Chapters (40)
- Cover
- About the Author
- PENGUIN BOOKS
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- THE BEGINNING
Beside her, Mary lay fast asleep on her back, with her arms calmly folded like an effigy, her hair brushed out and shining on the pillow, and wearing a white cotton nightdress similar to the ones Sasha preferred. They’d undressed in the room together, like girls on a sleepover, and Irene had noticed Mary’s thickening waist and her heavy, blue-veined breasts with a pang of nostalgia.
‘Are you excited?’ she’d asked as they lay in their beds waiting for sleep.
‘It’s what I always wanted,’ said Mary sleepily. ‘It’s like I’ve been waiting all my life for this.’
And in the half-darkness, Irene saw her put a hand under the sheet that draped her and cup it over her belly protectively.
Now Irene was listening to her deep, even breathing and the low murmurs from outside. It had been many years since she had shared a bedroom with another woman; perhaps not since she had fallen for Adrian and become part of a couple. How odd, she thought to herself, that I’ve spent all those years sleeping next to someone who I’ll never voluntarily even touch again. He used to snore, breath catching at the back of his throat. It used to be so sweaty sleeping next to him, his hot, thickset body and his beery breath. Now the room smelt of rose water and lemons and Mary was quietly plump and cottony on the floor beside her. Irene shifted to a cooler patch in the bed. It was very quiet now; the breeze that had blown up in the evening had died away, leaving behind a hushed, still darkness. Suddenly she heard a man’s voice saying, quite clearly:
‘Jem’s sister seems very sweet, doesn’t she?’
‘Sweet?’ replied the other – which? She didn’t know them well enough to distinguish their tones. ‘Sweet is not the word I’d use about her.’
‘What word would you use?’
There was a pause. Irene strained to listen.
‘She seems rather odd to me.’
Irene smiled up at the ceiling. Good. She was not sweet. Oh no. She was salty and sour and full of harsh and secret thoughts waiting to spring.
Tomorrow her little brother was getting married. Tomorrow she would see her father again.
