‘I must have mentioned it, I suppose,’ Beth continues, looking away as though she’s suddenly embarrassed. ‘I’d had quite an eventful morning when I phoned.’

Kat leaps on her doubt. ‘The discount was listed on the schedule,’ she says, silently thanking some higher power for Sally being on her lunch break. ‘So I imagine you must have told my colleague at the time of booking.’

‘Yes, silly me,’ Beth mumbles quickly. ‘And who would ever question a discount anyway?’ She’s flustered now, and Kat can’t help enjoying seeing Beth’s more vulnerable side. She pushes a little harder.

‘You know, I do a bit of dog walking when I’m not working here,’ she says while ringing up the discounted cost and proffering the card machine towards Beth. ‘Do you ever use a dog walker for Luna?’

‘I haven’t done,’ Beth says, dipping her card over the machine. But Kat can tell she’s not against the idea, so she keeps going.

‘Well, I’d love to walk her if it would help you out at all. And if it’s after hours, I could even pop in here and wash her down before I drop her back at yours. Save you having to deal with muddy paws.’

Kat watches Beth’s face light up with a mix of relief and something akin to joy, and realises with another jolt of adrenalin that the next stage of her plan may well be working too.

March 2003

March 2003

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Katherine

Katherine wiggles her nose, then contorts her whole face. But it doesn’t help. So she pushes both hands hard into the mattress and starts counting inside her head. She just needs to get to one hundred and twenty – two minutes – without scratching it. The dermatologist warned her about this, but he also promised that the new cream he had prescribed was revolutionary, that it would peel away the damaged skin and reveal something smooth and baby-soft underneath. It just needed time to perform its magic, and not be rubbed off prematurely.

Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five …

BUT GOD, IT’S SO ITCHY.

Katherine shuffles down the bed until her body is horizontal, the back of her head sunk low into her pillow. It doesn’t help that the cream is a toxic green colour. She stares at the white ceiling and wonders what her face looks like. The Italian flag maybe.

Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight …

No, it’s too much.

Her hands fly up, but she forces them to stop mid-air; she needs her eczema gone. How can she stop herself surrendering? Read your journal! her internal voice screams at her. That must be at least seventy seconds of distraction.