She remembered that, at least. She would never remember, because it was buried too deeply, the evenings back then during which someone who should have loved her in better ways had done inappropriate things. She would never recall—except in the shape of the formless but very strong distaste she now held for the work of certain artists from the turn of the previous century—the way in which during these events she had fastened her attention on a reproduction picture on the wall in this man’s house, a pre-Raphaelite painting of a young woman standing alone and drinking out of a glass bowl the color of irises, in front of a window showing sailing ships in the distance; a tall, slim girl with thick dark hair and pale skin, wearing a red velvet dress. The girl had looked thoughtful, and kind, the sort of friend that would not allow what was happening to be happening.
But happen it did.
And so what? What matters in life is what you do, not what’s done to you by someone else.
Catherine frowned, finding herself remembering Thomas Clark, the guy she’d dated before Mark. Though he would never be anything more than part of a superseded past, she found herself wondering how he was and how he dealt with the dreams that had faded around them. He’d had big plans once, too. Maybe she should try to get in touch, say sorry, or hi, or something like that.
She put a pin in the idea.
Eventually she pushed away from the railing and started the walk down to Chelsea. It was time to pick up the girls. She walked slowly at first, then gradually with more enthusiasm, finding that her mood, if not cured, was a little lighter. She thought of her two little girls, happy to have them, and glimpsing for a moment the road that lay in front of these young women—the road of school and college, of living in apartments and having good sex and bad hangovers and working hard and goofing off and meeting a guy (or girl, whatever) and eventually starting to settle, moving in smaller circles like balls rattling around a pinball table, before finally finding the place they were meant to land. Maybe they’d be housewives. Maybe one would be president.
Dreams are dreams and real is real. Somewhere in between is what you get, and that’s good enough.
Catherine picked up her step and strode down into the bustle and noise. If she got a move on she might even have time to pick up a tub of shrimp salad. The fact that Mark liked it wasn’t the point, and never had been.
The point was this was her life.
Also by Michael Marshall
Bad Things
The Intruders
Blood of Angels
The Upright Man
The Straw Men
Killer Move
Copyright
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Orion Books.
This ebook first published in 2013 by Orion Books.
Copyright © Michael Marshall Smith 2013
The right of Michael Marshall Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 1 4091 3329 2
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