“My good fortune?” Irene repeated.
“To be barren.”
* * *
? ? ?
It was Boxing Day before Irene saw Angela again. Angela came round with a book （a collection of Shirley Jackson stories） and a box of chocolates, apologizing for the missed dinner. “I’m so sorry, Irene,” she said. “I feel awful, just awful, but . . . the thing is, Daniel and I had a row.”
She didn’t seem to have any recollection of her fall, of what she’d said afterward. Irene was still angry; she’d half a mind to repeat what Angela had said, to tell her how hurt she had been. Angela must have seen something in her face, perhaps had a flash of recollection, because her own face colored suddenly, she looked ashamed, and she said, “It isn’t me, you know. It’s the drink.” She exhaled a short, painful breath. “I know that’s not an excuse.” She waited for a moment for some response and when none came, she stepped forward and kissed Irene lightly on the cheek. Then she turned away from her, toward the door. “When they’re born,” she said, her hand resting on the door handle, “you hold them, and you imagine a glorious, golden future. Not money or success or fame or anything like that, but happiness. Such happiness! You’d see the world burn if only it meant they would be happy.”
FIFTEEN
Carla stood, distracted, in Angela’s kitchen, which was empty save for an ancient kettle on the counter next to the stove top. Her mobile phone was buzzing; it kept buzzing, on and on. She didn’t bother to look at it—either it would be Theo or it would be the police, and she wasn’t in the right frame of mind to talk to either. She’d already had the estate agent on the phone, wanting to set up a time to see the place so they could get it on the market in time for the peak home-buying season of late spring. She’d found the act of engaging in conversation, with the agent, with Irene next door, almost overwhelming.
She opened the cupboards above the sink and then closed them again, she checked down below. The cupboards were empty. She knew they were empty. She’d emptied them. What on earth was she doing? She was looking for something. What was that? Her phone? No, that was in her back pocket. The tote bag! Where did she put the tote bag?
She left the kitchen and went back into the hallway, only to discover that she’d left the front door open. Jesus. She really was losing her mind. She gave the door a good kick, slamming it shut. She turned back and stood, aimless, staring at the point on the wall just next to the kitchen doorway, where the ghost of a picture hung. What was it used to hang there? She couldn’t remember. What did it matter? What was she doing? What had she come in here for?
This forgetfulness was new. It came from sleep deprivation, she supposed; there was a reason they used it as a form of torture—it robbed you of all capacity. She remembered this feeling, vaguely, from just after Ben was born. Only then the distraction was suffused with joy, it was like being stoned. This was like being sedated. Or held underwater. This was more like after he died.
Carla wandered back into the kitchen, stood at the sink, looking out into the lane, leaned forward, her head against the glass. Just about caught a glimpse of the girl, the one she’d met at Irene’s, disappearing from view. Walking with a strange shuffle. There was something about that girl, something off. Weaselly. Pretty, sharp-toothed. Sexually available. She put Carla in mind of that cartwheeling young woman who’d been all over the newspapers a few years back, the one who murdered her friend. Or didn’t murder her friend? Somewhere in France? No, Italy. Perugia, that was it. Jesus, what on earth was she thinking about now? She knew almost nothing about this girl—in fact, the only thing she did know was that in her spare time she visited old ladies to help them with their shopping. And here was Carla, casting her as one of the Manson family.
In her pocket, her phone buzzed, an angry insect trapped in a jar, and she ground her teeth. Ignored it. Tea, she thought. I’ll have a cup of tea. Lots of sugar. She went back into the kitchen, flicked on the kettle. She opened the cupboard above the sink. Still empty. Oh, for God’s sake.
Carla turned off the kettle again and walked slowly up the stairs; she felt exhausted, legs leaden. At the top, she paused, turned and sat, gazing down the steps at the front door, at the space on the floor beside the radiator where once had lain a small Qashqai rug. Next to her, on the top step, there was a tear in the carpet. She plucked at its fabric, running her finger along the length of its neat slit, an inch or two. Wear and tear. From the end of her nose, a tear dropped. Worn and torn, Ang, she thought. That about sums us up.