The Hidden Girl by Louise Millar

longer he was away from her, the more he saw the truth. The move wasn’t fixing things. It was ripping their world further apart. The earth was opening up beneath them, shifting them out of each other’s reach.
    He had lied to Hannah on the phone tonight.
    When Clare had walked into the flat and shouted ‘Hello’, he’d said it was Jeremiah’s girlfriend, then pretended that the phone signal had died.
    He didn’t want to think why.
    ‘Will, do you want coffee?’ Clare shouted again.
    He couldn’t ignore her. It would be rude.
    ‘Hi,’ he said, opening the bedroom door.
    ‘Hey! You came – excellent.’
    ‘Yeah, I thought the hotels might be closed. So, thanks.’ He tried not to slur. It felt like trying to control a skidding car.
    ‘Oh, you’re really welcome.’ Her nose was pink again, and ice dripped off her hat. Perhaps because he was pissed, she reminded him – with her silvery eyes – of the penny arcades in Great Yarmouth that Nan took him and Laurie to on summer nights.
    He touched the sofa, trying to stay steady.
    ‘So you got in OK?’ she asked, removing her coat. He averted his eyes from her dress.
    ‘Yeah,’ he said, not knowing where to put himself in the tiny sitting room. It felt awkward. She seemed different, here, among her own things. More confident. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun. She picked up a tartan blanket and threw it over her shoulders, and gave a big comedy shiver.
    ‘Sorry – it’s freezing in here.’
    ‘No. It’s good,’ he said, wondering whether he should sit down.
    ‘So was that your wife you were speaking to?’ She motioned towards Jamie’s room.
    The word ‘wife’ still sounded strange to him. Another thing he’d done for Hannah, because she thought it would improve their chances with Barbara – even though previously she’d been no more bothered about marriage than him.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How’s she managing in the snow?’ Clare sat on a sofa that was covered in lace and cushions. She motioned to an old leather chair, and he sat unsteadily. ‘Matt said your new house is in the middle of nowhere?’
    ‘Yeah, um . . .’
    Jesus. Talk, man. If he didn’t start acting normal soon, she’d worry about having him in the flat. ‘Hannah’s not . . . She’s doesn’t spook easily.’
    Clare tucked her long legs under her denim dress. ‘Matt said she used to have an amazing job – travelling to war zones, or something?’
    Used to have.
    ‘No, not quite; she travelled to some dangerous places, but she is – well, she was – a press officer for a human-rights charity that campaigns for educators, so she used to take journalists to countries where people were jailed by governments for writing the wrong textbook or teaching the “wrong” thing – organizing a union, that kind of thing. Yeah, so . . .’
    ‘Wow.’ She watched him carefully. ‘But not any more?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘So, do you, um . . .’ she tried.
    He saw concern in her eyes.
    ‘Clare,’ he said. ‘Look. I’m sorry, but I’m wasted. I stayed in the pub.’
    Her expression immediately relaxed. ‘I knew it! You bunch of piss-heads.’
    He grinned, relieved.
    ‘Right, you’ve got no excuse then,’ she said, unwrapping herself. ‘You have to keep me company. They only drink tea and sherry at my sewing group – it’s all very vintage, you know.’
    She went to fetch whisky, two glasses and a packet of biscuits.
    ‘Jamie’s – don’t tell him. Do you want to put some music on?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    He was so pissed he grabbed the first thing – a Mazzy Star CD – and Clare lit candles and poured out the whisky. Slow, dream-like music filled the room. Will sat back, starting to feel relaxed, which was weird, because he hardly knew Clare.
    He lifted his glass. ‘Well, cheers. Thanks very much.’
    ‘You’re welcome,’ Clare said, winking. ‘I’m going to spinning class in the morning, so I reckon I’m allowed.’
    ‘Spinning class?’
    She made a face. ‘Only since I