Kitabı oku: «Am I Guilty?», sayfa 4
9
ANNABELLE
The sound of pounding feet on the stairs, accompanied by shrieks and giggles, made me look up from my laptop and smile. I usually tried not to work on the rare Saturdays when I didn’t have any events to worry about, but I was just finishing a quote for a short-notice Valentine’s Day party at the home of a young footballer and his wife in Winchcombe. Dan Foster plays for league two Cheltenham Town – or The Robins, as they are known, due to their red strip – but his wife, Lara, clearly has her eyes fixed on a premier league lifestyle. It was the third event she’d asked me to organize for her in as many months, and with less than four weeks to go, I needed to get started on planning the evening as soon as possible.
‘You two OK?’
I smiled again as Millie skidded into the kitchen, Nell Ashfield close behind her.
‘Fine. Nearly finished. We just need a drink. Can we have some apple juice?’
Millie was already heading to the fridge.
‘Of course. I made some of those crumbly cookies you like too, look, in that tin on the side, if you want a couple? Take a plate though, Millie. I don’t want crumbs everywhere.’
‘Thanks, Mum!’
Nell smiled shyly at me and followed Millie across the room. Rupert, who always had her at weekends now, had dropped her off just after lunch, Millie and Nell needing a couple of hours together to finish a school photography project. Between them they had managed to take some rather lovely photos for the ‘winter scenes’ themed assignment, and today were arranging all their pictures on a large display board, ready to take to school on Monday.
I watched as the two girls poured juice and selected biscuits, chatting happily, Nell’s dark curls in stark contrast to Millie’s golden blonde bob. It was nice to see Nell smiling, especially as Millie had told me she’d been horribly upset earlier in the week, after another episode of verbal abuse at the school gates.
‘It was awful, Mum,’ Millie had said, her dark blue eyes narrowing. ‘Mrs Ashfield just shouldn’t pick Nell up from school, especially when she’s doing that weird thing with the pram. It’s not fair. It’s so embarrassing for her.’
I’d nodded, agreeing with her. I knew Thea didn’t often do the school run now, not unless she had to, but Millie was right. Nell was a sweet little thing, but she clearly wasn’t the same child now as she had been before her baby brother died. I’d watch her sometimes, when she was here with Millie, and it chilled me to think about what she had been through, and how it was affecting her. She was quieter now, less raucous than she had been before, although I wasn’t sure Millie had noticed. Nell still put on a good act, still played the part of the fun best friend, but I could see it. I’d seen it last weekend when the two of them were sprawled on the sofa watching a DVD, a cartoon baby cooing on the TV screen, and I’d felt an ache in my throat as I saw a shadow suddenly cross Nell’s face, pain flashing in her eyes, as if a memory had just surfaced. I wanted to wrap her in my arms, tell her everything would be OK, but I never did, knowing instinctively that what this damaged child needed was what I tried to make sure she got here – normality, ordinary, dull, family time, with no mention of her mother or her brother whatsoever.
I wondered, sometimes, if they still talked about what had happened – Millie and Nell, I mean. Because Millie had been there that day too. She hadn’t seen much, though – Greg, who’d been there too, had whisked her away as soon as it had happened, although that hadn’t stopped Millie crying for days afterwards. It had been her first experience of death, and it had hit her hard. She hadn’t even wanted to see Nell for weeks, told me she couldn’t face her, but I made her eventually. Her friend needed her, I insisted. It’s not about you, Millie. Harsh maybe, but then life can be, can’t it? And she was glad, when I finally insisted and made her invite Nell round. They locked themselves in Millie’s room, and came out an hour later all smiles, back to normal. Well, as normal as anyone could be, after that …
‘Where are Olly and Sienna, Mum?’
Millie turned to look at me, and I blinked at her, slightly startled, then tapped save on my keyboard, not wanting to lose the email I’d started to compose.
‘Ermm … Daddy’s taken them into town – Olly needed new school shoes and Sienna went along for the ride,’ I said. ‘They should be back soon though. Why?’
‘No reason,’ she said breezily. ‘It’s just nice and quiet without them. Nell and I have actually had peace to do our project …’
‘FLORA!’ There was a sudden yelp from Nell as the door opened and Flora wandered in, wearing orange patterned leggings and bright coral trainers, a black fleece zipped high under her chin and her nose pink with cold. Nell barrelled across the kitchen and flung her arms around Flora’s waist.
