Seven Lies (ARC)
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articles, her recipes, and her videos, too.
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I always wanted to go out for dinner. I wanted it to be just the two
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of us again. But she needed to be in the kitchen, she said; it was how she 18
paid her half of the mortgage. Charles was desperate to have a little
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woman, a little wife, someone he could own. But I knew she didn’t
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want that for herself, and I didn’t want it for her, either.
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From the hallway I would overhear her saying, “And that was ex-
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actly the moment I was hoping that Jane would arrive.”
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I’d close the door behind me, quietly, and pause to listen.
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“Because I could dart off for just a second and I knew nothing would
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overflow or burn and that I wouldn’t come back to scorched pans and
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stodgy sauces.”
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I would hear her tinkering in the kitchen for a moment or two— a
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spoon circling a pot, or the crackle of oil in a frying pan, or an ensemble 29
piece with drawers and cupboards opening and closing— and then,
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eventually, she would say the line that I was listening for, waiting to
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hear. It was always something like this:
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“But you remember what I always say, don’t you? Jane is basically
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family to me. So I know that she’s out there now hanging up her coat or
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taking off her shoes or whatever and she’s fine to fetch herself a drink
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or open a bottle— mi casa es su casa and all that. If your guests are more 03
demanding, then I would suggest scheduling their arrival for the end of
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the next stage when you can take a proper break and really be the host-
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ess with the mostess.”
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I was alone in the hallway in those moments, yes, but it felt so very
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different. There were lights on, lights everywhere, bulbs hanging over-
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head and side lamps shining in corners. There were scented candles
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running along the radiator covers, the mantelpiece, the coffee table,
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flickering on every surface. I could always hear Marnie, chattering to
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herself, to her audience, to her ever growing following. There was the
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hum of the oven and the French doors would always be open, leading
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onto the balcony, and I would hear the whistle of the wind and the
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purring of cars and drivers sounding their horns on the street below.
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But that night it was lightless, scentless, silent.
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I liked it, the sense that the flat was unencumbered by any other
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presence; it felt unowned and sort of hollow.
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It took me a while to find the watering can (beneath the bathroom
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sink) and the key to the balcony (in the drawer beside the teaspoons). It 20
was nearly dark by the time I made it outside and yet I could see spider-
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webs threaded between the leaves of the plants, stretching from the
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stems to the metal railings, glistening in the evening light. There was
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one visible spider, small and brown, centered in a web. I lifted the spout 24
above it and watched as the wall of water sent everything— it and its
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web, too— tumbling toward the patio.
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By the time I arrived home it was nearly nine o’clock.
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The following morning, I packed a small suitcase with enough cloth-
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ing and toiletries to last until the end of the week. I even brought my
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own bedding. They had asked for a visitor, a guest, someone who would
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show up intermittently, half an hour each day, simply to water their
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plants. Instead, I became a lodger of sorts.
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I didn’t think they’d mind particularly, but I wasn’t going to tell
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them.
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I let myself into their flat that evening and stood again in the dark
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hallway. This would be my home now— just for the week— but my
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home nonetheless. I turned on all the lights— exactly how Marnie liked
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it— and made up their bed with my own sheets and pillowcases. I un-
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packed my food into their fridge, into their cupboards, turned on their
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radio, looked through their bookcases. It was easy to work out which
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titles belonged to Marnie and which to Charles; most of his had dark
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spines, bold gold titles, whereas hers were in pastel tones, pinks and
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yellows primarily, and with intricate handwritten type.
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I returned from work each evening and embedded myself in the
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folds of their cushions, the thin layer of grime crawling up their shower 14
tiles, the lip balm stains tarnishing their glasses.
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There is something very odd and yet rather comfortable about being
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alone in someone else’s home. I recall feeling distinctly aware of their
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presence, even though they were hours away— continents, even— on
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the other side of the world. I felt like I was seeing them— the real ver-19
sion of them as a couple— for the very first time. I found myself rifling 20
through their cabinets, keen to discover their favorite herbs and those
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with the foil lid still stuck in place. I went through their drawers and
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was astonished to discover that Marnie had become the sort of woman
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who bothered with matching underwear. I looked through their medi-
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cine cabinet— an endless array of painkillers and cough drops and
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Band- Aids and a thermometer still in its blister pack— and felt that I
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knew them a little better afterward than I had before.
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Marnie’s bedside table housed an array of knickknacks, nothing sig-
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nificant: packs of tissues, samples from beauty counters, inkless pens,
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old birthday cards, empty pill packets, a pair of old sunglasses, a string 30
bracelet from a trip we’d taken to Greece while at university. I discov-
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ered, in Charles’s, three magazines, two bookmarks, four flash drives,
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some Polaroid photos from a friend’s wedding— one with Marnie in a
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blue silk dress that I’d helped her to choose— and, wrapped in a brown
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paper bag at the very back, a red velvet box.
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So I knew what was coming; I’d had time to prepare.
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It was Sunday afternoon and I was still lying in bed when I received a 06
second phone call from Marnie. I held my phone above my face and
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looked at her name written in block capitals on my screen, the photo-
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graph taken in her kitchen, apron strings knotted around her waist, red
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hair scraped away from her face, when I’d upgraded to a smartphone
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two years earlier.
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I took a deep breath and I answered.
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“Jane?” she shouted. “Jane. Can you hear me?” She was giddy, wild
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with excitement.
