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‘You’re seeing him.’

‘Who?’ For one ludicrous moment it seemed that he was accusing her of an affair. Imogen could feel an inappropriate laugh welling up. Did he not know how ridiculously unlikely that was?

‘Steve bloody Lowe.’

Imogen looked back at the papers in his hand, the almost-laugh giving way to something else. Anger. ‘Dave, you cannot look at those. This is . . . you know, they’re confidential. I could lose my job.’

He had thrown back his head, laughed, looking now like the stranger she had first thought he was. ‘Well, how bloody ironic! Especially given that your boyfriend is trying to get me fired.’

‘He’s not my . . . he’s a client, Dave. It’s my job.’ The anger swelling, turning her voice into something that she didn’t recognise.

Then he had walked towards her, quick strides, a flat, furious stare. Had thrust the papers at her, releasing them so that they sprinkled the ground, confetti at a wedding. ‘Here, have your fucking client! If you’re not careful, that’ll be all you do have.’

‘So . . .’ Imogen’s mother set down her cutlery, forehead wrinkled in a frown. ‘Any thoughts about wedding dates, finally?’

Dave had turned the fork, was shovelling the curry into his mouth. Sweat had begun to build up on his forehead.

‘You’ll want a summer wedding. A summer wedding is always best. And our church. Of course. You’ll want our church.’ She leaned in, patted Dave’s arm. ‘Imogen went to Sunday school there. I’ll talk to our vicar. He’ll be thrilled. Thrilled.’

Dave nodded, and Imogen could see the muscles tight in his jaw.

A knot settled into her stomach, a gnawing, biting fear. She chewed slowly on her chicken, tried not to wince as her stomach ached. Looked out of the window. She could see the sea, the waves building, thumping into the rocks.

‘It’s such a pity Mara couldn’t come.’ Her mother picked up her fork again, moving her salad around the plate. ‘It’s not the same without her.’

Imogen had invited Mara. Had known that it was a long shot. But she wanted her there, for moral support. And it would do her good to have a break, get out from the hospital, if only for an hour or so. And Amy was doing so well. The doctors would release her tomorrow, all being well. They had been standing at the foot of Amy’s bed, watching as Natalie examined the little girl. Amy had been singing, ‘Old Macdonald had a farm’.

‘What do you think? It would just be for a couple of hours.’ Imogen had smiled as Amy hit a high note, fell off the top of it. ‘I tried to put Mum off, but you know how she is. So, will you come?’

Mara hadn’t looked at her, had been studying Natalie, never taking her eyes off the nurse as she examined her daughter. ‘I can’t come, Im. You know that.’

Natalie was singing along with Amy, her face creased into a smile. ‘Oh my, that’s a lovely song, Amy.’ Then she had glanced over her shoulder. ‘Oh, go on, Mara. You go. It would do you good. Amy’ll be fine.’ Had stroked Amy’s cheek. ‘I’ll be here.’

Imogen had felt her twin stiffen beside her, could see her face sliding into that smile – the one that she didn’t mean.

‘No, no.’ Mara had said, tight-lipped. ‘I’m fine.’

Imogen had watched her sister watching the nurse.

Natalie had glanced around, was waiting expectantly. ‘You sure?’ A smile, a shrug. Looked back down at Amy and ruffled her hair. ‘Okay. Well, if you change your mind . . .’

Mara had watched the nurse as she adjusted Amy’s pyjamas, had watched her as she gathered up her papers, as she turned, tugging the door open, closing it softly behind her.

‘I don’t like that woman,’ said Mara.

A shriek of laughter broke from the party now, rolling across the restaurant. Imogen’s mother tutted, Dave sinking further down into his seat. Imogen’s father had divided up his chips, sectioning them off, ensuring that there was sufficient to be shared equally between mouthfuls of meat.

‘I went to see the doctor yesterday.’ Imogen’s mother leaned forward, shifting to catch her eye.

‘Oh?’ Imogen worked to muster concern, but found only an empty space. So many of their conversations began this way.

‘Terrible stomach pains.’ Her mother rubbed her hand against her belly. Winced. ‘Just terrible. He’s sending me for tests.’ She sat upright, a fleeting look of something that looked like triumph. ‘Between you and me, I think he’s quite concerned.’ She shook her head. ‘I just hope I’ll be okay for your wedding.’

