A Bed of Scorpions by Judith Flanders

seen a room in a designer magazine that contained a toothbrush, or even a dog’s bowl? Frank and Toby’s house was clearly lived in. For the owner of a gallery where the display areas were white, with discreet touches of white, and white for contrast, his place was a riot of colour, with a bunch of different coloured rugs and bright modernist printed fabrics.
    There were a dozen people or so milling about, some keeping Toby company in the main room, others I could see through the door into the kitchen, preparing food. I was quickly filled in. Toby’s friends had set up a rota, and a changing group would take turns to bring food, try and make Toby eat a bit, and generally keep an eye on him. I agreed at once to join in. I wasn’t a close friend, but I was an old one, and one look at Toby said he was only hanging on by a thread.
    I went over to kiss him hello, and say those pointless things you say when someone dies. I’ve never worked out whether the banality and general uselessness of the phrases are worse than not saying anything at all. But what else is there?
How are you?
The answer to that was, obviously, Crap.
How are things?
Worse.
What’s coming up in the future?
I’m planning a funeral.
    So I did the I’m-so-sorry-and-please-let-me-know-if-there’s-something-I-can-do thing. Toby’s eyes were bloodshot, and he stared at a corner of the rug and didn’t look up even when someone spoke directly to him. If the words were repeated a few times, he’d answer, but slowly,like he was waiting out an echo. There was a cup of tea beside him, but it had scum on the surface, and must have been there for hours. He looked far more like someone who had lost his life partner than someone who had been on the verge of splitting from a violent relationship. But then, how would I know? How would anyone?
    I’m ashamed to say that after a few minutes I fled to the kitchen. I know, no one else was having a good time either, and they were gritting it out. I didn’t. In the kitchen I paused to take stock. The room must have been an addition the original house, with a glass roof, and two of the four walls entirely glass. Here you could see the modernist gallery-owner’s hand: white walls, white cupboards, white table. They’d gone colour-crazy out by putting in a beige floor, but otherwise the room could have been an extension to their gallery space. I thought of that dark body in the dark room again, and shivered. Which was no help. A couple of people were taking food out of plastic boxes and laying it out on plates. I saw some lettuce and salad vegetables and hunted for a chopping board. I could pretend I was being helpful, and avoid having to interact.
    No such luck. A small, slight girl with hair so blonde it was almost white, came over and watched me for a moment, then produced a jar and started making vinaigrette beside me. I looked again out of the corner of my eye and revised upwards. Not a girl, maybe twenty or so. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and didn’t look like she’d come from work. Apart from her startling hair, she was pretty rather than beautiful, but the hair would make anyone look twice. And then look again.
    She smiled tentatively.
    ‘I’m Sam,’ I said, putting down the knife and holding out my hand.
    ‘Sam? Aidan’s friend?’
    I don’t think of myself that way, but OK. I nodded. ‘And you’re …’ I prompted.
    She blushed. ‘I’m Lucy. Frank’s niece.’
    She was the one Aidan had mentioned, the one who had worked in the gallery. ‘I’m sorry about Frank,’ I said. I’d said it a dozen times now, and it still never began to sound even halfway adequate.
    She shrugged and looked down. Hadn’t yet worked out what the conventional response was.
    ‘You must have been close. Aidan said you worked with them, and they hoped you’d continue.’
    She looked up at that, as if she hadn’t been sure. Maybe she hadn’t. Frank wasn’t very chatty. ‘I’d like to, but I’ve got another