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“Of course,” I said. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
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And I knew what it was and that nothing was the matter and yet we
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plodded through the charade regardless.
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“Charles proposed,” she squealed. “He’s asked me to marry him.”
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She was entirely unable to control the volume or the speed of her words.
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“I’m sending you a photo of the ring,” she said. I heard her fingertips
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tapping against the handset. She lifted the phone back to her cheek.
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“Has it arrived?” she asked.
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My phone vibrated against my ear. I already knew, of course, what
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this image would show. And yet I didn’t feel ready to see that ring snug
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on her finger, nestled against her fair skin, binding her to a very specific 25
future.
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“Not yet,” I replied. “I’m sure it’ll come through shortly.”
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I was going to look at it, but later. I was planning to put a bottle of
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wine in the fridge and tidy the flat and go for a walk and then, hours
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later, when it was quiet and dark outside, I would open the message and
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I would look at it then.
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“And you’ll be there, won’t you?” she asked. “Of course you will. At
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the wedding? We might do it abroad, maybe, we’ll see, we’re not sure.
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And you’ll help me decide what to wear?”
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“Of course,” I replied. I wasn’t convinced that I sounded quite en-
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thusiastic enough. “Of course,” I said again, hoping that mindless rep-
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etitions would create the illusion of excitement when in fact I felt rather 06
nauseated.
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“And you’ll be my maid of honor,” she said. “You will, won’t you?”
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“Yes,” I replied. “Of course I will.”
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“Okay, then, I have to go— we’re heading home now, and I need to
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make a few more phone calls and, oh, Jane, isn’t this just the most ex-
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citing thing? I really can’t believe it; I really can’t. Will you let me know 12
when the photo arrives? Or I can send it again. It’s really something,
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really special. You’ll like it, I think. Or at least say you do. But I’m sure 14
you will really as well. Okay, I’m blathering and Charles is rolling his
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eyes— yes, yes, I’m coming— so let’s talk later and I’ll see you on Friday 16
if not before and— yes, okay— love you!”
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She hung up.
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Chapter Eight
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I
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went to bed early that night. I sat there propped against my pillows,
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sweating in flannel pajamas, staring at the photo on the screen of
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my phone. It showed her hand, the gold band neatly circling her fourth
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finger. It was a very beautiful ring, but I couldn’t help envisaging it
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made of rope, as a noose that could suffocate, the end of something
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rather than a beginning. The hand— while obviously Marnie’s, with her
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slender, elegant fingers and neat, painted nails— felt somehow other,
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like its own individual being, quite separate from her as a whole.
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I woke abruptly— ten past two in the morning— drenched in sweat
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and shivering and with the absolute certainty that I’d forgotten to do
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something of incredible importance. It was then that I realized that
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Marnie had called me from the car again— not only the first phone
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call, but the second one, too. There had been that same sound of
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traffic and the reverberation of shuddery wheels at speed. And she’d
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said, hadn’t she, that they were traveling, that they were on their
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way home.
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I was entirely sure that Charles would not have— would never
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have— proposed in a car. That wasn’t his style at all. He’d have wanted
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flowers and champagne and violinists and probably moonlight, too. I
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felt a little surprised that she hadn’t called me earlier.
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When Marnie was sixteen years old, she fell in love with a boy called 04
Thomas. He was seventeen and six foot four and played rugby for the
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county. She loved his chiseled jaw and firm abs and broad shoulders and
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strong arms. I couldn’t stop staring at his bizarrely large forehead. But 07
he was utterly charming and I say that as someone not easily softened
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by good manners and charisma and a slightly crooked smile.
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I didn’t hate him, but I
should have. I didn’t kill him, but I wish
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that I had.
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Stop it. Don’t look at me like that.
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Stop being so judgmental and listen to the story.
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I liked the way that their relationship worked. He was hoping to be
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offered a sports scholarship at a top university and so much of his time
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was spent training or competing. Most evenings, in fact, and always a
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match on weekends. They saw little of each other and their romance
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thrived instead on notes passed in corridors and threads of texts and
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winks across the canteen.
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The summer arrived with its eager mornings and long, humid after-
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noons. I didn’t notice that Marnie was still wearing sweatshirts until
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she absentmindedly rolled up her sleeves one lunchtime and I spotted
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four equal bruises crowded above her elbow. She saw me staring and
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garbled some nonsense about a bump against a bed frame.
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I don’t know how I’d missed it. She was secretive with her phone,
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where once she’d read her messages aloud and together we’d crafted
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replies. She was quick to anger, quick to bite, restless and skittish and I 27
hadn’t noticed any of it.
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I knew what was happening. And I knew that I could stop it.
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There was a trellis tangled with wisteria that scrambled up from the
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backyard of her parents’ house to her bedroom window. I climbed it. I
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opened her wardrobe. I stepped inside and I sat cross- legged, cushioned 32N
by a mound of clothing.
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I waited.
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I knew that he was playing rugby that afternoon. She was watching
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the match and I knew that they would return to her room afterward
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because her parents were at her brother’s music recital and, at that time 04
in our lives, an empty house was too tantalizing to ignore.
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I heard the key in the lock, their voices on the front step, the tap
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running in the kitchen, a cupboard opening, a glass clinking against the
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marble worktop. I heard their feet on the stairs, the bedroom door
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smoothing the carpet, the springs of the bed.
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I took my phone from my pocket and I turned on the microphone
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and I held it at the gap between the two doors where the light seeped
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in. I still have the recording: