Nine Perfect Strangers

The room became very still, as if, for just a moment, they all held their breath. The tiny gold flames on the candles trembled.

Frances compressed her lips so no words would escape. She felt as if all feelings were too big and unwieldy for her body, as if she might burst into tears or burst out laughing, as if she might say something overly sentimental or intimate. It was like she’d drunk too much in an inappropriate setting, a business meeting with publishing executives.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Napoleon,’ said Masha and she reached out her hand as if she wanted to touch Napoleon, but he was too far away. ‘So very sorry.’

‘Why thank you, Masha,’ said Napoleon chattily.

If Frances didn’t know better she would have thought he was drunk. Had he got stuck into Zoe’s smuggled wine? Was he having a nervous breakdown? Or was this just a natural response to the breaking of the silence?

Zoe looked at her father, her forehead creased like that of an elderly woman, and Frances tried to imagine the missing boy who should have been sitting next to her. Oh, Zoe, thought Frances. She had suspected it might have been suicide when Zoe didn’t say how he died. Her friend Lily, who used to write beautiful historical romances, had lost her husband ten years ago and all she had told people was that ‘Neil died unexpectedly’ and everyone understood what that meant. Lily hadn’t written since.

‘Who else would like –’

But Napoleon interrupted Masha. ‘Got it!’ he cried. ‘I know who you are!’ he said to Tony. ‘It’s been driving me mad. Heather, darling, do you see who it is?’ Napoleon turned to his wife.

Heather looked up from the empty smoothie glass she’d been studying. ‘No.’

‘I know who he is,’ said Lars proudly. ‘I worked it out on the very first day.’

Frances looked at Tony, who was looking awkwardly down at his glass with an expression of discomfort, but not confusion, as if he knew what they were all talking about. Who was he? A famous serial killer?

‘Heather!’ cried Napoleon. ‘You know him! I promise you know him!’

‘From . . . school? Work?’ Heather shook her head. ‘I don’t . . .’

‘I’ll give you a clue.’ Napoleon chanted, ‘We are the Navy Blues!’

Heather studied Tony. Her face cleared. ‘Smiley Hogburn!’

Napoleon pointed at Heather as if she’d correctly guessed his charade. ‘Exactly! It’s Smiley Hogburn!’ Then he seemed to doubt himself. ‘Aren’t you?’

Tony looked strained. ‘Years ago I was,’ he said. ‘Thirty kilos ago.’

‘But Smiley Hogburn played for Carlton,’ said Jessica. ‘I’m a Carlton supporter! Aren’t you, like, a total legend?’ She said it like there must have been a mix-up.

‘It was probably before you were born,’ said Tony.

‘Carlton is a football team, right?’ whispered Frances to Ben. She was very ignorant of anything to do with sport; a friend once told her it was like she’d lived her whole life in a bunker.

‘Yep,’ said Ben. ‘Aussie Rules.’

‘That’s the jumping one?’

Ben chortled. ‘They do jump, yeah.’

Smiley Hogburn, thought Frances. There was something blurrily familiar about that name. She felt her perception of Tony shift. He was a man who used to be someone, like Frances used to be someone. They had that in common. Although Frances’s career was slowly fading away, whereas presumably Tony’s had ended officially, probably with an injury of some sort – all that jumping! – and he was no longer leaping about the football field.

‘I knew you were Smiley Hogburn!’ said Lars again. He seemed to be looking for some sort of recognition that he wasn’t getting. ‘I’m not normally good with faces but I worked out who you

were straight away.’

‘Did you have to finish up playing because of a sporting injury?’ asked Frances. She felt that was quite a knowledgeable, empathetic question to ask a sportsperson. It was probably something to do with ligaments.

Tony looked mildly amused. ‘I had multiple injuries.’

‘Oh,’ said Frances. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Two knee reconstructions, hip replacement . . .’ Tony seemed to be doing a sad assessment of his body. He sighed. ‘Chronic ankle issues.’