The Child Inside by Suzanne Bugler

but there is not much to see. The room is pretty small, with just these two mismatched sofas, each pitched at an angle to each other, and a rectangular, dark-wood side table between them at one end, so that the three items make a sort of triangle: sofa, table, sofa. And behind the table, with not enough room to get around there and open it, is a lone and heavily curtained glass-panelled door, leading on to the darkness of the garden. There is a tall lamp with a nondescript gold shade in one corner, and against the wall behind my sofa is a bookcase, but I can see nothing of interest on it: no photos, no give-away clues. All in all, it is a pretty characterless space, and I wonder why she chose to bring me here, all the way to the back of the house, rather than into the living room at the front, with the bay overlooking the street. Somehow I think that is the room I would have liked to have seen.
    When she returns from the kitchen I am perched on my seat again, with my hands clutched in my lap. And I have been rehearsing my speech in my head.
    ‘Thank you,’ I say as she puts two glasses of water complete with ice and lemon on the table. And then she carefully sits herself opposite me, and looks at me, and waits.
    ‘I must apologize for just turning up like this,’ I say. ‘You must think me very strange.’ I smile, and she smiles back, but it is a polite smile, giving nothing away. ‘The other day I was in the cafe by the station,’ I say, ‘when you left your card. And I heard them say your name – Mrs Reiber—’ I break off. How am I to continue without giving away the fact that I followed her? She sits so still before me, impassive, waiting for me to go on. ‘Well, I . . . It’s just it’s such an unusual name, and I knew someone called Vanessa Reiber a long time ago, and I thought, I wondered . . .’
    Her face is totally expressionless. Suddenly I am overwhelmed by the terrible fear that I may have got this all wrong. There is a long, awkward silence during which all I can hear is my heart, banging against my ribs. It is so hot in the room and the atmosphere is close and airless. My skin prickles under my dress and I can feel my feet starting to swell inside my boots. Eventually Mrs Reiber turns her head to look in the direction of the glass door, across which the curtains are still partially drawn. There is a faint, thin smile on her mouth, but I feel that this is a fixed expression, worn like a mask, and as I study her I see a quick, fleeting frown cross her eyes.
    ‘Dear me,’ she says. ‘I think we are in for more rain.’ And then she turns back to me and asks, ‘Did you have to come far?’
    ‘No, not too far. I – I live in Surbiton.’
    She smiles, she nods, as though this is of some interest to her, as though we are here to make small talk. And I am thrown by this. I wonder if she is – well, confused. I feel that perhaps I should just give up and leave, and yet . . . and yet, I can’t.
    I swallow back my doubts and say, ‘Please don’t be offended. And well, forgive me if I’m wrong, but I knew Vanessa. Vanessa Reiber. I was a friend, sort of. I was Leanne’s friend, and I came to the house a few times, in Oakley. When Vanessa died I was very . . . sad.’ How pathetic I sound. And if this woman is Vanessa’s mother, what on earth do I expect her to say to that? Suddenly I wonder what it is that I am trying to achieve. ‘I was very fond of Vanessa,’ I say and I pinch my nails into my hands. Fond? What kind of a word is that? ‘When I heard your name I thought – Vanessa’s mother was called Yolande. Yolande Reiber.’
    She listens to my speech with that mask-smile fixed firmly in place. But she says nothing; not that she is Yolande Reiber, not that she isn’t. I don’t know what to do. I feel such helplessness, spiralling inside my head.
    ‘And if you were her mother, I just wanted you to know that I thought Vanessa was special. Very special.’ That lump is swelling up inside