Waiting for Wednesday by Nicci French Page A

neighbours have complained about all the bottles dumped in their gardens and the noise, and someone has peed into my ornamental orange tree in the hall.’
    ‘I will fix the washbasin anyway,’ said Josef. ‘And perhaps the wheelbarrow too.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Olivia, fervently.
    ‘Don’t let him take the washbasin away,’ said Frieda.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Is a joke,’ said Josef. ‘Is a joke against me by Frieda.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Josef, I didn’t mean that.’ She looked at the wheelbarrow. ‘How many did it hold?’
    Olivia gave a shaky giggle. ‘Something ludicrous, like seven. Standing up. It’s lucky nobody got themselves killed.’
    Although it was days later, the floor was still sticky underfoot. Pictures hung lopsidedly on the wall. There was the sweet smell of alcohol in the air, and Frieda saw dirty smudges on the paintwork and grime on the stair carpets.
    ‘It’s like one of those children’s picture books: spot the hidden object,’ said Olivia, pointing at a glass inside a shoe. ‘I keep finding unspeakable things.’
    ‘You mean condoms?’ asked Josef.
    ‘No! Oh, God, what happened that I don’t know about?’
    ‘No, no, is all right. I go on up.’ He bounded up the stairs, carrying his bag.
    ‘Let’s have something to drink,’ said Olivia, leading the way into the kitchen. ‘Sorry! I didn’t know you were back from school.’
    Chloë was sitting at the table, and opposite her was a gangly, dishevelled figure: a mop of greasy, dark-blond hair, feet in trainers with the laces undone, jeans sliding down his skinny frame. He turned his head and Frieda saw a thin, pallid face, hollow eyes. He looked bruised and wrung-out. Ted: the boy she had last seen retching over the toilet bowl. The boy who had just lost his mother. He met her gaze and a hectic blush mottled his cheeks. He muttered something incoherent and slumped further over the table with his face half hidden by one hand. Nails bitten to the quick. A little tattoo – or probably an ink drawing – on his thin wrist.
    ‘Hello, Frieda,’ said Chloë. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. It’s not chemistry today, you know.’
    ‘I’m here with Josef.’
    ‘The washbasin.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It must have been loose anyway. It just came away.’
    ‘Because two people sat on it!’ Olivia lowered her voice. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’
    Chloë looked embarrassed. ‘This is Ted. Ted, my mum.’
    Ted squinted up at Olivia and managed a hello. Olivia marched up to him, grabbed his limp, unwilling hand and shook it firmly. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘I keep telling Chloë she should bring friends home. Especially handsome young men like you.’
    ‘Mum! That’s why I don’t.’
    ‘Ted doesn’t mind. Do you, Ted?’
    ‘And this is Frieda,’ said Chloë, hastily. ‘She’s my aunt.’ She cast a beseeching glance at Frieda.
    ‘Hello.’ Frieda nodded at him. If it were possible, he turned even more crimson and stuttered something incoherent. She could see that he wanted to run and hide from the woman who’d seen him vomiting – weeping too.
    ‘Shall we go to my room?’ Chloë asked Ted, and he slid off the chair, a raw-boned, awkward, self-conscious young man, all angles and sharp edges.
    ‘I heard about your mother,’ Frieda said. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’
    She felt Olivia stiffen. Ted stared at her, his pupils enormous. Chloë picked up one of his hands and held it between her own to comfort him. For a moment he seemed stranded in his emotions, unable to move or speak.
    ‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘It’s just … Thanks.’
    ‘I hope you’re all receiving proper help.’
    ‘What?’ hissed Olivia, as Chloë led Ted from the room, glancing back over her shoulder with bright eyes. ‘Is that –’
    ‘Her friend whose mother was killed. Yes.’
    Olivia’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I didn’t make the connection. Poor boy. Poor, poor boy. What a