“So are we ready for a bit of vampire action then?” Liz announces as she bursts into the living room, a DVD under her right armpit, a bottle of Prosecco in each hand and two glasses woven through her fingers. One bottle is already open and the wine sploshes out from the neck and runs down her hand as she throws herself at the sofa. It’s 6:30 p.m.
“You’ve started early.”
“Yeah, I know.” She pulls a face. “Switched shifts and I’m exhausted. Oh, pizza!” She points at the open box on the rug in front of the TV. “Can I have a slice?”
“Sure. Jake’s having his in his room and I’m not hungry.”
“Is he not joining us then?”
“No. I think he’s watching something on his laptop.”
“Kira?” She crams a slice of pizza into her mouth, poking a stray piece of pepperoni between her lips before it falls to the floor.
“Out.” I haven’t told her about what happened earlier.
“Shame. Though she’s probably seen it before.”
“How’s Caleb?”
“Out with his boyfriend.” She smiles as she slips back onto the sofa. “God, I need this.” She hands me the glasses, then tips in the wine so quickly the bubbles surge to the top and spill over down the sides. “Sorry! I’ll get a tea towel.”
“It’s fine, don’t worry.”
It’s been a while since I’ve seen Liz this manic. It can only mean one thing. Lloyd’s been in touch.
“You okay, Liz?”
“Great.” She places her glass on the table next to the sofa, then tries to insert a DVD into the player.
“What’s Lloyd said now?”
“Oh God.” She sighs heavily and rocks back on her heels, holding on to the TV for support. “You don’t need to hear my crap.”
“Yes, I do. What did he want?”
“The mortgage paperwork. And his bank statements and pension stuff. I think he’s going to ask for a divorce. He’s an arsehole. What can I say? Anyway”—she waves a dismissive hand through the air—“I’m not going to let him screw up tonight too. We have wine to drink and a film to watch and I’m not going to give him a second thought. How are you anyway?”
I take a sip of my wine. “Let’s just say I’m looking forward to the film.”
“Great.” She flashes a smile at me. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
For thirty minutes we do nothing apart from sip wine and watch the screen as a young girl falls over a lot and a pasty-looking bloke and his equally pasty family act aloof and mysterious at every opportunity. When we’ve finished the first bottle Liz pauses the DVD so I can go to the kitchen to retrieve the other one from the fridge.
“He’s very lush,” she says as I refill her glass.
“Who?”
“Robert Pattinson.” She gestures toward the screen where the freeze-frame has captured the actor looking wistful and conflicted.
“He’s about twelve!”
“Actually, he was twenty-two when he filmed this.”
“But he’s at school in the film, so he’s supposed to be what, sixteen?”
“Seriously though, Claire.” She pauses the film, then digs in her handbag for her phone. She presses a few buttons and tilts the screen toward me. “Look at this.”
“Is that Tinder? You installed it then!”
“Yep. And I have a point to prove. Now here”—she swipes at the screen—“are some of the local men who are about the same age as me. Shout out if you see one you think is fit.”
She swipes through photo after photo, all of them of middle-aged men. Some are balding, some have a good head of hair, some are fat, some thin, some badly dressed, some in suits, some wearing very little at all. Apart from the half-naked man flexing a bicep in the bathroom mirror and scowling into the camera, I’m surprised at how normal they all look. They’re the sort of men you’d see down the pub, in the supermarket or at work.
“Still waiting for you to shout when you see a fit one,” Liz says.
She continues to flick through an encyclopedia of men.
“That one!” I say.
“Okay.” She peers at the man I’ve selected. He’s sitting on a picnic blanket, a glass of beer in his hand and his head thrown back in laughter. His hair is peppered with gray above his ears but long and thick on top. He’s got a strong jaw, a Roman nose and good skin. More than anything else, he looks as though he’d be a laugh.
“Okay, I’ll give you him.” She swipes to the right and laughs. “Or rather, I’ll have him. Anyway, now I’ll change the age range so it’s eighteen to thirty. Shout if you see someone lush.”
A photo of a toned bloke standing by a swimming pool flashes up and Liz raises an eyebrow at me. “Lush or not?”
“Well, yes, but—”
She swipes to the right. “How about this one?”
“Yes, but—”
“And this one?”
“Okay, okay.” I hold up a hand. “I get it. You think the younger blokes are fitter and maybe they are but you’re forty-three, Liz—what are you going to talk to an eighteen-year-old about?”
She smirks. “Who said anything about talking? Claire, I was with Lloyd for twenty-two years. I think I deserve a bit of fun.”
“You do, but I still think Twilight guy is too young.”
“For you, maybe.” She laughs at the expression on my face and reaches for the remote. “Right. On with the film.”
Liz weaves her way across the street and up the path to her house. She pauses to wave at me as she reaches her front door, then drops her key on the ground and swears loudly. It takes her four attempts to fit it into the lock. I glance at my watch as she closes the door behind her: 9:15 p.m. She fell asleep during the last fifteen minutes of the film, her wine glass still in her hand, her phone flashing on her lap each time she received a new Tinder notification. It took me forever to wake her up. Saying her name had no effect so I gently agitated her shoulder which made her murmur, “Leave me alone, I’m too tired to have sex.” My laughter woke her up.
I put our wine glasses in the dishwasher and the empty bottles in the recycling bin. Despite the amount of wine I’ve drunk I feel strangely clear-headed as I wipe down the kitchen surfaces and tidy up. When I’ve finished I go back into the living room. I haven’t heard from Mark for several hours and I need to check he’s okay.
My mobile’s not where I thought I left it on the side table by the sofa so I get on my hands and knees and look underneath, just in case I knocked it under when I was getting up and down to fetch more wine.
I scramble back onto my feet. There’s nothing under the sofa apart from a thick layer of dust and hair on the carpet and several of Kira’s bobby pins. And it’s not in my pocket either. Under one of the cushions, then?
The floorboards creak above me as Jake walks from his room to the bathroom. My fingernails fill with crumbs as I search down the side of the sofa but there’s still no sign of my phone. That means it’s either down the side of the armchair or it’s in my handbag in the kitchen. I head for the armchair and yank at the cushion.
A phone flips onto the base of the armchair. It’s an iPhone, but it’s not mine. It’s a newer model. I press the circular button at the base of the phone and the screen flashes to life revealing a preview of a new message. Even though the phone is locked I can still read every word of the short text:
I can keep a secret if you can.