“You might want to pick that up.” Bea nods at the buzzing phone on his desk. “It’s your wife.”
Dr. Finch gropes for his glasses. “It can’t be, she’s at the cinema seeing—”
“I don’t care,” Bea interrupts, standing up from the sofa. “And it is.”
Slipping his glasses onto his nose, he squints at the screen. “How the hell did you know that?”
Bea shrugs. “Perhaps she can smell a guilty conscience.” She reaches for her dress, slipping it over her shoulders.
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Dr. Finch drops the phone back onto his desk. “I’ve often thought she was a witch.”
“Piss off,” Bea snaps, unsure why his use of the word annoys her so much. “That’s your wife you’re talking about, the woman who gave birth to your kids—you have kids, right?—and I bet you’re no domestic angel. You leave the toilet seat up, never make dinner or do the school run, and”—Bea searches for another fact she doesn’t know how she knows—“Download particularly filthy porn to your son’s computer.”
Her Logic and Language lecturer casts her an incredulous look, then busies himself with rearranging cushions on his sofa, saying nothing to confirm Bea’s CliffsNotes on his character. She doesn’t care; she knows she’s right.
“You’re hardly in a position to cast moral disapprobation.” He sits up. “You weren’t showing much concern for my wife’s welfare twenty minutes ago.”
Bea gets up, picks her bag off the floor. “Well, I’m not married to her, Prince Charming, you are.”
She doesn’t hear what he says in response, something about daddy issues, since she’s already slamming the door shut behind her. The sex, such as it was, hadn’t been worth leaving the library for. She’d suspected as much when he’d invited her, and it irks Bea that she hadn’t followed her instincts.
11:58 p.m.—Leo
Tomorrow Leo will bump into her. He’s waited long enough to ensure it’ll appear coincidental. He feels Goldie’s power increasing every day, every hour that brings her closer to her eighteenth birthday. Now that he knows that, if he’s to stand a chance of victory, he must maximize his tactical advantages. He still has the element of surprise and knows how he might enhance it. It’d be easy enough to seduce her, exceedingly pleasant too, and would leave her far more vulnerable at the moment of attack. Admittedly, Leo won’t feel proud of such an unsporting ambush. But if it’s his only chance of survival, then he’ll have to take it.
9th October
Twenty-three days . . .
1:57 a.m.—Scarlet
It takes Scarlet hours of intense rationalization to recover from the moth-exterminating episode. In the end, she settles on the explanation of spontaneous combustion. Quite how this could have occurred, Scarlet isn’t certain, but it’s sort of scientific and means that she isn’t delusional, bewitched, or dangerous, which is surely all that matters.
Scarlet wishes she could talk to her grandmother, share her worries, ask advice. Most of the time Scarlet is okay, strong and self-sufficient. An almost adult who looks, generally, as if she’s got her act together. But sometimes she feels like an eight-year-old whose mother has just died, scared and alone, wanting to be held. Especially late at night when all she can hear is the ticktock of the grandfather clock in the stillness and it feels like an eternity until morning.
Which is how she feels tonight. She wishes it were raining. Thunderstorms are best. When one can luxuriate in the comfort of being safely tucked up instead of out getting soaked. Sadly, the night is still, the sky clear. The moon is nearing full, a shard of light falling into the room.
Scarlet feels a tug towards the window, as if a lover were coaxing her out of bed. Without thinking why, she slips out from under the duvet and steps across the carpet. Looking up at the moon, Scarlet thinks of the café, wondering if she’s doing the right thing struggling so hard to hold on. Perhaps she should stop fighting to save a sinking ship, especially when her grandmother’s drowning. Perhaps she should take the lifeboat being offered by Mr. Wolfe—though she’s not seen hide nor hair of him since dropping him off at the hospital—sell up and take care of Esme properly. Scarlet could find a nice nursing home, get a job in a café (anywhere but Starbucks), and let someone else worry about the bills while she collects an hourly wage and a free lunch.
For a moment, the light of the moon seems to brighten. Scarlet’s shoulders drop, her breathing slows,