In — one, out — two, in — three, out — four. In — five?—
A burst of music pounded through the ceiling and Catherine’s eyes snapped open.
What the—?She reached for her phone, tapping her hand across the bedside table where it should have been charging, before remembering she’d left it in her bag at the front door.
Is that the bloody Spice Girls?Catherine tilted her head, making out the words toSpice Up Your Lifeas the song thundered through the floorboards. She pulled a pillow around her ears and let out an anguished grunt.
The upstairs apartment had been empty ever since its former occupant — her dear friend Bridie — had passed away over a year ago. Catherine had grown accustomed to the quiet of the empty space that loomed above her. The music stopped suddenly, yielding to a thick, padded silence.
Catherine rolled onto her side. Sleep had been elusive recently, with all the worries at work and her recurring nightmares starting up again. If only she could close her eyes and?—
A splintering crack shattered her short-lived peace; and with a jolt of adrenaline she envisaged a dumbbell being dropped on the hardwood floor. She whipped off the duvet and swung her legs out of bed, imagining the offending article crashing through the ceiling. It didn’t, but the noise had rattled her nerves and woken her fully. She couldn’t exactly go up there and investigate in her pyjamas — well, she could, but she wouldn’t. The thought of confronting a loud and inconsiderate stranger filled her with dread.
Resigning herself to wakefulness, Catherine flicked onthe bedside lamp, shooting daggers at the ceiling as if the noisemaker might somehow feel her wrath through the void that divided them.
She padded into the kitchen. The soft pelmet lighting flickered on, and she tutted at the oven clock.4:41.She boiled the kettle and made herself a cup of chamomile — another of her top tips for patients; she’d even written a blog about it. She’d never admitted to anyone that she didn’t actually enjoy the flowery taste.
Why is it that often the things that taste bad are good for you, yet the things that taste good are, more often than not, bad? And why must every thought lead back to bloody Francesca?
With that thought came the echo of Penny’s mini-lecture about the Daltons and how it was maybe time to let go. Catherine fished her phone from her bag and took her tea through to the bedroom, climbing back into bed and propping up the pillows.
Right, let’s get this over with, shall we, Jeremy?
She put on her reading glasses, and after a sharp inhale, clicked into the messages app.
Jeremy:
I trust all went well with Alice today. You were right. It’s for the best that I wasn’t there, but I do feel terrible about dragging you into all this. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to make it up to you.
Catherine exhaled and scrolled on.
Jeremy:
Just a thought, why don’t you join Francesca and I for dinner next week? We haven’t done that for years, have we?
“Yes, for bloody good reason.”
Jeremy:
Just the three of us, what do you say? It’ll be like the good old times x
“Absolutely not.”They were not good old times.
The fresh face of twenty-year-old Francesca surfaced in Catherine’s mind again, those dark eyes smouldering with desire as she sank her teeth into her lower lip. Catherine shook the thought away and refocused on her phone screen.
Jeremy:
Scrap that, silly idea. I’ve spent the afternoon with my good old chum, Johnnie Walker. He’s a terrible influence. If you fancy a drink after work, why don’t you pop by?
Don’t worry, Francesca isn’t home!!!
The last message from Jeremy had arrived just after 1 a.m.
Jeremy:
Sorry to bother you again, Catherine, but have you heard from Francesca? Her phone is off, and she’s not answering my calls. Is she with you?
Catherine rolled her eyes. “Why on earth would she bewith me?” She removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose before a soft chuckle escaped her. “Just how drunk were you, Jeremy?”
