mould. (Why hadn’t she noticed those pink tiles? Too busy looking at all the nice toiletries lined up on the shelves probably.) Two dinky bedrooms with ceilings that sloped so sharply Alice considered checking out bargain crash helmets on eBay. She sat on the bed in one of the rooms, the bare mattress prickling her legs, and joggled Iris on her knee, wishing that she’d taken her parents up on their offer to help her move in.
Right now, she wanted her mum to make her a cup of tea and produce a Tupperware box of butterfly cakes from her bag.
Right now, she wanted her dad to be checking the boiler wasn’t about to blow up, and that there was a nice solid lock on the front door.
She wasn’t going to cry. She was not going to cry. She was thirty-five, for heaven’s sake, it wasn’t like she’d never been away from home. It was just that after nine months in the safety of her parents’ house, where the washing and ironing were always done, the fridge was always full, and the hot water was always piping, this felt like a serious crash back down to earth.
She’d been existing in some kind of safety chamber all the time she’d been staying there. A bubble of creature comforts – clean bedding, cups of tea every half an hour, the crossword to tackle with her dad every evening once Iris was asleep. A bubble where she was protected from all the horrors of the real world.
Alice Johnson has left the bubble , a deep Hollywood voice said in her mind, and she sighed. She just had to get used to normal life again, that was all. She was taking her first wobbling steps alone, after Mum and Dad had helped her along for so many months. She couldn’t help wondering what they would be doing, now that she and Iris had finally moved out. When you spent a lot of time with people, you got to know their rhythms, you tuned into their daily routines. So let’s see, Saturday afternoon. Mum would probably be out in the garden, watering her tomatoes or picking peapods to shell for tea. Dad would be listening to the cricket on the radio while he—
Alice froze. The front door had creaked downstairs. Was that the wind, or had someone just pushed their way past it?
She glanced out of the window. She could see fields and woodland – her brain dimly registered what an amazing view it was – but the trees were dead still. Not even a breeze to ruffle their shaggy green heads.
Her heart thumped as she heard footsteps. Someone was in the house. Someone was coming upstairs.
Now she wished more than ever that her parents were there. Her mum, with her scary line in questions and hard stares. Her dad, with a spanner snatched up from his toolkit.
‘Hello?’ A male voice floated up the stairs. ‘Anybody in?’
She got to her feet, clutching Iris, her hands feeling clammy. ‘Who’s that?’ she called as loudly as she could, trying to sound confident, as if strange men inviting themselves into her house was an everyday occurrence. Well – you know.
‘Gah!’ Iris pronounced, her fingers yanking at Alice’s top and pushing a fold of it into her mouth.
A man appeared in the doorway. ‘Ahh – there you are,’ he said, ducking his head. He looked rather discomfited to see Alice’s bare shoulder and bra strap where Iris was rearranging her T-shirt, and stepped back, whacking himself on the sloped ceiling.
Alice felt her heart slow. If he was a burglar, he was a pretty inept one. She bit her lip, trying not to smile. It was rude to laugh at someone when they’d just crocked themselves, wasn’t it? ‘You want to watch that ceiling,’ she told the man. ‘It creeps up on you, you know.’
He was rubbing his head, smiling back at her. He was quite nice-looking for a burglar, she thought, with his untidy dark hair and open, friendly features. Tall, too – he looked like a giant, hunched over in the small bedroom, reminiscent of Alice in the White Rabbit’s house. Suddenly she felt conscious of the fact that they were both standing here
Right now, she wanted her mum to make her a cup of tea and produce a Tupperware box of butterfly cakes from her bag.
Right now, she wanted her dad to be checking the boiler wasn’t about to blow up, and that there was a nice solid lock on the front door.
She wasn’t going to cry. She was not going to cry. She was thirty-five, for heaven’s sake, it wasn’t like she’d never been away from home. It was just that after nine months in the safety of her parents’ house, where the washing and ironing were always done, the fridge was always full, and the hot water was always piping, this felt like a serious crash back down to earth.
She’d been existing in some kind of safety chamber all the time she’d been staying there. A bubble of creature comforts – clean bedding, cups of tea every half an hour, the crossword to tackle with her dad every evening once Iris was asleep. A bubble where she was protected from all the horrors of the real world.
Alice Johnson has left the bubble , a deep Hollywood voice said in her mind, and she sighed. She just had to get used to normal life again, that was all. She was taking her first wobbling steps alone, after Mum and Dad had helped her along for so many months. She couldn’t help wondering what they would be doing, now that she and Iris had finally moved out. When you spent a lot of time with people, you got to know their rhythms, you tuned into their daily routines. So let’s see, Saturday afternoon. Mum would probably be out in the garden, watering her tomatoes or picking peapods to shell for tea. Dad would be listening to the cricket on the radio while he—
Alice froze. The front door had creaked downstairs. Was that the wind, or had someone just pushed their way past it?
She glanced out of the window. She could see fields and woodland – her brain dimly registered what an amazing view it was – but the trees were dead still. Not even a breeze to ruffle their shaggy green heads.
Her heart thumped as she heard footsteps. Someone was in the house. Someone was coming upstairs.
Now she wished more than ever that her parents were there. Her mum, with her scary line in questions and hard stares. Her dad, with a spanner snatched up from his toolkit.
‘Hello?’ A male voice floated up the stairs. ‘Anybody in?’
She got to her feet, clutching Iris, her hands feeling clammy. ‘Who’s that?’ she called as loudly as she could, trying to sound confident, as if strange men inviting themselves into her house was an everyday occurrence. Well – you know.
‘Gah!’ Iris pronounced, her fingers yanking at Alice’s top and pushing a fold of it into her mouth.
A man appeared in the doorway. ‘Ahh – there you are,’ he said, ducking his head. He looked rather discomfited to see Alice’s bare shoulder and bra strap where Iris was rearranging her T-shirt, and stepped back, whacking himself on the sloped ceiling.
Alice felt her heart slow. If he was a burglar, he was a pretty inept one. She bit her lip, trying not to smile. It was rude to laugh at someone when they’d just crocked themselves, wasn’t it? ‘You want to watch that ceiling,’ she told the man. ‘It creeps up on you, you know.’
He was rubbing his head, smiling back at her. He was quite nice-looking for a burglar, she thought, with his untidy dark hair and open, friendly features. Tall, too – he looked like a giant, hunched over in the small bedroom, reminiscent of Alice in the White Rabbit’s house. Suddenly she felt conscious of the fact that they were both standing here
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