Then She Was Gone - Lisa Jewell Page 0,31

than cheese.”

SJ smiles uncertainly. “How old are you?” she says. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

“No, of course I don’t mind. I’ve never understood people being ashamed of their age. As if it’s a failure of some kind. I’m fifty-five,” she says. “And a few hours.”

SJ nods.

“Are you staying over?” Laurel asks.

“No,” says SJ. “No. I think I’ll go home and sleep in my own bed. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Oh,” says Laurel. “What sort of work do you do?”

“Bits and bobs. Babysitting. Dog walking.” She lowers the lid of the laptop and uncurls her legs. “Modeling tomorrow. For a life-drawing class.”

“Wow. Is that clothed, or . . . ?”

“Naked,” SJ says. “Just as you say that there’s no shame in getting older, I think there’s no shame in being naked. And don’t you think,” she continues, “that if people say you shouldn’t be allowed to ban burkinis on the beach then, really, the natural extrapolation of that is that full nudity shouldn’t be banned either. Like, who decides which bit of a body should or shouldn’t be seen in public? If you’re saying that one woman legally has to cover her breasts and her minge, then how can you tell another woman that she’s not allowed to cover her legs or her arms? I mean, how does that even make sense?”

Laurel nods and laughs. “Good point,” she says. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

“No,” she says. “No one thinks about anything properly these days. Everyone just believes what people on Twitter tell them to believe. It’s all propaganda, however much it’s dressed up as liberal right thinking. We’re a nation of sheep.”

Laurel feels suddenly very drunk and has to resist the temptation to say baaaaa. Instead she nods solemnly. She has barely absorbed another person’s opinion for over a decade. She is no sheep.

“Your daughter was Ellie Mack,” says SJ, as if reading the changing direction of Laurel’s thoughts.

“Yes,” Laurel replies, surprised. “Did your dad tell you?”

“No,” she says. “I googled you. I’ve been reading everything on the Internet about it. It’s really, really sad.”

“Yes,” Laurel agrees. “It’s very sad.”

“She was really pretty.”

“Thank you. Yes, she was.”

“She looked really like Poppy, don’t you think?”

Laurel’s head clears, suddenly and sharply, and she finds herself saying, almost defensively, “No, not really. I mean, maybe a little, around the mouth. But lots of people look like people, don’t they?”

“Yes,” SJ replies, “they do.”

21

Laurel visits her mother the next day. She’d seemed a bit perkier during her visit last Thursday, interested in Laurel’s romance, gripping Laurel’s hand inside hers, her dark eyes sparkling. No talk of death. No empty gaze. Laurel hopes that she will find her in a similar mood today.

But the joy seems to have seeped out of her in the days between her visits and she looks gray again, and hollow. Her first words to Laurel are “I think there’s not much time left for me now.” The words are seamless, said without pause or hesitation.

Laurel sits down quickly beside her and says, “Oh, Mum, I thought you were feeling better?”

“Better,” says her mum. And then she nods. “Better.”

“So why the talk of dying again?”

“Because . . .”—she stabs at her collarbone with stiff fingers—“. . . old.”

Laurel smiles. “Yes,” she says, “you are old. But there’s more life left in you yet.”

Her mother shakes her head. “No. No. No life. And y . . . y . . . you. Happy. Now.”

Laurel takes a sharp intake of breath. She feels the meaning of her mother’s words. “Have you been staying here for me?” she asks, tears catching at the back of her throat.

“Yes. For y . . . y . . . you. Yes.”

“And now I’m happy, you’re ready to go?”

A huge smile crosses her mother’s face and she squeezes Laurel’s hand. “Yes. Yes.”

A heavy tear rolls down Laurel’s cheek. “Oh,” she says. “Oh, Mum. I still need you.”

“No,” says her mum. “Not n . . . n . . . now. Ellie found. You happy. I . . .” She prods at her collarbone. “I go.”

Laurel wipes away the tear with the back of her hand and forces a smile. “It’s your life, Mum,” she says. “I can’t choose when to let you go.”

“No,” says her mum. “N . . . n . . . no one can.”

That afternoon, Laurel takes Poppy shopping. It’s raining, so she suggests Brent Cross as an alternative to Oxford Street.

Poppy greets her at her front door wearing smart trousers with a jade-green