“Fine.” Meghan rolled over so her back was to Rachel. “Finished?”
Rachel studied her for a moment, noticing how thin she’d become, how tense. Her bedroom was a mess of dirty clothes, the wastepaper basket filled with dirty nappies. Even though Rachel had a nagging sense that she should stay and try to talk to Meghan, comfort her in some way, the room made her feel as if the walls were closing in on her, and she just wanted to escape. Besides, she and Meghan had never had that kind of relationship.
“All right,” she said, and took a step backwards. “I’m finished.”
In the cramped solitude of her own room she gazed dispiritedly at her odd assortment of cheap skirts and tops hanging on the back of the door; there was no room for a wardrobe. She wasn’t in the mood for a pub quiz, and hadn’t been for weeks. The happy fizz of Andrew calling her two days ago had left a while ago, and now she felt flat. Even though she was looking forward to seeing him on the weekend, she wasn’t relishing bringing her mother home and coping with all the newdemands her care would bring, especially since Meghan seemed to be checking out emotionally.
Sighing, Rachel reached for a clean hoodie. No need to wear a stretchy top to impress Rob Telford anymore. Not, of course, that she was actually dating Andrew West. She really wasn’t sure what was going on there, if anything.
“Rachel?” Lily knocked on the door. “You ready?”
Twenty minutes later she walked into the noisy warmth of the Hangman’s Noose and felt it envelop her like a hug from a boozy friend. Lucy, as usual, was waving from their corner table, a bottle of wine open, glasses already poured. Her sister, Juliet, was smiling, Peter Lanford’s arm loped casually around her shoulders.
“We can’t have five people on the team,” Rachel chided Peter, smiling, and with his free hand he raised his pint.
“I’m taking Abby’s place. She’s home with Noah tonight.”
“That’s all right, I suppose.” She sat down on the barstool, shoving her bag underneath, and reached for her glass of wine. Peter was whispering something into Juliet’s ear and Juliet was, most uncharacteristically, blushing. Rachel wondered how much of their nauseatingly sweet lovey-dovey act she could stomach.
She glanced at the table next to theirs, where Lily had sat down next to Claire and two people who composed the most unlikely quiz team Rachel had ever seen.
Dan Trenton sat on a barstool, feet flat on the floor, arms ominously crossed, his massive form dwarfing the tiny stool. His expression was wooden, and the pint glass of Guinness in front of him was untouched. Next to him sat an elderly lady whom Rachel assumed was Eleanor Carwell; she was dressed in a twinset the color of an old orange and a tweed skirt in complementing browns. She had a thimbleful of sherry on the table in front of her and was looking around the pub, herlips pursed. Lily, Rachel saw, had a half-pint of cider. She’d turned eighteen in February, so Rachel could hardly protest her drinking, but she felt a strange prickling feeling at realizing just how much her baby sister was growing up.
“Right, shall we get going?” Rob came from behind the bar, his gaze skimming over the crowd and resting briefly on Rachel before he started on the questions and everyone grabbed papers and stubs of pencil.
Rachel didn’t feel the usual rush of determination to get the answers faster than anyone else. Lucy and Juliet had both reached for pencils, but she simply sat there, cradling her wine, as Rob called out, “Right, first question. What is the capital of Mongolia?”
“Mongolia?” Lucy, designated writer, looked up from the paper. “Who knows that?”
“You’ve been doing the pub quiz every week for six months and you don’t know the capital of Mongolia?” Juliet scoffed.
“Do you know it?”
“No. Why would I?”
They both turned to Rachel. “You must know it, Rachel,” Lucy said.
“Ulaanbaatar,” Rachel said without enthusiasm. “Rob’s trotted out the capital-of-Mongolia question at least three times before.”
“How do you spell it?”
Rachel spelled it out between sips of wine and then Rob cleared his throat meaningfully and moved on to the next question about the Lake District’s deepest lake.
“Now, that’s just a freebie,” Juliet scoffed. “Everyone knows it’s Wastwater.”
“And for an extra point,” Rob called out, “how deep is it?”
Juliet fell silent, and Rachel sighed. “Two hundred forty-three feet deep,” she said.
“How do you know these things, Rachel?”
“I’m a font of useless knowledge.” And she’d done geography A level, along with chemistry, further maths, and biology. It seemed a lifetime ago. It was.
“You’re not so keen tonight,” Juliet remarked when Rob had called for an intermission and Peter had gone up to the bar to refill everyone’s drinks.
“Just tired.” Rachel glanced over at the next table; Claire was looking flushed and happy, and Lily was laughing. Dan’s expression was as implacable as ever, but Eleanor looked like she might have smiled at some point in the evening. Restlessness stirred, along with the feeling that everyone was enjoying themselves and she didn’t think she could have a good time if she tried.
“You worried about your mum?” Juliet asked.
