The Dead Lie Down by Sophie Hannah Page B

so okay for one in his forties.’ That was the sort of opinion my father might hold, and I didn’t want to share anything with him, not even an opinion about something trivial.
    I smelled fruity soap, or shower gel. I scanned the room for a basin, but couldn’t see one. Where was Aidan’s bathroom? I wondered. On the other side of the workshop? I was about to ask when I noticed the walls, and as soon as I did, I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long to spot the only truly bizarre thing about this room. Three of the four walls were covered with what I imagined was Aidan’s handiwork: extravagant frames—one had a carved wooden crown attached to its top edge—as well as lots of ordinary ones, pale or dark wood, flat or slightly curved.
    One thing was not ordinary: none of the frames had anything in them.
    Aidan was squatting in front of his miniature fridge. ‘Cheese sandwich do you?’ he said. ‘Think it’ll have to. I’ve got a carton of orange juice.’ He sounded surprised.
    When he stood up, he saw me staring. ‘I told you I was the best,’ he said. He crossed the room and started to point out individual frames. ‘This one’s a palladian,’ he said. ‘With the sticky-out corners. It’s based on the pattern of a Greek temple. This one’s called egg-and-dart, for obvious reasons. Can you see the pattern?’
    ‘Why’s there nothing in them?’ I blurted out. ‘Why have you framed . . . nothing ?’
    His expression hardened. ‘These are highly collectable,’ he said. ‘It’s not nothing, it’s black card. It’s a statement. The artist wants to make you think.’ His mouth twitched. Then he started to laugh. ‘I’m having you on,’ he said. ‘It’s just backing card.’
    I don’t like being tricked. The joke over, he didn’t explain. I didn’t find out why he’d put frames on his walls with no pictures inside them. I didn’t particularly care. All I wanted was the orange juice and the cheese sandwich he’d offered me. I was so hungry that I was finding it hard to keep thoughts in my head. I was also worried my breath stank. Had I even brushed my teeth?
    Standing in Aidan’s one-room home, the stark fact of how low I’d sunk in two months hit me like a boulder in the chest. What was wrong with me, that I’d let it happen? I could have reacted differently. Better.
    ‘What are you thinking?’ Aidan asked, cutting cheese with a paint-spotted Stanley knife.
    ‘Nothing,’ I said quickly.
    ‘Yeah, you were.’
    He hadn’t answered my question about the frames, so I didn’t have to answer his. I knew he was as aware of this as I was.
    He gave me my sandwich and a glass of orange juice. I sat cross-legged on the floor to eat it. It tasted divine. ‘Want another one?’ Aidan said, watching me devour the sandwich as if I’d never seen food before.
    I nodded.
    ‘Want to tell me the story of why you left Hansard’s place?’
    ‘There’s nothing to tell. An artist brought in one of her paintings to be framed; I asked her if I could buy it; she said no, it wasn’t for sale.’ I recited woodenly. ‘I asked her if I could buy any of her other pictures, and she said none of her work was for sale.’
    ‘That’s crazy,’ said Aidan, his back to me as he foraged in the fridge again. ‘An artist who won’t sell any of her work? I’ve never heard of that before.’
    I shivered. Crazy. Like having empty frames all over your walls, with no pictures in them.
    ‘So? What happened?’ Aidan asked.
    ‘She accused me of harassing her.’ I took a sip of my orange juice, hoping he would leave the subject alone.
    ‘Sounds like a standard shit day at work,’ he said. ‘Why did you leave? Hansard weighed in on your side, didn’t he?’
    He sounded as if he was guessing. Saul hadn’t told him.
    Aidan handed me another cheese sandwich. It had dents in the bread from his thumb and forefinger. He looked down at me, frowning. ‘You’ll have to toughen up,’ he said. ‘I’m not having