I sit on the landing—I’ll have to wash these clothes later anyway—and pull out my phone. No messages. Disappointing. Jack has not miraculously found my number and sent a message apologizing for his abrupt departure yesterday, which would be the polite, gentlemanlything to do, but no matter. I pull up his profile anyway, scroll through the public photos again. Nothing new. Nothing to sate my interest. I need more.
It might be time to use Sally.
Sally is one of my more successful investments. A divorced, middle-aged mother of two, she enjoys baking, crafting, and taking hikes in the glorious British countryside. Periodically, she shares gratifying posts about finding love again, though—for the benefit of her ex-husband—she will occasionally write cryptic updates about how she “had the best time last night,” with a not-so-cryptic winky face tacked on to the end.
Sally is most frequently to be found online in the evening, between the hours of ten and midnight. Her current profile picture features a woman with graying hair. She sits in a run-down café, a small, fluffy dog in her arms. She’s focusing on the weak-looking cup of coffee that has just been placed in front of her, her face angled away from the camera, so that half of it is in shadow.
I log out of my own profile and type Sally’s email address and password into the login page. I’m greeted with a few prosaic updates from people I’m keeping tabs on. Rita’s shared yet another insufferable post about heaven, no doubt in the hope that’s where her dead father has ended up. Somehow, I doubt it. I might need to unfriend her soon: She seems to be losing her grip on reality, and these posts are becoming tedious.
But back to the task at hand. I type Jack’s name into the search bar, and this time I don’t hesitate. I click the “Add Friend” button and feel better instantly. In control. Purposeful. People, I’ve discovered, don’t do well without something to work toward.
It buoys me enough to go back downstairs in search of cleaning products.
Mum’s where I left her, another lit cigarette clenched between herfingers. It turns my stomach. Disgusting habit. I’ll have to be quick. The cancer statistics for inhaling secondhand smoke are dismal.
She looks up as I enter, and I don’t like her expression. There’s something knowing, almost expectant about it. I clear my throat pointedly in the fuggy air.
“You’ve got rats.”
Her mouth twitches, but it’s no laughing matter. “At least I had something to keep me company,” she says.
“There’s a dead one on my bed. Rotting. You should get someone in.”
She taps her cigarette against the edge of the mug, and I watch a pillar of ash tumble in. My stomach heaves again. “Expensive. And it’swe.”
“What?”
“You saidyou’vegot rats. You live here now, too, don’t you? You deal with it. Call someone if you like. I’m not paying for it.”
I stare at her, hoping my disbelief is evident. “I can’t afford it. You know that’s why I’m here.”
She shrugs in response. There’s something about the way she’s watching me that makes me pause in my quest for cleaning products. Direct, unwavering. Like she’s trying to provoke a reaction. I wonder if there’s something I’m missing. Some small misstep I’ve made already.
Mentally, I retrace my steps through the house, searching for a reason for the knowing, steady look she’s giving me. It hits me all at once. Of course. I can’t believe I missed it. The photograph of Marcie and me, utterly untouched by the dust. Not a shrine at all, but a reminder. A reminder intended for me, and me alone. The picture was so clean it could have been placed there yesterday. It probably was.
Which means—a surge of outrage—that she must have seen the rat on my bed. That she did nothing about it. I won’t let myself consider that she’d put it there herself.
So that’s how she’s going to play it. She’s laid down the gauntlet, but she forgets that I’m more than up for the challenge.
I start by ignoring her pointed look. I find a plastic bag and cleaning products under the sink. Token reminders of a once-clean house. On my way out, I turn and give her a sweet, girlish smile, like I’m a dutiful daughter and she’s a doting mother.
Back upstairs, I book an appointment with the hairdresser for the very next day.
Six
My earliest memoryis of Marcie bathed in a pool of golden light. It is one of those intangible recollections where you’re never quite sure if you’ve conflated and warped it. Added details here and there to bolster a particular feeling or emotion.
It was our first day of primary school, so we can’t have been more than five, but I distinctly remember the thrum of anxiety in my chest. Meeting new people. Understanding social dynamics. Marcie was bouncing off the walls at the promise of it all. That morning, Mum had dressed us in our new uniforms: pinafore dresses, checkered shirts neatly ironed underneath. The cheap material was scratchy against my skin. I looked at myself in the mirror and held out my hand as I’d seen my parents doing with new people.
“Hello,” I said, and the gesture felt awkward and alien. “I’m Iris.”
When it was time to go, I gripped my new book bag so hard my hands grew sweaty.
Marcie ran ahead of us on the walk there. I hung back, a step or two behind Mum and Dad, and dragged my feet. Periodically, Dad checkedover his shoulder for me. Mum’s attention, as always, was on Marcie. She darted, spritelike, between the trees, ebullient with excitement.
We walked through the park as an odd isosceles triangle, as though, even then, Marcie—detached from our little group as she was—was somehow distinct from our prosaic trio. The tree canopy in the early-September light threw strange shadows onto the concrete walkway. Marcie, at least twenty feet ahead of us, had stopped to wait, her whole body gyrating with impatience.
“Wait there,” Mum called to her. “Don’t go onto the road alone.”