‘Hey, Nellie-bells! Didn’t know you’d be here today. I was out running, I’m freezing, feel!’
Flora flattened her palms against Nell’s cheeks and the child squawked.
‘Urrrgh, get off!’
Flora laughed, and Nell laughed with her. She stepped back, brushing an errant curl from her forehead, and looked Flora up and down.
‘I like your leggings. And your trainers,’ she announced.
‘Well, thank you very much. Ooh, I’ve missed your little face.’
Flora reached out both hands as if to squeeze Nell’s cheeks, and the little girl ducked.
‘Get off!’ she said again, but her eyes were shining. They definitely had a special bond, Flora and Nell, and it made me happy to see it, to know that Nell had Flora here in my home as well as Millie. Millie and Flora got on well too – once or twice when Millie had seemed a little down, I’d seen Flora take her to one side, for a stroll around the garden or a chat upstairs, and soon Millie would be smiling and bouncing around again. I felt a little guilty sometimes – it wasn’t Flora’s job, after all, was it, to counsel my children – but when I was so busy, and she was so good at it …
‘We’re back!’
I started slightly again as the front door slammed and Greg’s voice drifted down the hallway.
‘In here!’ I replied and shut my laptop with a sigh. I clearly wasn’t going to get this finished now, and I needed to start thinking about dinner. There were some nice steaks in the freezer – maybe those with some baked potatoes? Or possibly a moussaka?
‘Mummy! Daddy bought me a new colouring book!’
Greg appeared in the doorway, rubbing his hands together, and Sienna pushed her way past him and leapt onto my knee, waving a brown paper bag, her pink woolly hat askew on her head.
‘Lovely, darling. Did you get Olly’s shoes, Greg?’
I pulled my daughter’s hat off, smoothing her hair down, and looked at my husband, who was glancing round the room. His eyes rested on Flora for a moment, then he spotted Nell and winked, and she grinned back at him. He was dressed in a tight blue sweater under a navy quilted gilet, and he looked fit and toned.
Greg is a few years older than me, in his early forties, but he still has a full head of hair, flecked with silver now at the temples and swept back off his smooth forehead. He has a strong jawline, with a hint of stubble, his weekend look.
He looked good, healthy, handsome, and I smiled.
Greg is the only man I’ve ever loved – the only man I’ve ever slept with too, something I’m not sure if I should be proud of or slightly embarrassed by. We met at university, and I knew I certainly wasn’t the only woman he’d slept with. It hadn’t bothered me back then, his obvious popularity, the envious looks from other girls when they’d see us out together, arm in arm. I’d enjoyed it, if I was honest – enjoyed the fact that he’d picked me, over everyone else, when he could have had anyone. But as the years had passed it had begun to worry me more. It made my anxiety go into overdrive sometimes, having a husband who looked like this, who was attractive and clever and nice and successful, crazy as that sounded.
I worried, frequently, about the women who might want to steal him from me, and I wondered sometimes if my fears were justified. There’d never been anything concrete – a hint of perfume, maybe, on a sweater, a musky scent wafting from the laundry basket as I crouched in front of the washing machine, stuffing the clothes in, trying to pretend I couldn’t smell anything. Or the occasional boys’ night out which ended in the early hours of the morning, Greg stumbling in through the front door, crashing out on the sofa downstairs instead of coming to bed, a vagueness the next morning about where he’d been until so late when all the bars closed at eleven.
I never pushed it, though, never asked. Greg worked hard, very hard, and he needed a release sometimes, just as we all did. He was moody sometimes, distracted, distant, but that was just how he was.
Recently though, things had been good. Great, in fact. And it was another good day. Today he’s here with me and the children and life is good and there’s nothing to worry about. I chanted the phrase in my head like a mantra, suppressing a tiny tremor of anxiety, and smiled at my husband again. Me and my bloody insecurities.
‘Got them, yes. And he’s actually happy with them, amazingly.’
‘They’re cool, Mum! I put them upstairs, I’ll show you later. Is there anything to eat? Oh, hi, Flora.’
Oliver appeared, stomping across the room, heading for the biscuit tin, the laces of his high-top trainers trailing, jeans so baggy half of his bright purple underpants were on full view. Flora glanced at me and grinned, knowing what I was thinking. I’d moaned to her more than once about my son’s scruffy dress sense.
