Five-past-one-Audrey was mostly concerned with whether“Local Supermarket Recalls Lasagne Sauce” would read as too vague to a general audience and/or if “Lasagne Sauce Recalled Over Contamination Risk” would read as too sensationalist to Gavin.
Two-thirty-Audrey had been through the options with Gavin (hehadthought it was sensationalist but eventually accepted that the public health concern justified the stronger language) and was back to feeling smug about getting laid and idly seeing if she could get any more information about the mysterious Emily.
Four-o’clock-Audrey was relatively sure that she’d found as much out about Emily as she’d be able to without taking the bigger, scarier step of contacting actual living women to see if they were the right person, and was sliding back into feeling taken for granted, sex-wise.
Five-thirty-Audrey was far more exhausted than she usually was at that time in the afternoon.
Quarter-past-six-Audrey returned to her still fuck-ravaged flat and realised that as well as the lasagne sauce and the elusive aristocrat and her suddenly complicated love life, she also had a bunch of cleaning up to do.
It was gratifying, in a way. To know that even in her (whisper it) early thirties she could still have the kind of sex that overturned furniture and did away with ugly lamps. At least itshouldhave been gratifying. Audrey tried very hard to be gratified. But as she swept up little bits of coloured glass and transferred them to the recycling bin, she was conscious of a growing sense of ungratifiedness.
If there had been one thing that had drawn Audrey to journalism more than any other—well, more than any other except the fact that the then love of her then life had decided on the career for both of them when she was about twelve—it had been the lure ofthe follow-up question. Natalie had been different. For her, it had always been aboutTruthwith a capitalT. Where are the bodies buried and who buried them and who paid for the shovels? But all Audrey had ever really wanted to do was to ask what happened next?
And on that score, both Doris and Emily’s home front romance and what she was increasingly thinking of as “the Jennifer situation” were leaving her profoundly frustrated.
Of course, both of those frustrations had, on some level, a common remedy. She could get in her car, drive to Patchley, ask Doris to tell the next part of her story, and demand that Jennifer at least have a conversation re: what the fuck was going on between them.
She could also stick her face in a beehive, and it would be about as likely to end well.
With the wreckage of the Tiffany-style lamp dealt with and Lion the tortoise returned to his proper place on the armchair, Audrey was just ready to declare the tidying done when she noticed a little box half-slid under the coffee table.
It was small, red, rectangular, and had Jennifer Hallet’s name printed quite plainly on the side.
Not being a pharmacist, Audrey couldn’t say exactly what it was for—and googling felt way,waytoo intrusive—but she did suspect that leaving your medication at somebody else’s house was a problem, and that if you knew that a hypothetical somebody had found the hypothetical medication you had left at their hypothetical house, you would probably, hypothetically, want them to bring it back.
She’s a highly successful woman, Natalie pointed out,with an enormous staff working for her. She doesn’t need you running hererrands. She doesn’t need anything from you at all.
A tiny, self-loathing part of Audrey agreed. On a rational level it was completely impossible that Jennifer would feel less inconvenienced by Audrey showing up unannounced than she would by having to send a minion to pick something up. If Audreydiddecide to make the long drive to Surrey, that part of her continued, she’d be doing it for purely selfish reasons and shouldn’t pretend otherwise.
Nevertheless, despite its protestations, that part of Audrey was carried along with the rest of Audrey when she grabbed the box, stuffed it into her bag, and set out for Patchley House.
* * *
She arrived somewhat earlier than last time and found that nobody challenged her as she parked, de-carred, and set out once more for Jennifer’s trailer. Having been to Patchley three times as a contestant and once as an invited-if-sworn-at guest, Audrey felt a bit odd showing up now as—technically, at least—an intruder.
It felt even odder when she banged on Jennifer’s door and wasn’t immediately told to fuck off.
“What is it Co—hang on, I know that knock.”
“Hi,” offered Audrey, a little weakly.
There was a longer beat than usual before Jennifer came back with, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“You, um, you left something at my place.”
“If it’s my pants you can call it a swap.”
Ah yes, she’d never actually got those back, had she? “No. It’s more sort of—I’d rather not say outside because it’s a little bit sensitive.”
“Oh, right,” Jennifer’s voice was beginning to skew sarcasticagain. “You mean it’s my prescription antidepressants.”
Audrey nodded, then realised nodding was a purely visual form of communication and said, “Yes.”
“Grand. I’ve been looking for those. Come in.”
So Audrey came in. It was a bit disorienting to actually be invited instead of ordered or ignored. Inside, she found Jennifer sitting at her desk as usual, in the middle of doing something complex to footage.
Without further comment, Jennifer held out a hand, and Audrey fished in her bag for the little red box.
