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the afternoon, instead of listlessly trailing down the street she almost ran, so eager was she, after a whole day of thinking, in her desire to reply to Claire. She had a point to make. The point was, well, there was a point, to do with loyalty, to do with standing by people and trying to see things from their perspective. There was certainly a point to it. She settled down to write a letter. It wasexhilarating writing it until it began to turn into an accusation, full of long-suppressed resentment and bitterness. If the impulse to reply to Claire’s invitation was going to be indulged, then it could not take this form. A rant was damaging (to herself). A measured tone was needed. The things she really wanted to express could be implied but not so crudely slapped down. The art was to slip the blade of the dagger in without it being noticed till the pain registered.
    Revenge, that was the ugly truth. But revenge for what exactly? There had been no dastardly deed, the sort of thing for which an act of revenge would be appropriate. All that had happened was that friendship, at a crucial time, had been found wanting. It hadn’t lived up to expectations. It hadn’t survived a true test. But Tara knew she’d got everything out of proportion. There had been a fading away of support, that was all, and she herself was perhaps to blame. She’d pleaded guilty. Did that not cancel the obligations of friendship? Who would want to go on being friends with a woman who pleaded guilty to
that
deed? And now that this friendship was on offer again, wasn’t it understandable? She’d served her time, the slate was clear. She could be a friend again. Wasn’t it, after all, impressive to be given another chance? Shouldn’t she be grateful, and accept it?
    Tara struggled hard to believe this.
    She passed the driving test without difficulty, and then began the search for a second-hand car she could afford. Getting the money freed and transferred to Sarah’s name and bank account was laborious, involving several meetings with the Woman and then,less pleasantly, the Man again. But finally it was done, and she had £3,000 to spend.
    She’d always thought that her money would be forfeited, part of the punishment, but no, it wasn’t. She hadn’t been convicted of fraud or any financial irregularities, and the money in the bank came from impeccable sources, so there was no problem about it. It had sat there, in a deposit account, all these years, hers to do what she liked with. Knowing this made her feel rich, but until now she’d felt she had no right to spend it. She’d bought an electric blanket, a duvet, a blind and a few other odds and ends, but that was all. What she now earned, the small wage, covered her bills and rent and food and fares, leaving very little over. But this money was there and now was the time to spend half of it. What she bought, from a garage near where she worked, was a little Fiat. Unfortunately it was green, which worried her a little. Green was relatively unusual. It made the car highly distinctive.
    She knew Mrs Armstrong would see the car – how could she not? She parked right outside her house, thankful that there was no need, as yet, for a parking permit in the street. There was plenty of room. No one to the right or left of her house appeared to have a car, and on the opposite side neither did Mrs Armstrong or her immediate neighbours. The green car stood out. Coming home from work, she could see it from the end of the street where the bus dropped her off. The sight of it was like a welcome home. Her car. Hers. When for so long she’d had nothing. The significance threatened to overwhelm her. Her first car, hers, after she met Tom (his gift), had had the same effect, a sort of boost to her morale, a lifting of her spirits. The carthen had meant all the obvious things: independence, freedom, even the promise of adventure. She’d crashed it. Sarah would never do such a thing.
    Sarah was much too cautious