chastened.
Steven said, ‘I’ll make the tea. I know where the kitchen is.’
Brera stared at Steven, looked at him as if she had only just realized that he was there, that it was him . She felt as if everyone was trying to make her feel useless, as though, in some way, this entire situation was her responsibility; Sylvia - her indomitable will, her obstinacy - had nothing whatsoever to do with it.
The ambulanceman felt Sylvia’s pulse. ‘Her heart’s almost back to normal. She’ll wheeze badly for a few days. She’ll probably be very weak.’
He looked over at Brera. ‘How old is she? Thirteen? Fourteen?’
‘Nineteen. She just looks younger.’
‘You’ll have to be firm with her.’
She nodded, extremely resentful but incapable of expressing it. She wanted them all to go, then she would slap her, she could strangle her.
Of course she knew that she would do neither of these things. A cool bath and a packet of biscuits, she decided. They would have to suffice.
After carrying up the nebulizer, they set about rearranging the living-room furniture, pushing Sylvia, on the sofa, up against a wall so that the nebulizer could be placed next to a socket. As they worked a small congregation of birds accumulated on the window-sill. The door to the roof was still open and letting a cool breeze into the room; two or three birds were in the doorway. Brera, hawk-eyed, noticed them. She slammed the door and drew the curtains.
It was dark now. Sylvia turned her head and muttered something.
Brera moved closer, placing her ear next to Sylvia’s lips. ‘What?’
‘Open the curtains.’
She frowned. ‘Sorry?’
‘Open the bloody curtains!’
Brera smiled. ‘Open them yourself.’
Sylvia tried to move but she was too weak. She tried to speak again, but the ambulanceman gently placed the nebulizer mask across her nose and mouth. She stared at him, livid. What was he doing? He had gagged her. She closed her eyes. If she’d had the energy, she would have stopped breathing just to irritate him.
Later, after they’d gone, Brera sat in the kitchen with Steven and tried to explain. But Steven kept interjecting, to comment, to express sympathy and amazement.
When he was seventeen Steven had read the book Sybil , about a girl who’d had fourteen personalities. He’d also seen the film starring Sally Field. He said, ‘This is twice as interesting as Sybil . You should write a story about it. Sell it.’
Brera frowned. ‘This isn’t like that. It isn’t even very interesting. Only stupid. Stupid and sad.’
Steven was surprised by the ferocity in her voice. He said, ‘Of course it’s sad. I thought she was going to die back then. Just die as I stood there, holding her.’
Brera smiled at him, gently, wishing she owned a small firearm.
In the morning, bright and early, Ruby had taken the dog out for a long walk, down through Leicester Square, to the Embankment and along the river. This was now almost a habit, she decided, was already becoming one: last night, this morning. Thinking, walking. Couldn’t be bad.
When she arrived back at the flat, Vincent was still stretched out on the sofa, half-asleep. She pulled open the curtains. He groaned. ‘How early is it?’
She consulted her watch. ‘Nine-forty-five. I’m working ten till six.’
He sat up. Ruby noticed that he was wearing a shirt. He was slightly chubby. His stomach protruded and his navel stuck out too, like a white cherry on an iced cup-cake.
‘Why tell me that?’
‘What?’
‘Where you’re going to be and how long.’
He yawned, not really expecting an answer.
She picked up a large, aluminium pan from the draining-board, rinsed it out and then threw some Weetabix, water and milk into it. This mixture she mashed up with a fork and then put down on the floor for the dog.
‘Will you eat anything?’ he asked, meaning by this that he would, that he wanted some coffee.
‘I bought a cup of tea earlier.’
‘You haven’t
Steven said, ‘I’ll make the tea. I know where the kitchen is.’
Brera stared at Steven, looked at him as if she had only just realized that he was there, that it was him . She felt as if everyone was trying to make her feel useless, as though, in some way, this entire situation was her responsibility; Sylvia - her indomitable will, her obstinacy - had nothing whatsoever to do with it.
The ambulanceman felt Sylvia’s pulse. ‘Her heart’s almost back to normal. She’ll wheeze badly for a few days. She’ll probably be very weak.’
He looked over at Brera. ‘How old is she? Thirteen? Fourteen?’
‘Nineteen. She just looks younger.’
‘You’ll have to be firm with her.’
She nodded, extremely resentful but incapable of expressing it. She wanted them all to go, then she would slap her, she could strangle her.
Of course she knew that she would do neither of these things. A cool bath and a packet of biscuits, she decided. They would have to suffice.
After carrying up the nebulizer, they set about rearranging the living-room furniture, pushing Sylvia, on the sofa, up against a wall so that the nebulizer could be placed next to a socket. As they worked a small congregation of birds accumulated on the window-sill. The door to the roof was still open and letting a cool breeze into the room; two or three birds were in the doorway. Brera, hawk-eyed, noticed them. She slammed the door and drew the curtains.
It was dark now. Sylvia turned her head and muttered something.
Brera moved closer, placing her ear next to Sylvia’s lips. ‘What?’
‘Open the curtains.’
She frowned. ‘Sorry?’
‘Open the bloody curtains!’
Brera smiled. ‘Open them yourself.’
Sylvia tried to move but she was too weak. She tried to speak again, but the ambulanceman gently placed the nebulizer mask across her nose and mouth. She stared at him, livid. What was he doing? He had gagged her. She closed her eyes. If she’d had the energy, she would have stopped breathing just to irritate him.
Later, after they’d gone, Brera sat in the kitchen with Steven and tried to explain. But Steven kept interjecting, to comment, to express sympathy and amazement.
When he was seventeen Steven had read the book Sybil , about a girl who’d had fourteen personalities. He’d also seen the film starring Sally Field. He said, ‘This is twice as interesting as Sybil . You should write a story about it. Sell it.’
Brera frowned. ‘This isn’t like that. It isn’t even very interesting. Only stupid. Stupid and sad.’
Steven was surprised by the ferocity in her voice. He said, ‘Of course it’s sad. I thought she was going to die back then. Just die as I stood there, holding her.’
Brera smiled at him, gently, wishing she owned a small firearm.
In the morning, bright and early, Ruby had taken the dog out for a long walk, down through Leicester Square, to the Embankment and along the river. This was now almost a habit, she decided, was already becoming one: last night, this morning. Thinking, walking. Couldn’t be bad.
When she arrived back at the flat, Vincent was still stretched out on the sofa, half-asleep. She pulled open the curtains. He groaned. ‘How early is it?’
She consulted her watch. ‘Nine-forty-five. I’m working ten till six.’
He sat up. Ruby noticed that he was wearing a shirt. He was slightly chubby. His stomach protruded and his navel stuck out too, like a white cherry on an iced cup-cake.
‘Why tell me that?’
‘What?’
‘Where you’re going to be and how long.’
He yawned, not really expecting an answer.
She picked up a large, aluminium pan from the draining-board, rinsed it out and then threw some Weetabix, water and milk into it. This mixture she mashed up with a fork and then put down on the floor for the dog.
‘Will you eat anything?’ he asked, meaning by this that he would, that he wanted some coffee.
‘I bought a cup of tea earlier.’
‘You haven’t
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