‘Hi Olly,’ she replied. ‘You’re seriously going to trip over one of these days you know. Ever think of actually tying your laces?’
He looked down at his feet with a puzzled expression, then back at Flora.
‘I forgot. Sorry.’ He crouched down, fumbling at the laces, tying them, and I looked at my assistant in amazement.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Now that’s a first. Look, Greg. Or even better, take a photo, go on. Our son, Olly, tying his shoelaces, live right now in our kitchen. It’s a miracle.’
‘It is. Good grief. Are you feeling OK, son?’ Greg’s voice was full of mock concern.
‘Oh shut up, parents.’ Oliver straightened up again, cheeks a little pink, and everyone laughed. Flora beamed and poked him teasingly on the shoulder, and he shrugged her off, his face growing even redder. Sienna wriggled on my knee then buried her face in my chest, joining in with the laughter even though she clearly didn’t understand what was so funny.
‘And you shut up too, brat.’
Oliver had directed the comment at Sienna, but she ignored him, as usual. My son and Millie had always rubbed along all right – well, as all right as a brother and sister three years apart in age generally could be expected to – but it was a different story with him and Sienna. It wasn’t even just that he had little interest in her: he seemed to actively dislike her, and it bothered me, my concern about it only slightly lessened by the fact that she in return cheerfully disregarded his presence, his verbal hostility towards her mostly going unnoticed.
‘Oliver, don’t talk to your sister like that,’ I said wearily. ‘Go on, help yourself to some biccies, if Millie and Nell haven’t scoffed them all. And stick the kettle on, will you? I’m sure Daddy and Flora would like a coffee.’
‘Oh, thanks, Annabelle, but I’m OK. I’m going for a shower. I’ll grab one later.’
Flora smiled at me, waved a hand vaguely at everyone else in the room and left. Millie waited until she’d gone then bounded over to Oliver, a cheeky grin on her face.
‘You like Flora! You like Flora!’ she chanted.
‘Shut up, Millie. I do not. You’re an idiot.’ Hands full of biscuits, he pushed roughly past her and she giggled, Nell grinning broadly by her side.
‘Geez. What is it with you kids?’
Greg rolled his eyes.
‘Leave him alone, Millie. Go on, thought you and Nell had schoolwork to do? Get out of here.’
He clapped his hands then gestured towards the door with his thumb and, clutching their drinks and balancing biscuit plates, the two girls followed Oliver to the door, still sniggering. I raised an eyebrow at Greg, shifting Sienna into a more comfortable position on my knee, and he winked, then left the room too, taking his gilet off as he went.
I sat for a moment, arms wrapped around Sienna, thinking. Olly probably did have a bit of a crush on Flora, but that was pretty normal, at his age, and she seemed to take it in her stride, if she’d even noticed. We’d been so busy recently there was every chance she hadn’t though, and I suddenly decided I needed to do something to thank her for all her hard work. I’d take her out for dinner, one night this week, somewhere nice in town. Our midweek schedule wasn’t looking too bad, so a night out would be nice, and Greg would be happy to stay in with the children.
I might finally ask her, too, I thought. I might ask her if she minded telling me about what happened at Thea’s – what happened the day Zander died. I knew a bit, of course, the basics. Millie and Greg had been there, after all, and then there had been all the stuff in the papers. But to hear about it from somebody who was there all the time, living with Rupert and Thea when it happened … oh gosh, was that really horrible of me? Why did I want to know so much? Why did I have such a morbid fascination with Thea, think about her so often? OK, so I’d think carefully about it first, that’s what I’d do. I’d only ask Flora if it felt right, if I could find the right moment …
‘Mummy? I want to colour a picture. Where are my pens?’
Sienna was sitting up straight again, face upturned to mine. I kissed her forehead and gently lifted her off my knee and onto the floor.
‘They’re in the living room, darling. You go and get them and start, and I’ll be in in a few minutes. Daddy will help if you can’t find them, OK?’
‘OK.’ She scampered off, and with a sigh I stood up and started thinking about dinner.
10
FLORA
The closing titles of Made in Chelsea rolled and I yawned and picked up my phone to check the time. Just after nine o’clock. I could definitely fit in another couple of episodes before bed, I decided. The show was my guilty pleasure – the antics of rich kids in the wealthy west London borough made me laugh, but it was also aspirational. I wanted that sort of life one day – the carefree existence that money seemed to bring, the endless travel, the designer clothing, the casual sipping of champagne in exclusive clubs.
