Nine Perfect Strangers

At least give it a shot. Frances scratched irritably at her forearm, which she understood from a clickbait article to be a symptom of Alzheimer’s, although she couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure because she couldn’t goddamn Google it.

‘I can tell you this,’ said Masha. ‘There is another reality that sits alongside the physical reality. I now know that death is not to be feared.’

Although still best avoided, thought Frances. The more earnest people got, the more flippant she became. It was a flaw.

‘Death is simply a matter of leaving behind our earthly bodies.’ Masha moved her own earthly body with unearthly grace. She seemed to be demonstrating how one shrugged off a body. ‘It is a natural progression, like walking into another room, like leaving the womb.’

She stopped. There was movement at the back of the studio.

Frances turned and saw the youngest person there, Zoe, stand from her cross-legged position in one fluid movement.

‘Sorry,’ she said in a low mumble.

Frances noticed Zoe’s ears were studded with a multitude of earrings in unusual spots Frances didn’t even know it was possible to pierce. Her face was pale. She was so exquisite and heartbreaking, just because she was young, or maybe just because Frances was old.

‘Excuse me.’

Both her parents looked up at her in alarm, their hands outstretched as if to grab her. Zoe shook her head violently at them.

‘Bathrooms are just over there,’ said Masha.

‘I just need a little . . . air,’ said Zoe.

Heather got to her feet. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Mum, no, I’m fine,’ said Zoe. ‘Please, just let me . . .’ She indicated the door.

Everyone watched to see who would prevail.

‘I’m sure she is fine,’ said Masha decisively. ‘Come back when you are ready, Zoe. You are tired after your long journey, that’s all.’

Heather surrendered with obvious reluctance and sat back down.

Everyone watched Zoe leave.

The room felt unsettled now, as if Zoe’s departure had put things out of balance. Masha breathed in deeply through her nostrils and out through her mouth.

Someone spoke.

‘Listen, now this, ah . . . noble silence . . . has been broken, could I ask a question?’

It was the serial killer. He spoke belligerently, just like a serial killer, his mouth barely open, so that his words came out in pellets. He was clearly very upset.

Frances saw Masha’s eyes widen ever so slightly at this infraction. ‘If you feel it’s important right now.’

He jutted his chin. ‘Did someone go through our bags?’

chapter twelve

Zoe

Zoe stood at the bottom of the stairs outside the heavy oak door of the meditation room, bent double, her hands on her thighs, trying to catch her breath.

Lately she’d been having the occasional mini panic attack. Not proper panic attacks, which she understood to be awful and had people calling for ambulances, just these mini episodes where suddenly out of nowhere she felt like she’d spiked her heart rate in a spin class. It was fine to be puffing and panting when she was doing a spin class, but not when she was sitting cross-legged on the floor doing nothing except listening to a mad woman talk about death.

She wondered if this was how it was for Zach. He used to say that asthma felt like someone had placed ten bricks on his chest.

Zoe put a hand to her chest. No bricks. It wasn’t asthma. Just run-of-the-mill panic.