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
Lifting her arm, she cuffed him round his head with the side of her hand so he staggered back towards Irene, who stepped forward to steady him, keeping a hand on his shoulder. She felt his dampness against her bare legs; she saw his tear-stained cheeks and his skinny neck and sticking-out ears. There was a high-pitched buzzing in her head; everything was happening to someone else. She was a stranger, a thin and angry woman with sweat under her armpits and a lump blocking her throat who was about to behave inappropriately. She considered herself for a moment. She didn’t need to be like this, she could return to her old self right now. But it was too late.
She heard herself say, in a loud, shrill voice: ‘Don’t dare do that! He couldn’t help it.’
The woman turned to her. Irene saw that her face was red with wretchedness and humiliation and that her angry mouth was open. She was shouting something, but Irene couldn’t hear what it was she was saying.
Then her own voice came again, from a long way off: ‘Do you have any idea of how lucky you are? You should always cherish precious things.’
She saw her hand, all veins and ragged nails, reaching forward and grasping the woman by her collar. She was aware that people were looking at her, but they were a massed blur in the background while overhead the lighting hummed and her head throbbed with booming, un-tuned fizzing sounds. The woman, still shouting at her, threw off her hand so it fell uselessly to her side, then yanked her son backwards and marched off with her trolley and her children.
‘Are you all right?’
‘What?’
‘Are you all right?’ The woman at the till looked embarrassed and a bit gleeful. ‘Do you want to pay now? Excuse me, madam, are you all right?’
‘Oh. Yes. Right.’
Irene stumbled to the till and handed over her credit card. She signed her name without looking at the amount, her signature jarring across the slip, then walked from the shop, trying to stay upright. She felt as if she was made of cheap glass, brittle and transparent. If anyone pushed against her she would shatter.