Where Have You Been? by Wendy James Page B

photograph. What does she look like? The waitress is waiting, would sigh or tap her foot if she could.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ Susan is apologetic again, ‘I’m sure she’ll work it out. It’ll be fine.’
    â€˜Just the champagne, then?’
    â€˜Just the champagne.’
    A woman walks into the restaurant alone. She is fortyish, tall, dressed casually but expensively in pale jeans and a white silk shirt, her blonded hair cut fashionably short. Susan stands up nervously as the woman looks around. She is just as Susan imagined her, just as she dreamed her. She waves, but the woman doesn’t see, so Susan hurries inside. The woman is walking confidently towards an elderly couple who greet her brightly from the rear of the restaurant. The waitress follows, her pencil at the ready. Susan slinks back to her outside table, pours herself another glass of champagne. The bottle is nearly empty. Her hand is shaking. She will have to catch a taxi home.
    â€˜Are you Susan?’
    Her hair is blonde – not the golden colour Susan remembers, but peroxide blonde, dark at the roots – and straggles limply to her shoulders. Her face is thin, and pale, fine lines are etched about her eyes and mouth. Her lips are a violent magenta slash. Susan scrapes her chair back, gets unsteadily to her feet. The woman is small – much smaller than Susan remembers, or expects, she’s probably no taller than Susan herself. Her worn black jeans are slung low on her hips, a grimy white t-shirt ends a few inches above her bellybutton. She has a tattoo around her upper arm, and a gleaming silver stud in her nose. Susan stands there stupidly, just looking at her. She doesn’t know what to do, what to say.
    The woman smiles. One of her front teeth is badly chipped. ‘You’ll catch flies, Sukey,’ she says, ‘standing there with your mouth open.’
    When Ed and the kids get home Susan is sitting at the kitchen table, trying to work out the Herald wordsquare:

    Ed puts a video on for the kids, comes back into the kitchen. He kisses Susan on the mouth. Recoils. ‘Jesus, Susan! You didn’t drive home, did you?’
    â€˜No. Yes, I did.’ Sighs. Lies. ‘I didn’t actually drink that much ... two glasses, maybe three. But early, before she arrived. She was very late.’
    Susan looks back down at the paper. The letters lurch and dance about the page. She tries hard to focus, but they don’t make any sense; will not form a word.
    TENICIPED
    CEPITINED
    Ed boils the kettle, makes coffee for them both. The smell makes her feel slightly queasy.
    â€˜Well?’ He pulls out a chair, sits down heavily.
    â€˜I just can’t get it.’
    â€˜Not the word.’ He tugs the newspaper away impatiently. ‘Don’t be thick, Susy. What happened? Was it her? What was she like?’
    â€˜What happened?’ Susan would like to be very blunt, to tell him everything. Even the part where she got pissed, then vomited in a public toilet and drove home very slowly.
    â€˜Well,’ she says instead, ‘you know. We had lunch. We talked.’
    â€˜Susy. Is it her? Does she seem like she could be Karen? The way you remember her? What’s she like?’
    â€˜Oh.’ Susan thinks for a moment, decides to keep it simple. ‘She’s small. Blonde. Had pate for entree. Lobster for main. Drinks red wine. Likes animals and small children. She’s okay.’
    â€˜That’s all?’
    â€˜What do you want?’
    He waits, counts ten. Tries again.
    â€˜Did you ask her, Susy? Why she left. What happened?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You didn’t ask her? What did you talk about, then?’
    â€˜Nothing. I don’t know ... It was just chat, Ed. Nothing deep or meaningful. We didn’t bare our souls or dredge up our dreary past. We talked about the weather, the price of eggs...’
    â€˜Well, how will you know if it’s her if