Chloe pushes herself up close to the glass, her hair suddenly wet with condensation, her ear quickly frozen, but she can’t hear anything else. All is quiet for a moment. She looks down at the blouse still hanging from her frame. She knows now what Maureen was trying to do. She had planned this. She wanted Patrick to see what she sees. She wanted him to see Angie.

Finally she senses something in the garden and looks down. Two figures move about in the shadows. She hears Maureen’s voice, softer, coaxing. There’s no sound from Patrick. She can’t tell if he is being persuaded. But persuaded of what? It’s not as if Chloe has made any claims. She’s confident that she hasn’t given Maureen the wrong idea. How could blame possibly be put at her door? All Maureen has done is put together the dots and drawn an entirely new picture.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Chloe is unsure how much time passes up in her room. She looks out on the garden occasionally but it is black, lit only by the moon that shines brightly tonight though casts no light on what might be going on beneath her. While she waits, Chloe changes out of the blouse, folding it carefully and putting it into the bottom of her wardrobe where it joins a space thick with bed linen and spare towels.

Eventually Chloe hears the back door open again, the tap tap of footsteps on the kitchen lino. The door closes, softly this time, and muffled voices float up the stairs. Chloe tries to establish the tone of them, but they’re too muted to gauge. What was said? She can still close her eyes and picture Patrick’s face as he stared at her in that blouse. How had Maureen managed to calm him so quickly?

‘Chloe?’

She stands stock-still in her room. The voice floats up the stairs again, calling her name. It’s Maureen.

‘Chloe, love, would you come down? We want to talk to you.’

She opens the door a little and peers out. Maureen’s face greets her at the bottom of the stairs. She’s smiling, her features soft, not anxious.

‘Come down,’ she says, beckoning with her hand. ‘Come on.’

Chloe leaves her room and takes the stairs. As she reaches the bottom, Maureen turns and she follows her into the living room. Patrick sits in his chair by the patio doors, but the TV is off; he sits upright, his feet on the floor, not the pouffe. He looks as if he has aged ten years.

‘Sit down, Chloe,’ he says, indicating the sofa. She sits by the door, in Maureen’s usual spot, and Maureen sits beside Patrick on the pouffe. For once Chloe is grateful for another pair of eyes on them, for Angie bearing witness from the sideboard.

Maureen looks at Patrick, who clears his throat.