Nine Perfect Strangers

‘Shhh,’ said Napoleon.

She was saying something over and over and it took a moment for Carmel to distinguish the words: ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ said Napoleon. ‘We’re fine. Everything is fine.’

Everyone looked away from what seemed like an unbearably private moment. Zoe avoided looking at her parents also. She went to a corner of the room, put one palm against a wall, stood on one leg and held her ankle in the other hand, doing a yoga class for one.

Carmel looked at the blank screen of the television, suddenly desperate to be far, far away from this family’s pain, which so dwarfed her own. She felt a sharp stab of homesickness. Her home was beautiful. She recalled this as if it were brand-new information. Not a mansion by any means, but a comfortable, sunshine-filled family home, even when it had been trashed by four little girls. She’d been the one to renovate it, to make it beautiful. People said she had ‘an eye’. When she got home she would remember to enjoy it.

‘I might see if I can kick that door down,’ said Tony.

‘Great idea,’ said Carmel. People were always kicking down doors in the movies. It seemed quite simple.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Ben.

‘Or

I’ll ram it.’ Tony limbered up, rolling his shoulders.

‘I’ll ram it,’ said Ben.

‘The door opens inwards,’ said Lars.

There was a pause. ‘Does that matter?’ asked Frances.

‘Think about it, Frances,’ said Lars.

Tony looked deflated. ‘Let’s try to pick the lock then.’ He put his fingertips to his forehead and breathed deeply. ‘I’m starting to feel a little . . . claustrophobic. I want to get out of here.’

So did Carmel.

chapter forty-seven

Frances

They collected everything they could find that would work as a possible lock pick: one hairclip, one belt buckle, one bracelet. It was Frances’s bracelet and she had nothing else to contribute except ignorant enthusiasm, so she stayed out of the way and the lock-picking committee became Ben, Jessica, Napoleon, Tony and Carmel. They seemed to be enjoying themselves destroying her bracelet and discussing exactly what was needed: ‘teeth to push the pins out’ or some such thing.

She went instead to talk to Zoe, who sat in the corner of the room, hugging her knees.

‘You okay?’ Frances asked, sitting down next to her and putting a tentative hand on the curve of her back.

Zoe lifted her head and smiled. Her eyes were clear. She looked lovely. Not like someone who had spent the previous night tripping. ‘I’m fine. How was your . . . experience last night?’

Frances lowered her voice. ‘I don’t approve of what Masha did, outrageous et cetera, your mother is right, drugs are bad, illegal, wrong, just say no and all that . . . but I have to admit, I’m with Steve Jobs: it was one of the most fantastic experiences of my life. What about you?’

‘There were good and bad parts,’ said Zoe. ‘I saw Zach. We all saw Zach. You know . . . hallucinated him, we didn’t really see him.’

‘I thought I saw him too,’ said Frances without thinking.

Zoe turned her head.

‘I saw a boy,’ said Frances. ‘With you and your mum and dad.’

‘You saw Zach?’ Zoe’s face lit up.

‘Sorry,’ said Frances. ‘I hope you don’t think that’s disrespectful. Obviously, I never knew your brother. It was just my imagination, creating his image.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Zoe. ‘I like that you saw him. You would have liked him. He would have talked to you. He talked to anyone.’ She stopped. ‘I don’t mean that in a bad way –’