a Room Swept White (2010) by Hannah Sophie

Author:Hannah, Sophie [Sophie, Hannah,]
Format: epub
Publisher: PENGUIN GROUP (CANADA)
Published: 2011-01-14T19:16:37.359000+00:00

‘I’m not going to ask you. You probably don’t want to talk about it.’

I shake my head. I’m sitting on the wiggly purple sofa in the kitchen, concentrating on drinking my cranberry juice, sip by sip. Perhaps by the time I finish it, I won’t feel so horrendously embarrassed. Rachel’s sitting at the table at the far end of the room, trying to keep a tactful distance. As if either of us is likely to forget that she’s just spent the last half hour mopping me up.

‘I didn’t send you a card with numbers on it,’ she says. ‘Or any photographs. Did you ask the police why they thought the sender might attack you? If you’re in danger, you’ve a right to know what’s going on. Why don’t you—?’

‘I don’t need a life coach,’ I mutter ungraciously.

‘And if you did, you wouldn’t recruit me,’ she says, neatly summarising my views on the matter. ‘I can explain why I drove away on Wednesday night, but it might offend you.’

I shrug. I’m already feeling unloveable, humiliated and terrified – offended might as well join the club.

‘I didn’t like your house.’

I look up, to check I’ve heard right. ‘What?’

‘It looks dirty. The paint’s flaking off the window frames . . .’

‘I don’t own it. I rent the basement flat, that’s all.’

‘Is it nice?’

I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. ‘My flat? No, it’s not nice. It’s about – ooh, let’s see – five million times less nice than this house. It’s small and damp and all I can afford.’ I wonder if I ought to qualify this: all I could afford, until recently. Why bother? As soon as Maya hears Rachel Hines’ revised opinion of me, not to mention Laurie’s, I’ll be unemployed and probably homeless. Even mouldy flats in Kilburn cost money.

‘I looked at the outside of your house and I knew I wouldn’t like the inside. I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter, that I’d be okay, but I knew I wouldn’t. I pictured us sitting and talking in a dingy lounge, with posters stuck to the plasterboard walls with drawing pins, and a throw over the sofa to hide the stains, and . . .’ She sighs. ‘I know how awful this sounds, but I want to be honest with you.’

‘I can’t complain, can I? I accused you of being a child-killer.’

‘No, you didn’t. You said you didn’t know. There’s a big difference.’

I look away, wishing I hadn’t let her provoke me into expressing an opinion.

‘Ever since prison, I’ve . . . I can’t stand to be anywhere that isn’t . . .’

‘A stunning mansion?’ I say sarcastically.

‘The wrong physical environment, any kind of ugly surroundings – it makes me feel physically sick,’ she says. ‘It never used to. Prison changed me in lots of ways, but that was the first thing I noticed, the first night I was out. Angus and I had split up. I had no home to go to, so I went to a hotel.’ She takes a deep breath, drawing in her chin.

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