I picked up the glass of sparkling water from the table in front of me and took a sip of that, instead, for now, wondering how long it would take before I could work my way up into the sort of income bracket that would allow me to afford the Chelsea lifestyle. Or even the Cotswold lifestyle, come to think of it. Houses like the one I was currently sitting in didn’t come cheap. Six bedrooms, acres of gardens … I’d checked online on one of those property search websites, just out of interest, shortly after I’d moved in with the Garringtons, and guessed that this place was worth at least a million and a half. Maybe more.
Still, Annabelle and Greg deserved it. They were both locals, from modest backgrounds as far as I could gather, and they’d worked hard – she with her business, him advertising director for a major London agency, running their Gloucestershire branch – and I had no problem with doing the same. I’d get to where they were, one day, and in the meantime Annabelle paid me well, and this room was all I needed, for now at least.
It was at its nicest tonight, curtains snugly drawn against the January cold, a couple of fragrant candles – lime and vanilla, my favourites – flickering on the little side table, and me cuddled up on the sofa with a faux fur throw across my legs and trashy telly to watch, my belly full from the luscious moussaka Annabelle had insisted I share with the family downstairs earlier, the taste of the cinnamon-spiced lamb, aubergine and creamy white sauce still lingering on my tongue.
Yes, I was twenty-five years old and probably should have been out partying somewhere, on the pull like most young single women, but I was content to be right here tonight, safe and cosy in my room, tired after another busy week. I didn’t have many friends, not around here – I’d always found it hard to relate to people of my own age, and the sort of stuff they liked to do, which seemed to revolve around shopping, taking selfies and partying. I wasn’t much of a drinker anyway, and the kind of men you met in pubs and clubs did nothing for me – young, immature, boozed up, slobbery, wanting only one thing and doing it badly when they got it.
I’d always preferred older men myself, and for a moment I let my mind drift back to earlier in the kitchen, to the look Greg had given me when he’d arrived back from shopping with the kids. It had only been a glance, a quick up and down, but a little shiver had gone through me. He is nearly twenty years older than me, but he is … well, hot, quite frankly. And there was something, sometimes, when we were in the same room … was frisson the word? An exchange of looks, eyes meeting for just a fraction too long. It made my stomach flip, my hands shake a little, my mouth go dry. I blew out hard through my mouth, dispelling the thoughts. I was definitely not going to go near Greg, not in that way. No, I wasn’t even going to think about it. I’d made that mistake before, elsewhere, and I wasn’t going to do it again.
Maybe he had some friends though? Someone he could introduce me to? I leaned back on my cushions, pulling my throw up to my chest, running my fingers across the soft fibres, and idly wondered if I could ask Annabelle if she knew of any attractive, single older men when she took me out for dinner this week. It had been nice of her to offer, and I’d been happy to accept, but I already knew the meal would come at a price. I’d noticed it for a while, every time Nell was around or Thea’s name cropped up – the way Annabelle almost seemed to be holding herself back, clamping her lips together, desperate to ask me for the full story but not quite able to bring herself to form the words. She’d do it on Wednesday, though, I knew she would, and I’d resigned myself to it. It would do no harm to talk about it, not now. And there were too many secrets in life, too many things not talked about. So I would tell her, I decided, on Wednesday, if she asked me. When she asked me. I’d tell her what she wanted to know, finally. I’d tell her what happened to Zander.
11
ANNABELLE
‘Marvellous, my dear. Simply marvellous. Do you have a card? I may need you one day myself. I’d love to throw a little party, but never have the time to organize them.’
‘Of course. And it was lovely to meet you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.’
I reached into the back pocket of my jeans where I always kept a few business cards when I was working, pulled one out and handed it to the small woman in front of me with the elaborate hairstyle and the rather freakishly smooth face. She must have been at least sixty, judging by the appearance of her hands and neck, but from the chin upwards her skin was tight and shiny, the lips smeared with bright red gloss plump and pouting.
