Truly Madly Guilty

'Okay, that's enough,' said Clementine.

'Oh dearie me,' said Pam.

Sam stood. There was blood on his hand. For a moment the only sound was the perpetual patter of rain.

'Do you want me to take a look at that cut?' offered Sylvia.

'No,' said Sam rudely. He sucked the side of his hand. He breathed heavily. 'I need to get some air.' He left the room. That was all Sam did these days: leave the room.

'Well! There's a little drama to spice things up,' said Sylvia.

Oliver stood and began collecting the pieces of glass in the palm of his hand.

'Come and sit here with me, Holly,' said Erika, pushing back her chair and patting her legs, and to Clementine's surprise, Holly slid off her chair and ran to her.

'I had told you to be careful, Holly,' said Clementine, and she knew her sharp rebuke was only because she'd been expecting the comfort of Holly's body against hers. She wanted Holly to s

it on her lap, not Erika's, and that was childish. All her emotions had become tiny and twisted. She really should cancel her audition. She was too emotionally stunted to ever be a good musician. She imagined her bow screeching and scraping across the strings as if she'd suddenly become a beginner: squeaky unpleasant notes to match her squeaky, unpleasant emotions.

'Right. Well. Cups of tea? Coffee?' said Pam. 'Erika brought along some very nice chocolate nuts that will go very nicely with a cup of tea. Just the ticket!'

'Isn't she clever,' said Sylvia.

'I'm quite remarkable,' said Erika.

As Pam began the complicated process of confirming everyone's tea and coffee orders, Clementine collected plates and took them into the kitchen. Her father followed her, carrying Ruby, who had that comfy, superior look children always got in the arms of a tall man; like a fat-cheeked little sultan.

'You okay?' said her father.

'Fine,' said Clementine. 'Sorry about Sam. He's just stressed about work, I think.'

'Yes, he does seem stressed about the new job,' said Martin. He put Ruby down as she began to wriggle. 'But I think it's more than that.'

'Well, it's been hard for him ever since the ... accident,' said Clementine.

She wasn't sure if she was allowed to call it an accident, if that implied she didn't consider herself responsible.

'Sam blames himself for not watching Ruby - and I think, I know, he also blames me,' said Clementine. It was somehow easier to just baldly admit it to her dad, who would just take what she said at face value, rather than her mother, who would listen too intently and empathetically and filter everything through her own emotions.

'And I guess I blame him,' said Clementine. 'And at the same time we're both pretending we don't blame each other at all.'

'Right,' said her father. 'Well, that's called being married. You're always blaming each other for something.' He opened a kitchen cupboard and began taking out mugs. 'What's the bet I'm getting the wrong ones out?' He turned to look at Clementine, holding two mugs by the handles on his fingertips. 'But I reckon there's something more going on. He's not right. He isn't quite right in the head.'

'Not those ones, Martin.' Pam bustled into the kitchen. 'We want the nice ones.' She took the mugs off him and swiftly put them away. 'Who isn't right in the head?'

'Sam,' said Clementine.

'I've been saying that for weeks,' said Pam.

chapter seventy

'Hello again.'

Tiffany lifted her umbrella to see who had spoken. She was walking through the quadrangle towards the Saint Anastasias shop to buy Dakota's uniform for next year.

It was Andrew's wife again. Of course it was. Murphy's Law would ensure that Tiffany ran into this woman and/or her husband every time she entered the school and at every school event until Dakota finished high school. It wasn't going to be at all uncomfortable. No! It was going to be freaking great. Cara and Dakota would become best friends. They'd invite them over for a barbeque. 'Where did you guys meet?' the nice wife would innocently ask, and her husband would clutch his chest and drop dead of a heart attack (handy!). Except then Oliver would rush over from next door and revive him.

'Tiffany, right? I'm Lisa,' said Andrew's wife. She tilted back her own battered umbrella to reveal her face. There were soft pink pouches under her eyes. One of the metal spokes of her umbrella had broken free of the fabric and was directed at her face like a weapon. 'You probably don't remember me. I sat next to you at the Information Morning.'