Dave took a long pull of his lager.

Her mother gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t know. We don’t have much luck, do we? Seems that our entire lives begin and end in the hospital. But then,’ another laugh, ‘that’s true of everyone, I suppose.’ She leaned in, nudged Dave. ‘I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for.’ Shook her head. ‘What with my health problems, Mara’s heart and Imogen’s “incident” . . . no, we’re not lucky at all.’

It had been a tumbledown autumn day, the lawn thickly buried in crisp leaves, reds and browns, Imogen and Mara seven years old. Their father had been burning rubbish, a bonfire piled up high, a thick pall of smoke hanging in the air that caught in your throat, clambering its way into your lungs. They were playing, tromping across the bed of leaves, loud shrieks that grated on their mother’s nerves. But they were being careful. You had to be, in this garden. Their home was built on the side of a hill, a not-quite-mountain that climbed up into the sky, then gave up for want of will. You could see it from all around the city, could point to it and say, ‘You see that castle? Right there at the top of the hill? That’s where I live.’ It wasn’t a castle, not really. Merely a ruin of coal-stained days, a relic of the mining industry that sat precipitously above their childhood home, dominating the area. But when you were a child, it was a castle. The house clung to the side of the hill, an ungainly affair with a front door where the roof should be, a bedroom where there should be a basement. And the garden, steeply tiered, layers of lawns that gave way to cavernous drops. You had to be careful playing in the garden, had to stay away from the edges, not run too fast, just in case you couldn’t stop in time. And Imogen was being careful. She was, after all, the good girl.

When she thought back to that night afterwards, it was that smell she would remember. The smoke, the burning pine, the spit, the crackle. Her mother’s voice.
Be careful there
. The prickle of rain in the air, misting against her skin. Studying her feet, watching as the red patent shoes melted into the umber autumn leaves. Then falling. It seemed to last for ever, a limitless breadth of time in a child’s mind, that tumbling, breathless, flashing by the brick wall, creeping weeds, falling and falling, thinking of Alice, wondering if there would be a rabbit with a pocket watch waiting for her when she reached the bottom of this rabbit hole. Then nothing. Later on, things would creep in. A scream. A squalling siren. The feel of hands. The smell of antiseptic, and knowing that she was in a hospital. She knew the smell well.

Her mother had never left her side.

She was, the doctors had said, lucky. A broken arm, concussion from the impact of her head against the brick wall. It was a miracle, really. She could easily have died.

Imogen reached up, ran her fingers across the ridged scar that cut across her forehead, feeling its contours, a disaster that stood proud above the plane of her life. A roar of laughter broke free from the opposite table, the birthday girl dry-humping a blow-up naked doll. Imogen’s mother huffed, and Imogen shook herself, shifting her fringe back into position. Covering up the scar.

IT IS LATE
by the time I leave my mother’s house, the rain coming down in torrential swathes. The others remain behind. They will stay until the food has run out, until the television is blaring with late-night infomercials, my mother falling asleep in her chair. They never have been very good at making a timely exit, not like me.

I steer the car along quiet streets, driving a bow-wave of water before me. I feel like I am all alone in the world. I don’t go home, because what would be the point? Instead I follow the coast, watch as the waves lap against the shoreline, the bright lights of the pier up ahead. Imagine myself in that life, where a Saturday night is spent in a bar, a penny arcade, instead of in a car, contemplating your own death. I turn right without indicating, take the hill at speed. I can see Mara’s house ahead of me, the whole thing swathed in darkness. I stop a few doors away. Turn off the engine, and listen to the rain thunder on the roof. I watch the house. Because what else do I have to do?

I had decided to kill myself once before. I don’t remember why, just that it had been a something and a nothing; there had been a straw, something that snapped the camel’s back in two, and it had forced my hand. I would die that day. It had been decided.

The thought had come with a flush of something warm, a feeling so alien that it took me a while to recognise it. Relief. It would be over soon. I was almost there. People talk about the human urge to cling to life. Those people have not lived my life. They talk of life as a gift, a boon. But I was alone, no matter how surrounded by people I was, encased in this bulletproof bubble that nothing seemed to penetrate. I had tried to break through, had tried to reach the people on the other side, but no matter how hard I pushed, the world pushed me back. And so, to me, life had become the cross upon which I had been hung. And I just wanted it to end.