‘Not a good advert for this place,’ Flora had hissed at me as we’d passed in the crowd earlier, and I’d suppressed a giggle, raising my eyebrows at her in agreement. I was, it seemed, one of the few women in the room who was over thirty-five and still had the ability to raise an eyebrow. It was Thursday afternoon, and we were just finishing a relocation party for what the owner Sylvia described as a ‘cosmetic enhancement clinic’ in the centre of Cheltenham. With business on the up, she’d left her small premises on the outskirts of town and taken over two floors of a stately Georgian building on Regent Street. The reopening event was taking place in the reception area, a grand room with enormous windows, beautifully polished floorboards and white leather sofas, framed ‘before and after’ shots of people – mostly women, I noted – who’d been treated with Botox, fillers and various other injectables and procedures dotted around the walls. The changes were impressive, and when Flora and I were setting up, laying out rows of champagne glasses and trays of dim sum, I’d found myself squinting into one of the large, gilt-framed mirrors that also decorated the space.
‘What do you think, Flora? Bit of filler here? Botox here?’
I poked at the fine lines across my forehead and the little creases – did they call them marionette lines? – that ran downwards from the corners of my mouth, frowning. I was thirty-eight. Nearly forty. Was it time to start a little – well, maintenance? It was OK for men … Greg looked better and better as he aged, but …
‘Oh shut up, Annabelle! You’re drop-dead gorgeous! Don’t even think about putting that stuff in your face, you don’t need it!’
The horror on Flora’s face made me snort with laughter. I turned away from the mirror and grabbed her free hand – the other was balancing a wine bucket – and squeezed it.
‘Oh Flora, you do make me feel better about myself. Thank you.’
She reddened slightly, pulling her hand free, but she looked pleased.
‘Only speaking the truth, boss. Now stop looking at yourself and come and help me with the ice; we have six buckets to fill yet.’
She headed towards the little kitchen area off the main reception and I followed, smiling. I loved it that she clearly now felt comfortable enough to speak to me like that – at first, she’d been quieter, more deferential, but I could see her confidence growing daily and I was enjoying the gentle banter that went on between us when we were working.
‘OK, OK, slave driver,’ I groaned, and she laughed. I thought how good it was to see her happy today – I’d been worried, after last night, she would be low, but she’d bounced downstairs this morning with a cheery greeting and a wide grin.
We’d spent the evening before together in a restaurant – as planned, I’d left Greg with the kids, and Flora and I had gone for dinner in Cirencester, taking a taxi so we could both have a couple of glasses of wine. It was a little Italian place I liked, family-run, producing delicious meat and fish dishes along with perfect pizza and pasta from a tiny kitchen out back.
At a little corner table near the open fire we’d sipped Pinot Grigio and chatted about work for a while, giggling about an incident the day before when an extremely grumpy man had managed to get stuck in a toilet cubicle at the opening of a new fashion boutique in Chipping Norton.
But once our starters – bruschetta and a fresh insalata tricolore – had been devoured, and the mains of penne arrabbiata for Flora and some salmone con spinaci for me had arrived, I took a deep breath.
‘Flora … look, I haven’t asked you about this, not really … I didn’t want to upset you, not when it was all so fresh. But now … well, it’s been a few months, so I wondered … do you feel able to talk about it? That day at Thea’s, when … when the baby died?’
Flora, who had just speared a piece of penne with her fork, moved it slowly to her mouth, chewed and swallowed, then put the fork back on her plate.
‘I … I suppose so. Yes. What do you want to know?’
‘I’d just like to know how … well, how it actually happened, I suppose. How things unfolded that day. It’s a while to the trial yet, when it will all come out, and it’s just that there’ve been so many rumours, you know? So many different stories flying around, for months. And all the abuse Thea gets … I mean, I know Greg and Millie were there, but they aren’t even sure exactly how it happened – Millie was upstairs playing with Nell, and Greg was out in the garden with Rupert, so they were never able to tell me much, just how horrible and sad and scary it all was. I’d like to know the truth, Flora, so at least then maybe I can put people right if I hear them talking rubbish about it …’
I was looking at her warily, nervous that I’d overstepped the mark, that she’d close up and retreat back into the shell she’d often seemed to be in when she first joined us. But to my relief, she looked back at me, nodding slowly.
‘I get that. That’s nice of you, Annabelle. And no, I don’t mind talking about it, not really.’
