he said, his eyes locking with hers. There was an instant chemistry, and I suddenly felt like a ham sandwich at a vegan wedding.
He handed us robes and towels, and gestured for us to go through the frosted-glass doors. ‘We’ll just take some details and then you can enjoy your evening.’
As we headed towards the hotbeds, Zoe smiled. ‘He’s rather nice, don’t you think?’
‘I guess so,’ I said, and then whispered, ‘But what about Hank?’
She stopped suddenly and covered her mouth with her hand, her chin crinkling.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I said, stopping, and two women walked into us. ‘Sorry,’ I said, as they skirted round us, rolling their eyes and muttering. ‘We should have brake lights,’ I called after them, but they didn’t look back. ‘What’s wrong?’ I repeated, my attention back on Zoe, whose eyes had filled with tears.
‘We broke up.’ She removed her hand from her mouth, and slapped the tears from her cheeks. Straightening her back, she carried on walking.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I was going to tell you earlier, but didn’t want to ruin the evening. I still love him, Rach. Always will. But I can’t handle it any more.’
‘The drugs?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve tried so hard. You know that, right?’
‘I know you have, lovely,’ I said, linking arms with her and pulling her close, so we walked as one.
‘He’s never going to listen. The other day I found him so out of it, I thought he was dead.’
‘Oh God, Zoe. You can’t live like that.’
‘I know.’ She sniffed, her eyes still watery. ‘It was the final straw. I can’t bear to think that one day I will find him dead.’ She dashed another tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.
‘Of course you can’t.’
I’d only seen Hank a few times. He would pace the pavement some distance away, while waiting for Zoe to finish yoga. And even from across a busy road, I noticed his skin was far too pale, his clothes dishevelled, and his whole demeanour agitated.
‘He still refuses to get help, so for my own sanity I walked out on Tuesday.’
‘You’ve done the right thing, lovely,’ I said, fishing a tissue from my bag and handing it to her. ‘You’ve done everything you can.’
‘Thanks. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your support,’ she said, dabbing her cheeks. ‘And I know I sound a bit cold flirting with Connor – but I need the distraction, and I suppose the comfort. It’s been hell with Hank for a long time.’
‘You have to do what’s right for you,’ was all I could muster.
‘Life’s short and all that,’ she said.
It wasn’t until later, as I relaxed on a lounger, that I looked at the friend request I’d received earlier. My heart sank as I opened it. I was expecting a long-lost friend, or even a boyfriend wanting to meet up because he’d heard about my breakup with Lawrence – but it wasn’t a name I recognised.
David Green: CONFIRM/DELETE REQUEST
It was no big deal, I told myself. Lots of people got requests from strangers. But then I’d never had anything like it before. My anxiety rose, though I couldn’t put my finger on why.
The temptation was too much. I clicked on his profile. David Green’s profile picture was an image of a lake. His cover photo was of a row of grey houses with red front doors, the words ‘Mandan Road, County Sligo’ at the foot of the picture. He had no friends that I could see, and his timeline only revealed one status update:
Here comes a candle to light you to bed
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head
Below the words was a cartoon gif of a blazing fire.
I shuddered, trying to convince myself it must be a mistake, or some kind of joke. But my heart hammered in my chest. I was born in County Sligo. My mother grew up there. Was it a coincidence? And if so, why did I suddenly feel so vulnerable?
July 1995
The flames dance like magical beings – telling me I’m right – telling me they deserve to die.
They’d left the back door open, so it was all so easy.
And now I can see David from my window. He can’t get out of the bedroom. I wedged a chair under the door handle.
‘Help!’ he cries as he presses on the glass; well, I think that’s what he’s yelling. I can’t be sure. I’m too far away to hear.
‘Nobody will help you,’ I whisper.
He looks down and I wonder if he’s going to leap from the bedroom window, but the fire grips his pyjamas, and his face changes shape as he cries out in agony. He slips out of sight.
I draw the curtains, rest my head on the pillow, and close my eyes.
February 1987
Laura let herself into the house she grew up in. It was hers now. The house her father built, with its oversized windows and oddly angled sloping roof, far too modern for the stunning surroundings. The towering trees and wildlife looked on and laughed at it – that’s what she’d thought as a child.
A flick of the light switch illuminated the lounge, the paintings on the walls, the vases cradling dead flowers. The wealth was tangible. Her parents had had far too much: spoilt children wanting more, more, more. Except they’d never wanted her, had they?
Laura