are different here to what you know. Where are you from, anyway?”
“California,” Frances said.
“Well,” said Sheena, “there’s no Brad Pitt ’round here. We make do with what we’ve got.” Picking up the teapot, she reached over to fill Frances’s cup, which had a bite-sized chip in the rim. Frances crossed her legs, but didn’t protest.
Her phone beeped, and Frances glanced at the screen. It would be deeply unprofessional to check her messages during an interview — something she’d never consider — but she snatched the phone up when she saw the email address: Stanley. Sheena’s voice faded as Frances stared at the brief message, which radiated a forced jauntiness: Frances, have you heard? We’ve somehow been nominated for a Well Done London Award. Do you fancy putting on a frock and joining your old friends? Moaning and crap food guaranteed. There was a postscript after his name: If anyone deserves to be there, it’s you.
The sheer presumption of it. Was she supposed to sit and watch while the people who’d rejected her celebrated their success? Frances’s pride battled with her desire to be among them again, to be part of their miserable, wonderful circle. Her phone clattered to the table and Sheena stopped, mid-sentence, to stare at her.
Frances dragged herself back to Les, the monster. “You would visit him? And you kept up contact through phone calls? He became threatening over the phone?”
Sheena’s fingers strayed to the little gold cross at her throat. “He became horrible, really. Told me his mate Terry was keeping an eye on me, saw me down the pub acting like a slag. Which I was not.” She drew a long breath. “Then it got worse. Les said he knew I was shagging some bloke I work with at Argos. Which I was not. But he called me one day, said horrible things. That he’d do to me and my kids when he got out.” A tiny rivulet of blue eyeliner began migrating down her cheek. “I had no idea he was such a bastard, or I would never have taken up with him in the first place.”
“You’re worried about what will happen when he gets out?” God, it’s boiling in here , Frances thought, and shrugged off her cardigan. Does heat increase the urge to urinate? She needed the bathroom quite badly now.
“When he gets out? Oh, no —”
A sound at the front door made Sheena turn, and a tall dark shape moved through the hallway followed by a small squat one.
“Oi, you,” Sheena bellowed. “Come in here and say hello to our guest.”
From the explosive sigh and the sound of dragging feet, Frances knew it would be a teenager even before she saw him framed in the kitchen door. The boy from the playground. His fleshy dog squatted, pink-eyed and panting, at his feet.
“Hello, guest,” he said.
“This here’s Michael, my oldest.” Sheena grabbed the sleeve of the boy’s parka. “Who is still not too old to turn over my knee if he doesn’t start going to school.” The boy grunted and began to leave, but Sheena held him firm. “And this is Frances, from that magazine I told you about. In London. She’s going to write a story about Les and what a monster he is.”
“Well, maybe,” Frances muttered. “It’s not really up to me —”
“And how he threatened us with violence. How we’re terrified.”
Michael burst out laughing, the dog echoing with a series of sharp barks. “You are fucking joking me. I’m not scared of that twat.” He turned his pale, narrow face to Frances. “Did she tell you what he was in for?”
“She doesn’t need to know that,” his mother said quickly.
“This fucking monster that’s giving her nightmares?” Michael moved into the tiny kitchen, and the dog followed. Damn , thought Frances, now I’m going to have to squeeze past him to get to the toilet.
“It’s not important, Michael —”
“You think maybe he’s banged up for rape? For doing someone with a knife?”
Sheena smiled apologetically at Frances and tugged harder at
“California,” Frances said.
“Well,” said Sheena, “there’s no Brad Pitt ’round here. We make do with what we’ve got.” Picking up the teapot, she reached over to fill Frances’s cup, which had a bite-sized chip in the rim. Frances crossed her legs, but didn’t protest.
Her phone beeped, and Frances glanced at the screen. It would be deeply unprofessional to check her messages during an interview — something she’d never consider — but she snatched the phone up when she saw the email address: Stanley. Sheena’s voice faded as Frances stared at the brief message, which radiated a forced jauntiness: Frances, have you heard? We’ve somehow been nominated for a Well Done London Award. Do you fancy putting on a frock and joining your old friends? Moaning and crap food guaranteed. There was a postscript after his name: If anyone deserves to be there, it’s you.
The sheer presumption of it. Was she supposed to sit and watch while the people who’d rejected her celebrated their success? Frances’s pride battled with her desire to be among them again, to be part of their miserable, wonderful circle. Her phone clattered to the table and Sheena stopped, mid-sentence, to stare at her.
Frances dragged herself back to Les, the monster. “You would visit him? And you kept up contact through phone calls? He became threatening over the phone?”
Sheena’s fingers strayed to the little gold cross at her throat. “He became horrible, really. Told me his mate Terry was keeping an eye on me, saw me down the pub acting like a slag. Which I was not.” She drew a long breath. “Then it got worse. Les said he knew I was shagging some bloke I work with at Argos. Which I was not. But he called me one day, said horrible things. That he’d do to me and my kids when he got out.” A tiny rivulet of blue eyeliner began migrating down her cheek. “I had no idea he was such a bastard, or I would never have taken up with him in the first place.”
“You’re worried about what will happen when he gets out?” God, it’s boiling in here , Frances thought, and shrugged off her cardigan. Does heat increase the urge to urinate? She needed the bathroom quite badly now.
“When he gets out? Oh, no —”
A sound at the front door made Sheena turn, and a tall dark shape moved through the hallway followed by a small squat one.
“Oi, you,” Sheena bellowed. “Come in here and say hello to our guest.”
From the explosive sigh and the sound of dragging feet, Frances knew it would be a teenager even before she saw him framed in the kitchen door. The boy from the playground. His fleshy dog squatted, pink-eyed and panting, at his feet.
“Hello, guest,” he said.
“This here’s Michael, my oldest.” Sheena grabbed the sleeve of the boy’s parka. “Who is still not too old to turn over my knee if he doesn’t start going to school.” The boy grunted and began to leave, but Sheena held him firm. “And this is Frances, from that magazine I told you about. In London. She’s going to write a story about Les and what a monster he is.”
“Well, maybe,” Frances muttered. “It’s not really up to me —”
“And how he threatened us with violence. How we’re terrified.”
Michael burst out laughing, the dog echoing with a series of sharp barks. “You are fucking joking me. I’m not scared of that twat.” He turned his pale, narrow face to Frances. “Did she tell you what he was in for?”
“She doesn’t need to know that,” his mother said quickly.
“This fucking monster that’s giving her nightmares?” Michael moved into the tiny kitchen, and the dog followed. Damn , thought Frances, now I’m going to have to squeeze past him to get to the toilet.
“It’s not important, Michael —”
“You think maybe he’s banged up for rape? For doing someone with a knife?”
Sheena smiled apologetically at Frances and tugged harder at
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