The Other Side of the Door by Nicci French (13 ebook reader .TXT) 📗

summer’s day and I was on holiday. I knew I should make a start on my flat, which even on a day like today felt dark, almost subterranean, but not right now. Instead I called Sally and asked her if she fancied a picnic.

‘That would be completely and utterly fantastic,’ she said, with a fervour that took me by surprise. ‘I’m going stir-crazy with Lola.’

Sally was my oldest friend. We had known each other since we were seven, and sometimes I was surprised we had managed to stay in touch over the years. We were almost like sisters. We squabbled and fell out, occasionally took each other for granted and every so often resented each other (me, that she was so settled, and her, that I was so free), but we were inextricably bound together. Lola was her eighteen-month-old daughter: a tiny, plump, fierce child with dimpled knees, hair like sticky candy floss, a voice like an electric drill and a will of iron that often reduced Sally to tears of powerless frustration. I noticed that she had stopped saying she and Richard wanted four children in quick succession.

‘You bring Lola and some bread for the ducks. I’ll buy us a ready-made picnic. We can meet in Regent’s Park.’

We sat on the already-bleached grass and ate cheese rolls while Lola ran around, tripped over, yelled loudly and unconvincingly, her mouth seeming to take up her entire face, followed a squirrel, calling to it to stop and eat her bread, then abruptly crawled onto Sally’s lap and fell asleep, her thumb thrust into her mouth and her four fingers spread over her smeared face. Sally gave a sigh of relief and lay back on the grass as well, Lola across her.

‘I’m exhausted after an hour,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how you manage.’

‘“Manage” is the wrong word,’ she said. ‘“Manage” sounds neat and organized. Look at me—do I look neat and organized?’

‘You look great.’

‘I look tired, I look frazzled, I look fat, I look like my hair needs cutting and my legs need waxing and my nails need painting.’

‘You’ve been reading too many glossy magazines,’ I said. ‘The ones that tell you how to be a size eight three days after giving birth.’

‘You know, one of the books I read before having Lola had a section on what you need to take with you into hospital—things like a rubber ring to sit on in case you have to have stitches, and a spray bottle for your partner to squirt into your face when you’re in labour, though if Richard had done that to me I would have punched him. And one of the essential items was your makeup bag so you could make yourself look fresh and attractive for your husband.’

‘That’s awful.’

‘No—what’s awful is that I did. I took in my makeup and even put on some bloody mascara before I had visitors. Can you imagine? You’ve just brought a whole new life into the world, this miracle, and you have to think about how you look. You wouldn’t do that, though.’

‘Only because I don’t usually wear makeup much anyway.’

‘There you are, then.’

‘Where?’

‘I dunno, really.’ She yawned. I could see down her pink throat. She looked like a cat—a large, tired, slightly shabby cat.

‘We should go away somewhere for a weekend,’ I said.

‘Bliss. But what would I do with Lola?’

‘We’d take her.’

‘No, we would not. If we went away together, I want to drink and I want to sleep. Two things I can’t really do with her around.’

‘Leave her with Richard, then.’

She snorted. ‘As if. Tell me something about the big wide world.’

‘I’m getting a band together.’

‘What?’ She hooted with laughter and Lola shifted on her lap.

‘Hang on, it’s not as if I’ve never played an instrument before.’

‘How come I didn’t know about this?’

‘Well, it’s only been a couple of days. I haven’t seen you.’

‘You should have told me.’

‘I’m telling you now.’

‘Yeah. Sorry. I think I kind of rely on you to give me some vicarious excitement. What kind of band?’

‘A folksy, bluegrassy, this-and-that, amateur and not-very-good kind of band that can play at a friend’s wedding in the middle of September and then not be a band any longer.’

‘Disband the band.’

‘Right.’

‘Maybe you’ll be spotted, be offered a record deal.’

‘Hardly. We’ll get together for rehearsals once or twice a week, play three or four numbers that no one will pay any attention to and that will be the end of that.’

‘Maybe I could join.’ She sounded wistful.

‘Do you play anything?’ I knew she didn’t, of course—we’d been in a recorder class together when we were eleven, but that was about it.

‘I could shake a tambourine.’

‘No tambourines, no triangles, no maracas.’

‘Who’s in it?’

‘Me, Sonia, a pupil—or, rather, an ex-pupil—called Joakim, and this guy who was in our original uni band.’

‘Which one?’

‘His name’s Neal. I’m not sure you actually met him. I didn’t know him that well. Dark hair, quite good-looking, a bit shy.’

‘He sounds nice.’

‘And I was wondering if I should invite Amos.’

‘Amos!’

‘You think I shouldn’t?’

‘Well. I mean, why would you?’

‘I don’t know. He’d be offended if I didn’t.’

‘So what? Amos being offended is no longer your worry, is it?’

‘I guess not. And, anyway, maybe it’s too soon. I know it was mutual, sort of, but we were together for ages.’

Sally shifted her position on the grass and gave a great yawn. ‘Sorry. I am interested. It’s just this time of day.’

‘Amos thinks we should stay good friends, but it isn’t that simple. You can’t just go from being lovers who think they might be together for ever to being on civilized good terms. Or I can’t, at least. I think it’s different for him. Maybe Sonia’s right and that’s because it didn’t mean so much to him, but I think it did. Or maybe I just want to think it did. All that time has to have meant something.’ I paused. ‘Sally?’

A tiny snore bubbled from her lips. She was asleep. I looked at her, lying flung out on the grass,