“With respect, Irene . . .” As Carla accepted a mug of tea she raised her chin a little, so that she was looking down the bridge of her nose as she spoke. “I can go there whenever I want. It’s my house. I mean, it will be. So I will go there whenever it suits me.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry I disturbed you,” Carla went on, her tone betraying not one iota of contrition, “but I’ve been sleeping badly, if at all, of late, and so sometimes instead of lying in bed staring at the ceiling, I get up and I get on with things, whether that be correspondence, or cleaning, or in this case coming here to look for something I mislaid earlier—”
“What?” Irene snapped, infuriated by Carla’s manner, by her blithe disregard for Irene’s peace of mind. “What on earth did you need so urgently at two o’clock in the morning?”
“None of your business!” Carla slammed her mug down on the kitchen counter, spilling tea onto the floor. “Sorry,” she said, and she reached for a sheet of kitchen towel, crouched down to mop up the spill. “God!” She stayed down there, crouched over, her arms hanging loose at her sides, her face pressed against her knees. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry.”
Irene reached out a hand, placed it gently on Carla’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” she said, taken aback, a little, by this display of weakness. “Come on, up you come.”
Carla stood. She was crying—not loudly, or demonstratively, but in a quiet, dignified, Carla sort of way—tears sliding elegantly down her cheeks, dripping from her jawline onto the collar of her crisp white shirt. She closed her eyes and pressed the heels of her hands against her cheekbones.
“Come on now,” Irene said gently, coaxing her, as though she were an animal, or a small child. “Take your tea, there, that’s right,” she said, and she led Carla from the kitchen to the living room, where they sat, side by side, on the sofa.
“I had some things,” Carla said after a while, “in a bag. Some clothes and a couple of jewelry boxes. I had them with me when I came here today—I mean, yesterday—whenever it was. I’m sure I did.”
“And now you can’t find them?”
Carla nodded.
“They were . . . valuable?”
Carla shrugged. “Not terribly. I don’t know . . . my mother’s engagement ring, that’s probably worth a bit, but the medal, a Saint Christopher . . . It belonged to my son.”
“Oh, Carla.”
“I can’t lose it, I can’t, we bought it for his christening, we had it engraved. . . .” She shook her head, blinking away tears. “He never wore it, of course, he was too little, but he loved to look at it, to get it out of the box, he wanted to play with it, you know how kids are. But I always said that he couldn’t keep hold of it, that it was precious, that he had to put it away, and that I would look after it for him, I would keep it safe for him. . . . I promised to keep it safe for him, and I did, for all this time, and now—” She broke off, turning her face away.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Irene said. “But why bring it to the house—were you on your way somewhere? Did you stop off anywhere, perhaps? A shop, perhaps you set them down . . . ?”
“No, no. I didn’t go anywhere else. I was just . . . I wanted them with me, those things. I wanted them with me. . . .” She turned her head away.
“You wanted them with you?” Irene didn’t understand.
“I was . . . I was in despair,” Carla said. She turned back and their eyes met.
Irene’s hand flew to her mouth. She understood now. “Oh, Carla,” she said. “Oh no.”
Carla shook her head again. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters. Of course it does.” Irene rested her hand gently on top of Carla’s. “Your son, and then your sister and Daniel, so close together—it feels like too much to bear.”
Carla smiled, withdrawing her hand, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “We’ve not had much luck,” she said.
“You’re grieving,” Irene said. “You can’t think straight when you’re grieving. I was the same when I lost my husband, I thought about it. Putting an end to it. There didn’t seem much point in going on, just me, you know, no one else. Your sister pulled me out of it, you know. She just kept coming round, bringing those little pastries she liked, the almond ones, Swedish? Danish, that’s it, or sometimes some soup, or just coffee, whatever, and she’d be chattering away, about what she was reading, you know, that sort of thing. She saved my life, Angie did.” Carla’s face seemed to darken; she turned her head away. “I know that things weren’t always good between you and her, but she loved you,” Irene said. “And . . . well, I know you loved Daniel, didn’t you, he meant a great deal—”