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Seven Lies (ARC)

Page 42

by Elizabeth Kay

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  and then she turned away from me.

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  I tried to hold her hand, but she snatched it away.

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  I tried to speak to her, but she began to hum very quietly, and I

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  knew that she wasn’t listening.

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  She wouldn’t look at me again after that. I stepped toward her, bent

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  my head to see into her eyes, but she gazed, unfocused, as though look-

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  ing right through me.

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  I knew that this was it, that the fungus she’d been fighting for the

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  last few years was going to sprawl unimpeded across her brain. Holding

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  on to herself had been such a battle; it required so much effort, every

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  single day. And it wasn’t going to be worth it anymore.

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  And so I left.

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  Chapter Forty

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  I have been my mother’s only family for so many years. I have been

  her husband, her elder daughter, and her younger daughter, too.

  And yes, I begrudged it sometimes. And yes, it was unfathomably bor-

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  ing going to see her every weekend. And yes, it was frustrating that no

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  one else felt guilty enough to do it.

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  They were all so selfish. They didn’t give a shit. They did not give a shit.

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  I shouldn’t have given a shit, either. I shouldn’t have fucking both-

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  ered; it was a waste of my time and my patience and my life, spending

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  it with her and thinking I was doing something good and being some-

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  thing better and sacrificing for her and then the fucking cheek of her

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  being unable to be there for me.

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  Oh.

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  I’m sorry.

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  Did I frighten you?

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  Please don’t cry.

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  I discovered my sister dead at the beginning of the week. And my

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  mother retreated into her dementia a few days ago. So if anyone should

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  be crying right now, I really think it should be me.

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  She couldn’t exist without her younger daughter. She couldn’t exist

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  for me.

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  It has been a very bad week.

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  This morning I received a message from Marnie. She said that she was 03

  very sorry but that she needed to cancel our dinner this evening, which

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  seems to be the norm nowadays. Her excuse— and there’s always a

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  good one, something that’s hard to challenge— is that Audrey has been

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  unwell and was awake all of last night with a temperature over one

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  hundred degrees.

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  I replied saying not to worry at all about me and sent love and get-

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  well wishes.

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  But I didn’t feel sympathetic. I simply felt sad. Because we weren’t

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  children with paper cups and a ball of string stretched between our

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  bedroom windows anymore. We were so far apart, so disconnected, so

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  far removed from each other’s lives.

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  Valerie had talked about a wrecking ball, as though there was some-

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  thing somewhere that would be the death of this friendship. I wanted

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  to make our walls strong, sturdy, so safe that nothing— even something

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  substantial— could shatter those bricks. I needed to reinforce our

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  friendship, to underpin it and make it something that could withstand

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  the force of the truth.

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  I was going to weave Valerie’s various findings into our conversa-

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  tions in a very nonchalant way, mentioning some noisy neighbors, that

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  the walls and floors of her building were desperately thin, that sounds

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  seemed to proliferate between the apartments. I planned to refer very

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  casually to my week in the flat— to refer to my stay in some way: the

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  creaking of the pipes at night or the ticking of the clock in her

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  bedroom— and to be shocked by her inevitable surprise.

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  “Charles never told you?” I’d say. “It was his suggestion.”

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  I would tell her about the encounter on the train. I would reveal— and

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  this bit at least would be true— that I had been followed, stalked even, by 30

  that menacing journalist and ask if she thought I ought to call the police.

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  her story would belong to me. And I’d be building her into something

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  else, into someone unreliable, into a liar.

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  But I needed to spend time with Marnie in order to do these things.

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  While I was disappointed that she had canceled, I felt sure that

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  she’d have time for me once she knew about my sister, about my mother.

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  Because while death is the ultimate divider, it also unifies. You never

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  know how loved you are until you’re at the epicenter of a grief so tall

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  and wide that you cannot see beyond its edges. Because then, very

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  quickly, faces begin to appear at the tops of those walls, passing down

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  cards and letters and flowers and food. And those people are your peo-

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  ple and they find a way to pull you out.

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  Marnie found a way to pull me out the first time.

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  I knew that she could save me again.

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  A friendship like that matters. You don’t give up on a love like that.

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  Valerie, too, seemed entirely unable to give up on a love like ours.

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  I discovered her waiting in the lobby of my building earlier today.

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  I’d been to the supermarket and I didn’t n
otice her at first, but she

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  called out to me after I’d collected my mail. She was perched on an old

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  office chair that was awaiting collection, spinning in circles and leaving 22

  grubby footprints on the freshly painted walls. She had a new tattoo—

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  a small illustration of a flower— beneath her left earlobe. Her jeans

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  were loose, ripped at the knees, and she was wearing a tight black

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  jumper.

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  She stopped spinning and smiled. “Fancy seeing you here,” she said,

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  pulling her legs up to sit cross- legged on the seat. “I wanted to talk to 28

  you,” she said, “about last week.”

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  “This isn’t a good time,” I replied, standing by the doors to the lift,

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  my mail gripped in front of my chest. I wasn’t surprised to see her. I

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  should have been, really, in a space that felt so completely my own, but

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  something had shifted between us. I knew her a little better now— her

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  doggedness— and so she couldn’t shock me in quite the same way.

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  “It’s important,” she said. “You upset me.”

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  I laughed; I couldn’t help it. It felt lovely, a burst of relief, although 04

  the grief and the guilt quickly followed. “I upset you?” I said. “Really?”

