Stiff Lips

Sophie stuck her head deep into the bucket. Her shoulders heaved and there was a sound like pearls from a broken necklace cascading onto a wooden floor. Marsha made soothing noises and with her spare hand massaged the upper part of Sophie's back. I wondered whether she'd learned the nursemaid act as part of her job-training to help her deal with Cinghiale's clientele when they overdid it on the alcohol front. Sophie uttered a low groan, feebly trying to keep her hair clear of the bucket, and heaved again.

I went down to the kitchen to fetch her a glass of water. I knew Sophie never drank tap-water; it had to be Evian or Badoit or, at the very least, Malvern. On my way past the bedroom, I peeked in to see if Robert was still around, but there was nothing but an unmade bed, clothes strewn all over the floor, and a strong odour of stale cigarettes.

Bed unmade. Clothes all over the floor. Smell like an old ashtray. This was not Sophie's style at all.

By the time I got back, she was sitting on the floor with her back against the base of the sofa, taking unnaturally deep breaths which threatened to turn into hiccups at any second. 'There now,' said Marsha, so capably that I almost wished I too were ill, so she could comfort me. Take it easy now.'

'What have you been doing to yourself?' I asked.

Sophie tilted her head back so I could see her pale, glistening face. I'd been wrong earlier when I decided she didn't look so hot. Now I realized the dark circles beneath the eyes made her look annoyingly ethereal, like an Arthur Rackham naiad.

'We drank too much,' she whispered. That's all.'

'We?' I asked. 'We?'

Sophie giggled weakly. 'You sound like the three little pigs.'

I felt like slapping her.

Marsha asked, 'Who's we?'

Sophie giggled again. 'Robert's a really bad influence.'

'Robert who?' asked Marsha. Once again, her manner had perceptibly cooled.

Sophie summoned enough energy to look scornful. How could Marsha be so obtuse? 'Robert Jamieson,' she said. 'You know — tall guy, dark hair, lives upstairs.'

'Robert Jamieson,' repeated Marsha.

I looked at her quizzically.

'Robert and me,' said Sophie. Her face had taken on that ecstatic look you see on the people who dance up and down Oxford Street banging tambourines. Marsha hunkered down so she was directly in front of Sophie and placed both hands on her shoulders, like a netball coach about to give a pep talk to an injured but vitally important player.

'That's enough,' she said. This has got to stop.'

I was beginning to wonder if Marsha harboured some peculiar puritanical objection to other tenants drinking and fornicating on the premises. Sophie was simply confused. 'What do you mean stop?' Damp hair dangled on either side of her face in ratty little tendrils. She giggled and asked, 'Do you want to hear this joke?'

I said to Marsha, 'They drank too much, that's all.'

'Robert's completely wicked,' Sophie murmured, trying to squirm away from Marsha so she could curl up on the floor again. 'Why do women have legs?'

Marsha gripped her even more firmly, and shook her. 'This isn't funny,' she hissed.

'But I haven't even got to the punchline,' said Sophie.

I thought Marsha was going a bit far. 'It's only a hangover,' I said.

'He's dead,' said Marsha.

Sophie started to cough. 'I feel like death,' she wheezed. 'I swear I'll never touch the stuff again.'

I was in need of a replay. I wasn't sure I'd understood correctly. 'He's what?' I asked Marsha. 'What did you just say?'

'Dead,' repeated Marsha. 'Robert Jamieson is dead.'

'Who's dead?' asked Sophie, as though she'd only just entered the conversation.

Marsha lost patience. 'Robert Jamieson!' she yelled at the top of her voice. 'Robert Jamieson is frigging dead.'

Sophie spluttered with laughter. 'That's not funny,' she gurgled.

'It's not meant to be,' said Marsha.

I was laughing too, until the room began to spin and I had to sit down heavily on the sofa.

'That's awful,' I said. I couldn't work out why I was feeling so guilty. Perhaps it was the way I'd been slagging Robert off to myself, and without ever having seen him. I'd heard so much about the man, and now he was dead, and I never would meet him. Poor Sophie. What rotten luck. Just as she was getting over Miles, as well.

Sophie hauled herself to her feet and stood there swaying. 'But I didn't even hear him go out!' she wailed.

'Take it easy,' said Marsha.

'He hasn't even left the house,' said Sophie.

'Ninety per cent of all accidents take place in the home,' I reminded her.

Marsha started to say something, but Sophie interrupted. 'Look, I know he's not dead. Let's go up and talk to him right now.'

'Which hospital did they take him to?' I asked.

'For Heaven's sake,' said Marsha, and I realized with a shudder of comprehension that we'd all been talking at cross-purposes.

'Listen to me,' Marsha said in her sensible school-teacher voice. 'We're not talking about an accident. We're talking suicide. And we're not talking about this morning.'

'So what are we talking about?' I demanded.

'We're talking about a man who stood in front of his bathroom mirror and slit his throat from ear to ear.'

Now I knew why her manner had turned cold. I was feeling pretty chilly myself.

'You're lying,' said Sophie, but I knew instinctively that Marsha was telling the truth.

'Jesus Christ,' I said.

'And we're not talking about this morning,' said Marsha. 'Robert Jamieson has been dead for the past twelve years.'

PART TWO: SUMMER

Chapter 1

'You have got to be kidding,' said Daisy. 'You mean Sophie Macallan was having it off with a dead person?'

I corrected her. 'She thought she was having it off with a dead person.'

'Either way it's creepy,' said Susie.

Miles was staring at the carpet. 'Sophie was going through a bad patch.'

'So how did you…?' Luke's voice trailed away. 'I'm sorry. None of our business.'

Miles shrugged. 'Doesn't matter. It's water under the bridge.'

'Things change,' Clare said darkly.

Some of her confessions had been a bit near the knuckle, I thought, especially considering Miles was present. Maybe she was trying to punish him for something, but she'd made the rest of us feel slightly uncomfortable as well. I addressed her directly and, I hoped, flippantly, trying to take some of the sting out of the evening.

'Quite a story,' I said.

She smiled at me. 'Wasn't it just,' she said.

I'm not usually slow, but a few beats passed before I realised her smile had been dripping with sarcasm.

'You women,' I said in retaliation. 'You all have such vivid imaginations.' The remark came out sounding a lot more vicious than I'd intended.

'Oh, piss off,' said Susie.

I tried to peck her affectionately on the cheek to show I was only joking, but she shied away with an expression of disgust. You didn't have to be Nostradamus to predict she was going to give me a hard time of it later on.

'But what about Sophie?' asked Daisy. 'What happened? I mean, I know what happened in the end, but there are so many different rumours about what led up to it.'

'So what did happen?' asked Luke.

'You mean you don't know?' Daisy asked. 'I thought everybody knew.'