he’d been led there by Will’s two-hour listening session – of singing his Gothic tale of a girl lost in the Arkansas forest in his Stevenage accent. Immediately, the track had a new resonance. Carrie was no longer an imaginary redneck girl, but a girl from sixth-form college in Stevenage, who’d run into the forest to escape Internet bullies and was never seen again.
‘Carrie’ was starting to sound interesting.
Will stood up stiffly, found the spare clothes and toothbrush he kept for late sessions and went to the shower room, yawning.
Smart Yak was unusually quiet. He checked out the window. The weather was even worse than yesterday. Two people below pushed a snow-covered car back into a parking space, as the driver spun the wheels uselessly.
The reception area downstairs was deserted. It was only when he returned from the shower that Will heard a sound. Coming up the stairs was the top of a Cossack hat.
‘Morning,’ he called.
Clare glanced up. ‘Oh, hi. You stayed then?’ She reached the top. ‘Listen, I wasn’t sure if Matt would make it in.’ She held out a polystyrene cup and a brown packet. ‘I got this for you, in case. It’s all they had.’
Will opened the packet. Inside was a croissant. ‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. Though I don’t know how fresh it is . . .’
‘No, it’s good.’ Will tried to think of something to say to be polite and realized he didn’t know much about her. ‘So did your son make it back from Surrey?’
Clare was removing her hat. Ice fell onto her hair. He was right; it definitely looked blonder than it used to. He’d also assumed she was his age, mid-thirties, but close-up now, he suspected she was younger.
‘Sussex, no. God, Will, have you not seen the news?’
‘What?’
‘The airports are shut, and the motorways. They’re saying maybe Friday for the trains to start again.’
For reasons Will didn’t want to think about too deeply, he felt relief.
‘So, no, Jamie’s still in Brighton.’ Clare’s nose was pink. She wiped it with a tissue. ‘I can’t remember: do you have kids?’
That question.
‘No.’
Before Clare could enquire further, he turned the handle of his studio door. ‘Right, thanks very much, missus. I owe you.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she smiled.
He’d never seen Clare smile before. She had a nice smile. Sunny. It reminded him of the nurse who’d looked after him when he’d had his tonsils out as a kid, around the time the old man left home. The nurse had brought him water for his throat in the night, and had smiled as she tucked him back in. His memory was that it lit up the dark.
Clare walked to the end of the corridor and opened her studio door. There was an explosion of colour as the silk rolls and glass that she used for her floor lights burst into view.
With her back to him, she pulled off her winter coat, revealing a fitted denim dress that sat tight into her waist. Too late, Will caught himself imagining his hands there. He opened his own door and slammed it behind him. What the hell was that? He’d never thought about Clare in that way.
Wondering what was up with him, he counted back. It must be three months since he and Hannah had had sex. That was probably it. And even then, that last time had been crap, with her lying there, tense, looking like a martyr; and him hating it, but not wanting to stop because, God, it had been so fucking long.
He sat down and picked up his phone. One new message from Hannah.
He knew he should ring back to check she was all right in the snow, but something stopped him. Hannah had survived in worse places.
He sipped his coffee.
No, the break was doing him good. After last night he was starting to realize how much Hannah’s obsession with Barbara and moving house had been distracting him from work.
She could get on with her manic decorating.
It was her idea, anyway, not his.
He’d ring later.
CHAPTER NINE
Hannah spent the first part of Tuesday
‘Carrie’ was starting to sound interesting.
Will stood up stiffly, found the spare clothes and toothbrush he kept for late sessions and went to the shower room, yawning.
Smart Yak was unusually quiet. He checked out the window. The weather was even worse than yesterday. Two people below pushed a snow-covered car back into a parking space, as the driver spun the wheels uselessly.
The reception area downstairs was deserted. It was only when he returned from the shower that Will heard a sound. Coming up the stairs was the top of a Cossack hat.
‘Morning,’ he called.
Clare glanced up. ‘Oh, hi. You stayed then?’ She reached the top. ‘Listen, I wasn’t sure if Matt would make it in.’ She held out a polystyrene cup and a brown packet. ‘I got this for you, in case. It’s all they had.’
Will opened the packet. Inside was a croissant. ‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. Though I don’t know how fresh it is . . .’
‘No, it’s good.’ Will tried to think of something to say to be polite and realized he didn’t know much about her. ‘So did your son make it back from Surrey?’
Clare was removing her hat. Ice fell onto her hair. He was right; it definitely looked blonder than it used to. He’d also assumed she was his age, mid-thirties, but close-up now, he suspected she was younger.
‘Sussex, no. God, Will, have you not seen the news?’
‘What?’
‘The airports are shut, and the motorways. They’re saying maybe Friday for the trains to start again.’
For reasons Will didn’t want to think about too deeply, he felt relief.
‘So, no, Jamie’s still in Brighton.’ Clare’s nose was pink. She wiped it with a tissue. ‘I can’t remember: do you have kids?’
That question.
‘No.’
Before Clare could enquire further, he turned the handle of his studio door. ‘Right, thanks very much, missus. I owe you.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she smiled.
He’d never seen Clare smile before. She had a nice smile. Sunny. It reminded him of the nurse who’d looked after him when he’d had his tonsils out as a kid, around the time the old man left home. The nurse had brought him water for his throat in the night, and had smiled as she tucked him back in. His memory was that it lit up the dark.
Clare walked to the end of the corridor and opened her studio door. There was an explosion of colour as the silk rolls and glass that she used for her floor lights burst into view.
With her back to him, she pulled off her winter coat, revealing a fitted denim dress that sat tight into her waist. Too late, Will caught himself imagining his hands there. He opened his own door and slammed it behind him. What the hell was that? He’d never thought about Clare in that way.
Wondering what was up with him, he counted back. It must be three months since he and Hannah had had sex. That was probably it. And even then, that last time had been crap, with her lying there, tense, looking like a martyr; and him hating it, but not wanting to stop because, God, it had been so fucking long.
He sat down and picked up his phone. One new message from Hannah.
He knew he should ring back to check she was all right in the snow, but something stopped him. Hannah had survived in worse places.
He sipped his coffee.
No, the break was doing him good. After last night he was starting to realize how much Hannah’s obsession with Barbara and moving house had been distracting him from work.
She could get on with her manic decorating.
It was her idea, anyway, not his.
He’d ring later.
CHAPTER NINE
Hannah spent the first part of Tuesday
Similar Books