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  “On the train,” she replied. “When you said all that about me being

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  jealous.”

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  “Aren’t you?” I asked.

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  “No, I am,” she replied. “But that isn’t the point.”

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  There was something childlike in her sincerity, in her presence there,

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  in the simplicity of what she was saying. In the preceding weeks, I’d

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  tracked her through the internet, following her from her school days—

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  she’d written a piece on pond life at sixteen that featured on the school’s 13

  website— and to university, where she’d edited the campus newspaper.

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  I found her early social media platforms: her top friends and her inter-

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  ests and the list of people she’d like to meet. I traced her change in hob-16

  bies and homes and habits. She had taken up outdoor swimming in her

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  twenty- ninth year. She went at least once a week. She had moved to

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  Elephant and Castle at thirty after her marriage had ended. She’d had a

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  new tattoo inked on her skin every birthday since; the one at the back of 20

  her neck had been her first.

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  But what was perhaps most striking— it’s something that didn’t reg-

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  ister until that moment— was that every single one of her top- ranked

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  friends, recorded as such at seventeen, had been absent ever since. They

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  didn’t feature on Instagram. They weren’t following her on Twitter.

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  “Just answer me this and then I’ll let myself out,” she continued.

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  “How are you still such good friends?”

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  I didn’t reply.

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  “Come on,” she said. “This is it. The last question I’ll ask you. Be-

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  cause it doesn’t make sense to me. To have a best friend. At our age. It’s 30

  a bit infantile, isn’t it?”

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  “I think it’s quite special,” I said.

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  “That isn’t what I think,” she began. “Because it isn’t real, it— ”

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  “Don’t you have any old friends?” I asked. “Who are so much a part

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  of you that you can’t remember your life without them in it?”

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  “No,” she said. “I don’t.”

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  “That sounds very lonely,” I replied.

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  She shrugged and uncrossed her legs, dropping her feet back onto

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  the floor.

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  “I think,” she tried to continue, “ that— ”

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  “Not even one?” I asked.

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  “I want to talk about you,” she said. “I’m interested in you.”

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  “But I’m not interested in you,” I replied, holding my mail out in

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  front of me, trying to seem indifferent. There was a letter from the

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  bank, another from my university. There was a scrawled note from a

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  resident who lived on the ground floor of the building insisting that we

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  all take more care to close the front door properly.

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  I looked back at her and she was grinning. “And yet you’re asking me

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  plenty of questions,” she said. “I know you, Jane. You wish that I didn’t.”

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  “You don’t know me at all,” I said, but I could feel the balance of the

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  conversation slipping, she taking control, pulling at my strings.

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  She shrugged. “You’re lonely. Has she canceled your plans for this

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  evening? I wonder if she knows how upset it makes you. I don’t expect

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  she does. She doesn’t know you like I do, you see. And— ”

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  “I need to go,” I said. I turned toward the lifts and I pressed the

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  button.

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  She laughed. “If you say so. But if I know you— and I think that I

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  do— then there’s nowhere that you need to be.”

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  “Are you done?” I asked, as one of the lifts creaked down through

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  the shaft, inching toward us.

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  “Not yet,” she said. “I came here to tell you something else. Don’t

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  you want to know what it is?”

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  “No.” I pressed the button again.

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  “That’s a lie. I know that you do.”

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  “Go on, then,” I said.

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  I could pretend to myself— and to you— that this was a ploy. I could

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  say that I encouraged her purely to accelerate the conversation, simply

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  to give her the space to say her bit in the hope that she might then leave.

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  But she was right, of course; I wanted to know.

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  “I’m done following you.” She paused and looked at me. “That doesn’t

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  even get a smile?”

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  “I don’t care.�


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  “You do. You’re relieved. Well, that’s it. What I wanted to say. It

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  isn’t that this investigation is finished. It isn’t. I still want to make sure 11

  that Marnie discovers the truth. Because it’s so much more than what

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  was in my first message, isn’t it? There’s so much that she doesn’t know.

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  But I’m not in a rush anymore.”

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  “ Valerie— ”

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  “You’re going to tear this thing down all by yourself.”

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  “Oh, for— ”

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  “I’ll write about it then.”

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  The lift juddered into position and the doors cranked open. I

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  stepped inside.

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  “Call me when it’s over,” she whispered.

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  Chapter Forty- One

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  I haven’t been to work this week. Duncan sent me an angry email

  about neglecting my responsibilities. I received a concerned text

  from Peter. I didn’t reply to either.

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  I have, I suppose, been feeling very sorry for myself and today has

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  been the worst, the culmination of so much bad news.

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  But then, unexpectedly, things started to look a little brighter. Just

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  as I was beginning to feel hungry, starting to think about dinner, I re-

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  ceived a phone call from Marnie. She was frantic, flustered, flapping, as 20

  she so often is, unable to hold a calm and measured conversation. She

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  said that Audrey’s temperature had shot up again, that they’d managed

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  to get a last- minute appointment with their doctor— who was really

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  very good, always willing to bend the rules for a baby— and that he’d

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  diagnosed an ear infection and she had a printout of the prescription,

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  but they’d also sent a copy to the pharmacy. Would I mind, she said,

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  because it was a pharmacy between our flats, open for a little longer

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  still, and would that be okay?

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  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

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  I pulled on my old jeans and this sweater and my dark brown boots,

 

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