They split up. Courtney drifts towards the back of the shop where there is a little storage area. She has some Parma Violets in her pocket, which she keeps nervously eating. It feels eerie being here after dark, and forbidden, like a classroom after school has finished for the day. She walks past a fridge with a kettle on top and goes through a curtained area to where a number of paintings are stacked against the wall. She supposes they’re waiting to be picked up or have just arrived. They’re all bubble-wrapped and mostly large, some in frames, others just canvases, although she can’t make out more than that. She can’t see any nooks and crannies, though, where a bag might be hidden. She gets down on her hands and knees. The flooring in the storage room is lino and it’s dusty, tickling the back of her throat. The strip-light overhead buzzes and she notices a dead fly beneath the plastic casing. She crawls along on her hands and knees until she spots a door in the wall. It’s small but she opens it anyway. It’s full of old cans of white paint. She pushes some aside but there’s no room behind to fit a large holdall.
‘Have you found anything?’
She turns at the sound of Peter’s voice. He’s standing behind her, his eyes scanning the room and the ceiling, where they land on a hatch. ‘There’s a loft,’ he says in surprise. He raises his voice to call Willow and they hear her heavy boots pounding on the tiles as she runs towards them.
‘What? Have you found it?’
‘No, but look,’ he says, pointing to the ceiling. ‘I’m going to try to get up there.’
Peter’s tall but it’s still out of reach unless he stands on something. Courtney darts from the storage room to the main body of the shop. What can he use? She grabs a chair with wheels and pushes it towards Peter. ‘Use this,’ she says. ‘We’ll hold it still.’
They position it under the hatch and hold it while Peter climbs onto it. With his arms outstretched he can just about reach. He pushes against the hatch and slides it to the side. The three of them stare up into the gaping black hole above their heads.
‘How are we going to get up there?’ asks Courtney.
‘Give me a leg up,’ says Willow. ‘I’m the smallest. I can climb through.’
‘We can’t both balance on this chair,’ says Peter, doubtfully. He climbs down and goes back into the office. Courtney and Willow follow to see him grappling with Daisy’s desk. It’s no more than a table with files on and a laptop, which they move to the floor. Then the three of them half carry, half drag it into the storage room. It takes them a while to manoeuvre it through the small curtained doorway, and they have to turn it on its side but after ten minutes of grunting and swearing – mostly from Willow – they finally have it positioned under the hatch. Peter and Willow climb onto it. Then he lifts her up, no trouble, and Willow disappears into the black hole.
‘There’s no lights up here,’ her disembodied voice calls through the silence. ‘I’m using my phone … Ow …’
‘What is it?’ cries Courtney.
Peter, who is still standing on the desk, glances down at her and grins, then holds up crossed fingers. A lock of his blond hair falls over his forehead and her stomach contracts. Why is he having this effect on her? She’s never reacted this way to Kris, not even when they first met.
‘I’ve found something – a bag,’ Willow’s voice calls.
Courtney’s heart quickens in anticipation.
‘I’m going to chuck it down. Ready …’
Before they’ve had a chance to reply, a holdall hurtles towards Peter. He catches it in his arms, and frowns as he runs his long fingers over the logo. Then he unzips the bag, staring at the contents for a while before lifting out a short floral dress. He turns to Courtney, his face pinched. ‘I don’t think this is her stuff,’ he says, shoving the dress back into the bag. ‘My sister lived in jeans. I’m not an expert but …’ He throws the bag to Courtney and it lands at her feet.
She kneels on the floor to riffle through it. The clothes look dated – why didn’t Una pick up on that before? She reads the labels – Chelsea Girl, C&A. These shops don’t exist any more.
Peter and Willow climb down from the desk and join her. ‘Whose do you think it is?’ asks Willow.
Courtney’s fingers close around a passport. She hands it to Peter.
‘It’s Jemima’s,’ he says, his face grim.
‘But these clothes belonged to someone else,’ says Courtney, shoving a long tie-dyed skirt in Willow’s face. It smells musty. ‘Look, this says Chelsea Girl. My mum used to talk about that shop. It was popular in the 1980s.’