Harriet listened intently, frowning as Annie told her about the rose on her pillow, the card on the bedside table.
‘You mean that that guy in Petticoat Lane, who snatched your bag … that could have been Roger Keats?’ Watching Annie nod, shuddering, Harriet put an arm round her and hugged her. ‘You have had a bad time, haven’t you? No wonder you’ve been looking strained lately. Have you ever thought of going into analysis? You need to talk this out, Annie. You’re in denial, you have never really faced up to what happened to you, you’ve shut it all away and that’s no good. It’s festering inside you. What you need to do is see a really good therapist. Let me get you a name and a number to ring? I know I brilliant guy, discreet and reassuring.’
‘Maybe, let me think about it,’ Annie said reluctantly. She didn’t want to talk about her life to some stranger.
Harriet considered her drily, with understanding. ‘I know. It’s difficult, but you’ll be glad you took the risk in the end, Annie. You need to let all this out, get to the heart of your own feelings. Anyone who had been through what you have would have problems, especially if they had never talked about it.’
‘Maybe, later,’ Annie hedged.
Harriet gave her another dry look, then yawned. ‘Sorry, I’m whacked. Bed, I think, don’t you?’
Annie showed her into a quiet bedroom at the back overlooking the garden. ‘Lovely room,’ Harriet said, pleased by the faded, muted colours.
‘This was the room Johnny used.’ Annie stood by the bed, touching the quilt under which Johnny had slept, her fingers caressing.
Harriet watched her curiously and, becoming aware of her gaze, Annie pulled herself together. ‘Well, sleep well. Goodnight, Harriet.’
The door closed behind her and Harriet got undressed, thinking about Annie and what she had learnt about her tonight. She wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t heard it from Annie herself. People were so unpredictable – you thought you knew them and then, Wham! something like that hit you out of the blue.
She was asleep within about ten minutes of climbing into bed, exhausted by the events of the day, but Annie lay awake, unable to sleep, agonising over the baby, wishing to God she had never given in to her mother’s insistence. Trudie shouldn’t have pressured her into it. She shouldn’t have listened. Trudie was stronger than she was, that was the trouble. She always had been; all her life she had done what her mother wanted her to do, and she sometimes resented it, even when she was grateful for Trudie’s support and belief in her. She knew her mother loved her, and she loved Trudie. But how could Trudie have been so cruel as to send Johnny away when he was in such terrible trouble?
She groaned then put a hand over her mouth in case Harriet heard her. Oh, Johnny, she thought – how could she tell him about the baby … his baby … no, their baby? Oh, God, he’d never forgive her. She knew Johnny would have wanted that child. She would have wanted it, too. She wished she hadn’t listened to her mother. If only … she hated those words. If only. If only.
She had half hoped he would ring her tonight. That was why she had given him her number.
Why hadn’t he rung her? Had he met someone else now? Was he living with someone?
No, he said he’d just got out of prison. He wouldn’t have had time to meet anyone else. Why hadn’t he rung? She had thought he would, had been sure he would want to see her again.
Her mind was like a white mouse on a wheel in a tiny cage. Round and round it went, in frantic circles. Her mother. Johnny. The baby. Derek. The bootee with that splash of blood, oh, God, and she had touched it, got the blood on her skin. How could Derek have done that?
She felt like screaming, but that would bring Harriet out, watching her with that quiet curiosity – she couldn’t bear that.
She had to get up, she had to do something. Go for a walk. Get some fresh air, some exercise. Tire her body out and stop her mind.
Annie slid out of the bed, shivered in the bitter night air, dressing quickly.
Derek Fenn was in the bar across the street from the studio. He had been on a pub crawl and ended up there, minus a tie, his face flushed and his hair shiny with sweat.
‘Let me call a taxi for you, Mr Fenn,’ the landlord said politely, when he yelled for another whisky. ‘Closing time, I’m afraid.’
‘Another bloody whisky!’ Derek snarled.
‘Sorry, Mr Fenn, no can do. Why don’t you be a sensible chap, go home and sleep it off?’
Derek said something crude.
The barman walked away to keep his temper.
Derek banged on the small round bar table with his empty glass and roared after him. ‘Get me another effing drink!’
The bar was crowded, people stared; he looked round at all the faces and sneered. ‘What’re you all staring at?’
A woman halted next to the table and Derek sat, staring at the long, slim legs, the short skirt, the well-filled sweater.
‘Hallo, darling, looking for me?’ His eyes rose and he saw the face; took in blue eyes, a pink-lipsticked mouth, short, soft, light hair.
‘Annie?’ He was confused, frowned, trying to see her clearly. Was it Annie? What on earth would Annie be doing here? ‘Is it … is that you, Annie?’ He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t even see straight, come to that; maybe, after all, he had drunk too much. Oh, hell, what did it matter? You’re dead soon enough, and life was pretty depressing. Why not choose the way you go? He made a gesture across his face as if brushing cobwebs or tears away. ‘Well, well,’ he thickly muttered. ‘Nice of you to join me. Are you my Fairy Godmother tonight? Sit down, sweetie, let me buy you a drink.’