And so, she told me. In a low voice, conscious of the other diners, even though the restaurant was half empty and there was really nobody within earshot, she told me the whole, horrible story. Told me how, that day, the fourth of September last year, the weather had been hot, really hot, one of the hottest days of the summer, and unusually hot for the time of year. I remembered it – the fourth had been a Monday, and I’d been rushing around town in the heat, buying pencil cases and lunch boxes, white ankle socks and navy PE shorts, sweating over the last-minute back-to-school buys before term started for Millie and Oliver on the Wednesday.
Thea had been out for lunch in Charlton Kings with Isla Laird, and they’d taken Nell and Zander with them, Flora said – an end of summer holidays treat for Nell, who liked doing grown-up things, a lovely long lunch in the sunshine outside that restaurant out on the London Road, the one with the big garden out back, a nice place to sit in the sun, and enjoy good food and an excellent wine list.
They’d sat there for a couple of hours, Isla and Thea knocking back champagne, celebrating some big interview Isla had landed for her chat show.
‘Thea wasn’t a big drinker normally, unless Isla was around … well, not back then anyway. She drank a lot more afterwards, to forget, I suppose,’ Flora said. ‘But Isla … well, I like her, you know? I’m not saying I don’t. But she … well, she wasn’t a great influence on Thea sometimes, not when they were out together. Isla loves to drink, and she can really put it away, and Thea sometimes just got carried away with it. And well, it’s nice, isn’t it, sitting in the sun, drinking champagne … I suppose you can understand why she might have had a bit too much?’
I nodded, reaching for my glass of wine and taking a sip, but secretly thinking: No. No, not really, Flora. And I don’t think you think it’s understandable either, you’re just being diplomatic. Because it’s not OK, is it? Not when you have a young daughter and a baby son with you. Getting drunk in the sunshine, when your kids are there? I can’t understand that at all.
She ate another piece of pasta then continued, telling me how Thea, Isla and the children arrived home around three o’clock, Thea driving, despite having been drinking heavily.
‘I didn’t know that, of course, at the time – that she’d driven, or even that she’d been drinking so much. I only realized that later, when Isla told me, after … after … Anyway, I didn’t actually see them come in – I was upstairs, in my room where it was a bit cooler, because I’d kept the curtains drawn. I was sending some emails and sorting some deliveries that had arrived that morning, and I wanted to get it finished so I could go out for a run a bit later on, when the temperature had dropped. But I heard them get back – Isla and Nell came in first. They were both shrieking and giggling, yelling that they were desperate for the loo and racing each other. It made me laugh … Isla isn’t that fond of kids, she sort of tolerated Nell as opposed to really getting on with her, you know? Didn’t normally pay her much attention. But they seemed to be having fun that day.’
Flora stopped talking, a little sigh escaping her lips. She gazed down at her plate for a moment, then lifted a corner of the white linen napkin that lay on her lap, twisting it around her fingers. Then she took a deep breath and carried on.
‘I heard the door slam a minute or so later and assumed that was Thea, bringing Zander in. I didn’t come downstairs for about another half an hour, and by then Thea and Isla were crashed out in the sitting room. They’d opened a bottle of wine, and it looked like they’d already downed most of it. Isla was nodding off, just barely awake, and Thea was already sound asleep, all sprawled out on the sofa. I popped my head in, but Isla just opened her eyes for a minute and hissed at me to sssssh. So I took Nell out of the room and told her to go and play quietly upstairs, leave them to it. It didn’t seem right, her sitting there with two drunk women.’
Flora stopped speaking again, her fingers plucking at the napkin. My insides had begun churning as I listened, my appetite for the delicious meal in front of me rapidly waning. I knew the outcome of this story, but hearing it unfold like this, step by step, was proving to be harder than I had expected. I suddenly wanted her to get to the end, for this to be over, but I stayed silent, not wanting to interrupt as she relived the nightmare.
‘Rupert came home a while later, just before five, and I told him not to disturb them – Isla had totally conked out by then as well, and I thought it might be best to let them sleep it off. The kids seemed fine – Nell was up in her room and … well there was no sound from Zander, so I assumed he was asleep in his pram … I … well, I just did. Isla had gestured towards the pram when she was sssshing me, so I just assumed …’
She swallowed hard, even though there was no food in her mouth, her eyes fixed on her plate, then she dropped the crumpled napkin, her left hand moving to her right wrist, rubbing the small scar she had there as if it had begun to ache.
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