I was dithering on the doorstep, wondering whether to head for home or saunter along to the Saddleback Arms, when I heard a brisk footfall behind me. I turned to see Marsha Carter-Brown peering over the top of two large bags of shopping as she mounted the steps.
'Hello!' she shouted, even though there was no need for her to raise her voice. 'Looking for Sophie?'
There was no spark of recognition in her eyes, but she didn't seem to mind me helping her with the bags as she opened the door. 'We met a few weeks ago,' I reminded her. 'I'm Clare.'
'Friend of Sophie's, right?' said Marsha, still not appearing to recognize me.
'Sophie's out,' I said.
Marsha frowned at the idea of such an untidy social arrangement. 'Was she expecting you?'
'Not really. I was just passing, thought I'd pop in.'
Marsha checked her watch. 'Well, I'm dying for a cup of tea, so why don't you come in and keep me company. She might be back by the time we've finished.'
I said thank you, unused to such unconditional friendliness, and followed Marsha inside. Her flat seemed smaller than Sophie's, but perhaps this was just because the ceilings were lower and she'd had time to accumulate a lot more clutter. There were some richly patterned rugs, carved wooden heads, and a lot of other ethnic curios which looked as though they'd been picked up from a souk.
'You travel a lot?' I asked her.
'My father was a diplomat,' Marsha explained, 'so we moved around a lot when I was little. And yes, I still like exotic places. I love my job, but every so often I need to get right away from it. Keeps me sane.'
She made a pot of tea. The talk turned to restaurants, and I asked about Cinghiale.
'The food's good,' she said, 'but it's outrageously overpriced. And the clientele…' She made a face.
'What's wrong with them?'
'Oh, you know, assholes on expense accounts. Think they're the centre of the universe.'
'Maybe they are,' I said.
Marsha gave me a scornful look as she poured the tea.
'Of course, it depends what universe you're talking about,' I added hurriedly.
'Try the real world,' she said.
I was about to say it was all very well, but sometimes the real world was negotiable only when you pretended you were at the centre of it, when there came a muffled thump from the flat upstairs, followed by a series of smaller, diminishing thuds.
We both looked up. It sounded as though a football had been dropped and had bounced across the room. But Sophie was not a sports fan, hated football in particular, and only ten minutes previously had given all the signs of not being at home.
'I really did think she was out,' I said, blushing with embarrassment. Marsha would surely think I'd tricked my way into her home.
But Marsha wasn't the sort to waste time worrying about whether or not people had obtained cups of tea under false pretences. 'Sounds like she's fallen out of bed,' she said, her face tilted up towards the ceiling.
'Sophie's an early bird,' I said. 'She never sleeps late.'
Marsha's mouth fell open in surprise. 'Are we talking about the same person? Take it from someone who lives directly underneath, it's party all night, and lie in the following day. Lucky for her I don't have a nine-to-five job, or I'd be banging on the ceiling with a broom.'
There was another series of thumps. A slow, sly smile spread across Marsha's face.
'Tell you what, though. It sounds as if she's got a man up there.'
I had to agree. 'Probably Robert,' I said.
We both continued to gaze at the ceiling. We'd run out of things to say. After a while Marsha asked if Sophie and Robert had been together long.
'Not long,' I said.
'So what's he like?'
'Don't ask me,' I said. 'You've met him, I haven't.'
'I have?'
I thought she was being unnecessarily thick. 'Robert. You know. Robert from upstairs.'
The penny still wasn't dropping. 'Robert from upstairs?'
'Robert Jamieson. Robert the writer. Robert the poet.'
When I said the word poet, Marsha's manner changed. All of a sudden the temperature plummeted as her warmth drained away, and her smile tapered off at the edges.
'Sure,' she said, but didn't sound sure at all.
'You must have met him,' I persisted. I couldn't understand what had gone wrong. Only a few seconds ago we'd been getting on like a house on fire, and now she was freezing me out. I was starting to feel very uncomfortable. Uh-oh, I thought. Maybe Robert and Marsha had had something on the go. Maybe I had just gone and put my foot in it.
'Oh, I met him all right,' she said.
'Sophie's been talking about him non-stop,' I said apologetically. 'She's besotted.'
But Marsha wasn't one to stand around gassing when there was action to be taken. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards the door. At first I thought she was throwing me out into the street, but out in the hallway she loosened her grip and started to climb the stairs. 'I don't know what she's been telling you,' she said, 'but we'd better make sure she's all right.'
'What if they're in bed?'
'They won't be.'
She knocked firmly on Sophie's door and, after a long silence, knocked again. Eventually, just as I was thinking about giving up and heading back to Hackney, we heard the sound of something heavy being dragged laboriously down the steps on the other side of the wall.
'What's she up to?'
'Sssh,' said Marsha.
There were more dragging sounds, followed by a scuffling, and the noise of a bolt being drawn and a latch lifted.
Then, nothing.
After a long pause, I tested the door with my shoulder. It swung inwards.
Sophie was kneeling in the kitchen doorway in her nightshirt, head down, the ends of her tangled hair brushing against the floor. The sight was so unexpected I could only stand and gawp. Marsha stepped past me.
'You OK?' she asked.
Sophie whispered something.
I crouched beside her. 'What's the matter?'
She whispered again.
I made out one of the words. Hangover.
'It's all right,' I said to Marsha. 'It's only a hangover,' but even as I said the words they sounded wrong. Sophie never suffered from hangovers, not since she'd knocked back too much champagne on her twenty-first birthday and had vowed never to overdo it again. As far as I knew, that vow had never been broken.
She didn't stir, not even when I bent over her, trying to gather her hair into a ponytail. But there was nothing to tie it back with, so I gave up and let it flop back down.
'You don't look so hot,' I said, trying not to feel too smug; it wasn't every day you could say something like that to Sophie, who was normally as well-groomed and glossy as an old-fashioned mannequin.
'Hrunk oough ouch,' she said. I couldn't tell whether this was, 'Drank too much,' or 'Thank you very much.' I could have done with Dirk there to translate.
Without another word she started to clamber up the steps to the upper level, using her hands and knees like a small child just learning to walk. Marsha and I stared at each other before tagging along behind her.
Sophie crawled into the living-room and curled into a foetal position in the middle of a new rug. Now her voice was coming over loud and clear.
'I think I'm going to throw up,' she said.
I watched, fascinated, as she drew herself up into a kneeling position. All I could think about was the rug, and how expensive it must have been, and what a shame it was going to get messed up. But Marsha had sprung into action. She thundered downstairs and, within seconds, was back with a plastic bucket, thrusting it under Sophie's chin like someone giving a nosebag to a horse. I couldn't help thinking this was the wrong way round — that it was Marsha who should have been given the nosebag.