She woke at 11.26 a.m. to find her alarm clock had finished wailing four hours ago, and there were three missed calls on her mobile phone.
She fell back asleep for another ten minutes, then woke with a jolt that sent every capillary in her body into overdrive.
11.39 a.m.
And her shift had begun at eight.
Sharon fell out of bed, her bright blue hair sticking upright, yesterday’s clothes hot against her skin. She crawled across the floor, grabbed her phone and recognised with horror Mike Pentlace’s number, then Gina’s number, then Pentlace’s again. The house was empty, Trish and Ayesha having both gone out. As she staggered towards the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain with its images of yellow ducks, her mobile played back its dirge of messages.
“Hi, Sharon, it’s Mike. Yeah, but I know we talked yesterday, but you’re late again and, yeah, but I want to be nice about this but actually, yeah, this is getting unacceptable. Call me, okay?”
“Hi, Sharon, it’s Gina here. Just calling to make sure you’re okay. So uh… give me a call, okay, babes?”
“Sharon, it’s Mike. You haven’t called. Call me now.”
Toothpaste foaming in her mouth, Sharon’s gaze cleared enough for her to look blearily up at the mirror. The toothbrush stopped moving.
A stranger looked back at her. Sure, the eyes were brown and the skin was almond, the hair was black streaked with blue, but the backcombed look of dull-eyed exhaustion that stared out from the dirty glass belonged to some other woman, some older, possibly mushroom-munching woman who had seen such things as no words could recreate. The events of the night replayed slowly through her mind. Sammy the Elbow, the walk through Covent Garden, the empty shop with its too-quiet corners, EVERYTHING MUST GO, learning the names of the walks–the shadow walk, the spirit walk, the dream walk and of course somewhere just on the edge of recollection a merry male voice proclaiming, “I am your spirit guide for tonight!”
She half closed her eyes, toothpaste rolling down her chin, and tried to steady her racing heart. She was tired, she was beat, her feet ached, her legs ached, her neck ached, her brain ached. She put down her toothbrush in the jar and spat out the toothpaste. Slowly, methodically, she washed her hands and her face, and dabbed off with a towel. Then she picked up her mobile phone and, for the first time in her life, pulled a sicky.
“Hi, Mike,” she intoned when he didn’t pick up. “Sorry I didn’t call but this major family crisis came up and I’ve gotta take today off. Sorry. Bye.”
The lie, thin as winter sunlight through dusty air, settled over her with a strange unexpected ease.
Then she called Gina.
“Hey, Gina, it’s me. I’m just letting you know I’m okay. Something’s come up and I’m really sorry I can’t be there today. I’ll try not to do it again; call me if you want to and I’ll try to make it up soon.”
Then she switched her phone to silent, swept her hair back from her face and began to run herself a very hot, very slow bubble bath.