CLIMB UP onto the kitchen table. Adjust the rope above my head. I tie the rope tight. Pull on it to see how much weight it could take. Turn it over in my hand. If I placed it around my neck, the rope would burn. If there comes a time when I have to do this, would I choose rope or a bullet? I’d take drowning if it came to it. There would be no memory after that. No. 10 Luckenbooth Close has some kind of purple memory vibrating through it like an endless hum. A little girl wanders the entire nine floors every night. Only I can hear her. I let the rope go and the laundry maid swings above me, free of skirts. It’s breezy in the kitchen. The windows are old and rattly. At least it helps things dry. There is a fruit cake in the cupboard which I made on Sunday. For someone who can barely bake, I’d call it a triumph. Morag and I will have some before we go out. The wood on our kitchen table is unvarnished and it is rough under my bare feet. We have laid plate after plate on this table, teaspoon after cup after pot after saucer. Wine and vodka. Cigarettes and purses. We have laid each other down on it and all the other things. I want to leave just one more memory here. Whilst I wait for her to come back, I splay my toes trying to touch all of those memories so I don’t lose them.

Morag opens the kitchen door.

She leans on the frame and smiles at me.

I pull up my skirt just a little.

Slowly, inch by inch, so she can see my thighs appear. Then further.

Turn to show her my legs from the back and then turn back around. Sway my hips, pull my top down a little – she likes when I dance for her on the table. I’d do most anything for that look! She is smoking. Always. Her blonde hair is curled and bobbed short and almost dark brown at the ends. I like to think of her in the cinema with all that light on her face. To me she always looks like a silent-movie star.

– Exactly what are you doing, Ivy?

– What does it look like I’m doing Morag, ma chérie?

– It looks like you are hoping to seduce me?

I pull my skirt all the way up now. Nod with my breath held like it always is just before she touches me. She places her hands on my thighs. This will be our last time.

Morag pulls my knickers to the side.

I tilt my hips – up to meet her tongue until I have to grip the rope hard in my hands.

I’ve dated boys and not one made me feel like this.

I think of words left behind in closed rooms.

In drawers.

Single.