Then came Mara.

I was sitting in an empty waiting room, lavender walls, a line of wood-backed chairs, a fledgling ficus in a yellow-painted pot. Waiting for Imogen. The thrum of rain on the roof, a musty, damp day. Afterwards I would wonder what had kept me there, waiting. After all, I had already decided to die. Why had I not just left, got it over and done with? So Imogen would be disappointed when she opened her door, realised I was gone, maybe even angry. So what? It was my time, and nothing else should matter. And for a while I would cling to this – the fact that I had stayed – and would see it as fate, that life had repealed itself, placing something good in my way, something to make me want to stay. Now, I see it as proof that the world is never done fucking you.

Mara came into the waiting room, a hurricane of umbrella and raincoat, dripping rain onto the grey carpet. The familiarity of a face that I have seen a thousand times. I looked up at her, couldn’t not, because that’s her – the kind of person who draws your eye in, forces you to look, whether you want to or not.

Mara looked at me. Smiled. Her always perfect smile.

‘It’s a terrible day.’ She was looking at me, expectantly, and my voice had gone, hurried to death before me.

So I nodded instead. A bare dip of the head. And waited for her to leave, to see that quick, familiar frown fly across her face, the sudden awareness that I am nothing, the shutters sliding down. I held my breath.

But Mara didn’t do any of that. Instead, she pulled off her raincoat, flinging it so that it hung across a chair, gave her umbrella a half-hearted shake, sinking into the chair adjacent to mine. Even though the waiting room was empty. Even though there were many other chairs. I didn’t breathe, couldn’t look at her. I could smell the rain on her, the way it mixed with her perfume, and part of me wanted to get up, walk away. I looked at Imogen’s door, still resolutely closed, and I wondered if she could see through it somehow, if in some way she knew. I felt a splurge of something I couldn’t put my finger on. Guilt, perhaps?

Mara sighed, a showcase sigh, and I looked at her. Couldn’t help myself.

‘So . . . how late is Im running?’ She looked at me, her gaze locked with mine. Like she was waiting for an answer to a question she hadn’t asked.

‘I, ah . . . think you should settle in for a wait.’ I was lying. I was there early.

She laughed, a full-throated laugh, and I wondered just what it was that I had said, and how it could have possibly been so funny. She was looking at me, was studying me with a smile, and I felt something shift in me, an unfurling. The sense of being seen.

And I resolved that I wouldn’t kill myself. Not that day.

A car passes me, its waterlogged headlights flooding through my car, and I hunker down lower in the driver’s seat. I watch as the silver Mercedes pulls into an adjacent drive. Then transfer my attention back to Mara’s house. There is not a splotch of light, no sign of movement. But somehow it doesn’t matter to me that she isn’t there. Just being here is enough.

I WAVE MY
key card across the sensor, listen for the low beep, tug the door towards me. The stairwell is bleached with light, heat like I’m standing on the face of the sun. I take the stairs, two at a time, trying to ignore the sweat that breaks out on my forehead, my shoes click-clacking, echoing against the whitewashed walls. Can feel my hair plastered to the nape of my neck, wish that I’d had the wherewithal to bring a hairband, know that there are rings of sweat beneath my arms.

God, I wish I had swum this morning.

I didn’t. I stayed in bed. My body feels strange, aching for the lack of ache, naked without the smell of chlorine. I woke at my usual time, 5.58 a.m., a start as if my alarm clock had gone off, even though it hadn’t. My stomach turning, for reasons that at the time I couldn’t identify. I lay there, with the quilt thrown back, a star shape on an unmade bed, listening to the sounds that filtered through the open window – a passing car, a bird that would not shut up. I should have been pulling into the pool car park now, easing my way through the automatic barrier, my eyes skittering across the car park, the way they always do, searching for Aden’s car. I had forced my eyes closed again, thought that I could get another hour of sleep. Should have been in the changing room now, tugging off the clothes I had hastily thrown on, dragging my hair back into a low bun. Now, slipping into the chill water. With Aden.