from the patient’s lounge, where the staff go to smoke their fags. “Don’t go in the television room until the cleaners have been in,” he announces, as if it is of little interest. “Pete’s done a crap behind the sofa.”
“Jesus.” I say, disgusted, but Frank just shrugs and crumples his cigarette under his slipper.
“Worse things than shit.”
Fourteen
Cate lifted the large plant pot in the back garden, just as Alice had instructed her, and found the back door key settled in the soil among woodlice and worms. She opened the lock with a twist and a pull, wondering why Alice had no friends she could have called on for this errand. It was strange being in the house alone. She imagined Alice’s eyes upon her and had no urge to linger. The door opened into a utility area with a washing machine and freezer. She walked through, thinking how tidy it was, how white the walls, not a grubby mark anywhere; so clearly a house without children. Cate thought grimly of the sticky prints on her own walls, the unwashed cereal bowls on the kitchen worktop. The utility room led into the large kitchen area, where she had first interviewed Alice. But it was different from before.
The kitchen table was stained with water and as she approached her heels crunched on glass. There was water on the floor, sprigs of green with orange and red. Snapdragons, in full bloom when she first saw them, now wilted and dead. The glass was mostly in large pieces, but smaller slithers crunched under her feet. That beautiful vase! The stunning blue and white glass vase of snapdragons that had been here on her first visit. It’s very valuable, Alice had said, irreplaceable. Dr Gregg had told her that Alice had been hysterical, holding a piece of glass to her own neck. Had she broken her lovely vase? Carefully, she bent, lifting a large broken piece from the floor. But the glass was not thin or fine. It was not Alice’s beautiful blue and white vase, but a chunky yellow vase. Oddly, the vase was different but the flowers were the same.
She climbed upstairs, holding onto the mahogany banister. The noise of her shoes on the wood jarred, and Cate thought of Alice’s Moroccan slippers, barely making a sound as she moved around, and she wished she’d taken her shoes off downstairs. She didn’t want to mark the grain.
Alice had told her what to collect, and Cate had made a list. Now she took it from her pocket, a sheet of jotter paper that looked like a packing list for a weekend away. As the bathroom was across the hall facing her, its door open, she went in.
It was beautiful, straight out of a boutique hotel, with black and white tiles underfoot and a massive bathtub set on silver balls. Georgian, Cate guessed, and original, not some reproduction number, it had probably been here since the house was built, or Alice had made it look that way. The sink too, looked antique, with its square bowl and large gleaming taps. She must have a cleaner to keep it this perfect, Cate thought, as she noted the Chanel bath oil and body lotion, also black and white, lined up on the windowsill. She wondered if Alice had chosen them for their contents or for the packaging. It all looked so artificial, like a show home rather than a place someone actually lived in. Cate thought briefly of her own bathroom with the grainy tub and sticky shower gels from Superdrug, the mismatched face care products and splayed toothbrushes that needed replacing.
In a mirrored cupboard was an electrical toothbrush with a plug-in stand. Did they have shaver sockets at St Therese’s? Also in the cupboard was a toiletries bag, which she filled with the toothbrush and toothpaste, skin cleanser and moisturiser, a Clarins deodorant and some paracetamol, before she thought better of it, and returned it to the shelf alongside an extravagance of other products: Crème de la Mer, La Prairie, names she knew from magazine adverts but could never afford. How Alice bought them on a lecturer’s
“Jesus.” I say, disgusted, but Frank just shrugs and crumples his cigarette under his slipper.
“Worse things than shit.”
Fourteen
Cate lifted the large plant pot in the back garden, just as Alice had instructed her, and found the back door key settled in the soil among woodlice and worms. She opened the lock with a twist and a pull, wondering why Alice had no friends she could have called on for this errand. It was strange being in the house alone. She imagined Alice’s eyes upon her and had no urge to linger. The door opened into a utility area with a washing machine and freezer. She walked through, thinking how tidy it was, how white the walls, not a grubby mark anywhere; so clearly a house without children. Cate thought grimly of the sticky prints on her own walls, the unwashed cereal bowls on the kitchen worktop. The utility room led into the large kitchen area, where she had first interviewed Alice. But it was different from before.
The kitchen table was stained with water and as she approached her heels crunched on glass. There was water on the floor, sprigs of green with orange and red. Snapdragons, in full bloom when she first saw them, now wilted and dead. The glass was mostly in large pieces, but smaller slithers crunched under her feet. That beautiful vase! The stunning blue and white glass vase of snapdragons that had been here on her first visit. It’s very valuable, Alice had said, irreplaceable. Dr Gregg had told her that Alice had been hysterical, holding a piece of glass to her own neck. Had she broken her lovely vase? Carefully, she bent, lifting a large broken piece from the floor. But the glass was not thin or fine. It was not Alice’s beautiful blue and white vase, but a chunky yellow vase. Oddly, the vase was different but the flowers were the same.
She climbed upstairs, holding onto the mahogany banister. The noise of her shoes on the wood jarred, and Cate thought of Alice’s Moroccan slippers, barely making a sound as she moved around, and she wished she’d taken her shoes off downstairs. She didn’t want to mark the grain.
Alice had told her what to collect, and Cate had made a list. Now she took it from her pocket, a sheet of jotter paper that looked like a packing list for a weekend away. As the bathroom was across the hall facing her, its door open, she went in.
It was beautiful, straight out of a boutique hotel, with black and white tiles underfoot and a massive bathtub set on silver balls. Georgian, Cate guessed, and original, not some reproduction number, it had probably been here since the house was built, or Alice had made it look that way. The sink too, looked antique, with its square bowl and large gleaming taps. She must have a cleaner to keep it this perfect, Cate thought, as she noted the Chanel bath oil and body lotion, also black and white, lined up on the windowsill. She wondered if Alice had chosen them for their contents or for the packaging. It all looked so artificial, like a show home rather than a place someone actually lived in. Cate thought briefly of her own bathroom with the grainy tub and sticky shower gels from Superdrug, the mismatched face care products and splayed toothbrushes that needed replacing.
In a mirrored cupboard was an electrical toothbrush with a plug-in stand. Did they have shaver sockets at St Therese’s? Also in the cupboard was a toiletries bag, which she filled with the toothbrush and toothpaste, skin cleanser and moisturiser, a Clarins deodorant and some paracetamol, before she thought better of it, and returned it to the shelf alongside an extravagance of other products: Crème de la Mer, La Prairie, names she knew from magazine adverts but could never afford. How Alice bought them on a lecturer’s
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