releasing its catch. I hadn’t replied to Marie’s text but she hasn’t asked who is at the door. She doesn’t need to – she knew I’d come. The door sticks. I shoulder it open and the letterbox falls at an odd angle, like a slipped smile. I try to stick it back in place but it’s missing a screw.
The stairwell always smells of wee. I spiral my way to the third floor. Flat nine. Remembering her doorbell doesn’t work, I lift the knocker, which is ginger with rust, and let it fall, thumping my arrival. The vibration causes flecks of black paint to drift to the floor. Instantly, the door is yanked open, Marie’s arms wind around my neck, engulfing me in a cloud of the perfume she’s always worn, something woody. Nothing like the floral scent our mother used to wear, or still does wear perhaps. I wouldn’t know, it’s been so long since I’ve seen her. I return Marie’s hug, feeling the sparrow lightness of her jutting bones. She’s lost so much weight, it almost feels like I could snap her in two. She steps back and clasps my shoulders while she studies me. The bracelets that glitter on her wrists jangle as she twists me from side to side.
‘You look good.’
‘So do you. Are you okay?’ What I really want to ask is, are you drinking? – but I don’t. The whites of her eyes are tinged pink but that could be because of the tears we all shed at this time of year. I can’t smell any alcohol on her and that’s a good sign. There was a time we wouldn’t have to ask each other how we are. She used to know exactly what I was thinking. She felt what I felt, but over the years she has become a stranger to me, almost. What we went through brought us all together and then pushed us apart.
‘Carly’s here.’ She gestures me inside and as I squeeze past her I realize she hasn’t answered my question. Is she okay? Are any of us?
I make my way into the tiny kitchen that smells slightly rotten, as though the bin needs emptying.
Carly’s leaning against the old-fashioned gas cooker, fingers flying over the keypad of her phone. As soon as she sees me she tosses her mobile onto the worktop and pulls me close to her and for a few seconds I lose myself in her embrace as though I hadn’t last seen her a couple of days ago. Carly is the one I’m closer to now. She’s the one who stayed while Marie travelled the country, choosing draughty theatres over a proper home. Chameleoning herself into different characters, all of them as beautiful and as damaged as her. There are no happy ever afters in the dark productions she takes part in.
I shuck off my coat and unwind my scarf, piling them on top of Carly’s denim jacket.
‘I’ll make some tea.’ Marie fills the kettle as though this is just another social visit. My eyes meet Carly’s and she raises her eyebrows.
‘I’ve brought my own cup.’ I pull a mug wrapped in plastic from my bag and pass it to her. I’m poised to defend myself but she doesn’t ask what’s triggered my contamination OCD this time (although it’s probably obvious), or how long it’s been going on, and I’m glad. I’m not here to be judged.
A phone rings, the sound coming from the top of the fridge.
‘Do you want me to get it?’ I’m nearest.
‘No!’ Marie reaches for her phone and switches it off.
‘You didn’t have to do that. It might have been a job offer?’
‘It wasn’t. There’s some biscuits somewhere, Leah. If you can find them.’
I rummage around on the worktops, looking for snacks I will not eat.
Marie’s flat is as chaotic and cluttered as her life. Washing-up piled in the sink. Every surface messy. Tubes of half-used make-up litter the small table in the kitchen where she eats her meals for one, a box of L’Oréal hair dye pokes out of the overflowing bin; it’s the complete opposite of my minimalism. Once my twin and I shared everything but now we don’t even look the same, I think, taking in her newly bleached hair, cropped close to her head. I still keep mine long. Although I’m only twenty-eight, threads of grey are weaving into my natural red but I’m determined not to start colouring it. Every few minutes Marie runs her hand over the back