they’re sort of fixed there, one either side? Or do you mean it’s like having worms, where someone has to shine a torch for them to pop out?’
‘You do a lot of that do you?’ asked Lucy smartly. ‘Shining torches on people’s arses?’
Fortunately the pizzas arrived before this conversation could continue, heralded by a rapid trio of hoots in the driveway. The delivery boy was already on the threshold by the time I opened the front door, with a finger poised at the doorbell. I paid him, thanked him, and carried the stack of boxes into the living room.
‘Mine’s the margherita!’ Quinn scrambled to her feet with the urgency of a youngest child.
‘There’s plenty for everyone.’ I lowered the boxes onto the island bench. ‘One ham and pineapple, one Aussie, one margherita and one meatlover’s.’
‘And mine’s the margherita,’ muttered Quinn, already prising lids open.
Scarlet jumped up, grinning. ‘Not if I find it first!’
‘Or me!’ Ruby grabbed Quinn and twirled her around so that she deftly swapped positions, then leant from side to side, blocking her sister from regaining ground.
‘Thought you wanted the margherita?’ asked Scarlet, locating and then lifting the entire box from the stack. ‘You’d better hurry!’
Quinn’s voice rose. ‘Don’t you take my pizza!’
‘Well, I hate to say this but I
need
the margherita.’ Lucy stretched, and got to her feet. ‘All the others have meat.’
I fetched a plate and selected a pizza slice from each of the remaining boxes. I left them still bickering, and complaining, and teasing, and retired to my bedroom. I put the plate on the dressing-table, beside my wedding photo, then sat on my side of the bed and flopped backwards until I was staring straight at the ceiling. A segment of spider web dangled from the cornice, wafting. From the living room Quinn’s voice could be heard, getting higher, and I knew that the eldest two were going that bit too far. As usual. It was hard to believe that one was a fully fledged police officer while the other was almost halfway through teacher training. I had a sudden image of her holding an armful of lunchboxes just out of reach, children scrabbling at her knees, and then I pushed it aside with more pressing matters surging in to take its place.
I knew that Dustin and Beth Craig had moved into Small Dairy Lane about five years ago, just before the birth of their second child, as part of a tree-change move. He had spent some of his childhood around the area and was at least ten years older, an engineer who was often absent with work. Apparently at those times their house thrummed with music and running feet and high-pitched giggles, while at others it was quiet, brooding, the sight of his car an effective
do not disturb
sign. And always, about once a week, there would be an eruption.
Even so, I would not have thought him capable of setting fire to a neighbour’s house. With questionable efficiency. I levered myself up and took a piece of pizza. It was the first food that I’d had since the morning toast, but tasted like ham and pineapple cardboard. I stared at myself in the mirror while I ate. The Botticelli muse of this morning was gone, if she had ever existed, and in her place was a middle-aged woman with tired eyes. I chewed slowly, which only served to add guinea pig cheeks to the equation. What were the statistics on women my age re-partnering? Getting laid? Being noticed?
I swallowed, and forced myself to focus on the important things. For starters, I needed to talk to Lucy at some stage, and I also needed to discuss logistics with my mother. Not just about staying here but about the repairs, and the insurance. The whole bureaucratic tangle that would no doubt tie me into knots also, by the time it was through.
And there would be more afternoons like this one just gone, where I twiddled my thumbs in the corner while the Richard III Society committee spent thirty-six minutes arguing over
‘You do a lot of that do you?’ asked Lucy smartly. ‘Shining torches on people’s arses?’
Fortunately the pizzas arrived before this conversation could continue, heralded by a rapid trio of hoots in the driveway. The delivery boy was already on the threshold by the time I opened the front door, with a finger poised at the doorbell. I paid him, thanked him, and carried the stack of boxes into the living room.
‘Mine’s the margherita!’ Quinn scrambled to her feet with the urgency of a youngest child.
‘There’s plenty for everyone.’ I lowered the boxes onto the island bench. ‘One ham and pineapple, one Aussie, one margherita and one meatlover’s.’
‘And mine’s the margherita,’ muttered Quinn, already prising lids open.
Scarlet jumped up, grinning. ‘Not if I find it first!’
‘Or me!’ Ruby grabbed Quinn and twirled her around so that she deftly swapped positions, then leant from side to side, blocking her sister from regaining ground.
‘Thought you wanted the margherita?’ asked Scarlet, locating and then lifting the entire box from the stack. ‘You’d better hurry!’
Quinn’s voice rose. ‘Don’t you take my pizza!’
‘Well, I hate to say this but I
need
the margherita.’ Lucy stretched, and got to her feet. ‘All the others have meat.’
I fetched a plate and selected a pizza slice from each of the remaining boxes. I left them still bickering, and complaining, and teasing, and retired to my bedroom. I put the plate on the dressing-table, beside my wedding photo, then sat on my side of the bed and flopped backwards until I was staring straight at the ceiling. A segment of spider web dangled from the cornice, wafting. From the living room Quinn’s voice could be heard, getting higher, and I knew that the eldest two were going that bit too far. As usual. It was hard to believe that one was a fully fledged police officer while the other was almost halfway through teacher training. I had a sudden image of her holding an armful of lunchboxes just out of reach, children scrabbling at her knees, and then I pushed it aside with more pressing matters surging in to take its place.
I knew that Dustin and Beth Craig had moved into Small Dairy Lane about five years ago, just before the birth of their second child, as part of a tree-change move. He had spent some of his childhood around the area and was at least ten years older, an engineer who was often absent with work. Apparently at those times their house thrummed with music and running feet and high-pitched giggles, while at others it was quiet, brooding, the sight of his car an effective
do not disturb
sign. And always, about once a week, there would be an eruption.
Even so, I would not have thought him capable of setting fire to a neighbour’s house. With questionable efficiency. I levered myself up and took a piece of pizza. It was the first food that I’d had since the morning toast, but tasted like ham and pineapple cardboard. I stared at myself in the mirror while I ate. The Botticelli muse of this morning was gone, if she had ever existed, and in her place was a middle-aged woman with tired eyes. I chewed slowly, which only served to add guinea pig cheeks to the equation. What were the statistics on women my age re-partnering? Getting laid? Being noticed?
I swallowed, and forced myself to focus on the important things. For starters, I needed to talk to Lucy at some stage, and I also needed to discuss logistics with my mother. Not just about staying here but about the repairs, and the insurance. The whole bureaucratic tangle that would no doubt tie me into knots also, by the time it was through.
And there would be more afternoons like this one just gone, where I twiddled my thumbs in the corner while the Richard III Society committee spent thirty-six minutes arguing over
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