looked unruffled. She put out her hands to take the tray.
Brera walked back towards the door. ‘Steven phoned. He said he’d lined up a photographer for Tuesday.’
Sam offered Connor his mug of tea. ‘That was quick.’
Brera nodded and closed the door behind her.
‘Who’s Steven?’
Sam picked up one of the sandwiches. ‘Our new manager. We only met him yesterday.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were getting a manager.’
‘Mum likes him. He’s OK.’
Connor put down his mug and lay back on the bed. He stared up at the ceiling. She’s so bloody secretive, he thought. Saves secrets like sweets. Eats them in private.
Sam moved to the end of the bed and pulled off his boots. He looked around the room again from his new vantage point and then held out his arms to her. ‘Let’s get this over with before your mother comes back in with lemonade and biscuits.’
Brera knocked on Sylvia’s door and waited for her to answer. After a minute or so and a certain amount of scuffling and fluttering, Sylvia opened the door several inches and peered out.
‘What?’
Brera offered her a mug of tea and a plate of sandwiches. Sylvia slid her hand through the crack and took the tea. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You should eat. I haven’t even seen you since yesterday night when you went out. Where did you go?’
‘Nowhere.’
Brera resisted the temptation to shove her foot into the crack in the door. Instead she said quickly, ‘Sam’s got her new friend around. Did you hear them come in?’
‘No.’
‘He’s in a band too. They’ve been on television. He’s called Connor. Sounds a bit American.’
Sylvia’s face disappeared for a moment and then returned. ‘I’ll have a sandwich. Only one, though. Thanks.’
Her hand darted out and took a sandwich. Brera smiled. Sylvia nodded and then closed the door. Brera swallowed down her irritation. She went into the living-room, picked up her guitar and started to sing ‘A Pair of Brown Eyes’, strumming along in time.
Connor was mid-way through removing his trousers when he heard the conversation commence between Brera and Sylvia. He thought, I can’t sustain an erection with those two chatting away like they’re in the same room.
He pulled his trousers back on and did up the buttons. Sam groaned, exasperated, from her position on the bed and grabbed hold of her T-shirt. ‘Why don’t we go back to your flat? It was you who wanted to come here in the first place.’
Connor had half an ear on the conversation in the hallway. He turned down the music on the tape recorder and said, ‘I didn’t mean for us to come here for sex. I just wanted to meet everybody.’
He listened to their voices again. ‘Your sister’s voice is so hoarse. She sounds like Rod Stewart. Does she sing?’
Sam laughed. ‘What do you think? She writes a weird kind of music. Like jazz but less tuneful. That’s her contribution to things. She likes doing it. It’s kind of methodical. She’s hardly even got a speaking voice, though, let alone a singing one.’
As she spoke, Sam put on her T-shirt and picked up a book from her bedside table.
Connor moved a few steps closer to the door. He heard Brera mention his name.
Sam said tiredly, ‘It’s her allergy. If she tries to sing or shout her voice disappears altogether.’
‘It sounds amazing, though, really distinctive.’
Sam looked up at him. ‘The only reason she talks that way is because she’s gradually choking herself. It’s a slow process of strangulation.’
Connor felt foolish for being so enthusiastic. He turned towards her and changed the subject. ‘What’s that you’re reading?’
She turned the page. ‘Something about Hélène Cixous. She’s this brilliant French intellectual. I’ve read all her stuff, but it’s difficult. She’s very controversial. She won’t even call herself a feminist because feminism’s too bourgeois.’
Connor looked down at the plate on the floor. ‘What sort of
Brera walked back towards the door. ‘Steven phoned. He said he’d lined up a photographer for Tuesday.’
Sam offered Connor his mug of tea. ‘That was quick.’
Brera nodded and closed the door behind her.
‘Who’s Steven?’
Sam picked up one of the sandwiches. ‘Our new manager. We only met him yesterday.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were getting a manager.’
‘Mum likes him. He’s OK.’
Connor put down his mug and lay back on the bed. He stared up at the ceiling. She’s so bloody secretive, he thought. Saves secrets like sweets. Eats them in private.
Sam moved to the end of the bed and pulled off his boots. He looked around the room again from his new vantage point and then held out his arms to her. ‘Let’s get this over with before your mother comes back in with lemonade and biscuits.’
Brera knocked on Sylvia’s door and waited for her to answer. After a minute or so and a certain amount of scuffling and fluttering, Sylvia opened the door several inches and peered out.
‘What?’
Brera offered her a mug of tea and a plate of sandwiches. Sylvia slid her hand through the crack and took the tea. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You should eat. I haven’t even seen you since yesterday night when you went out. Where did you go?’
‘Nowhere.’
Brera resisted the temptation to shove her foot into the crack in the door. Instead she said quickly, ‘Sam’s got her new friend around. Did you hear them come in?’
‘No.’
‘He’s in a band too. They’ve been on television. He’s called Connor. Sounds a bit American.’
Sylvia’s face disappeared for a moment and then returned. ‘I’ll have a sandwich. Only one, though. Thanks.’
Her hand darted out and took a sandwich. Brera smiled. Sylvia nodded and then closed the door. Brera swallowed down her irritation. She went into the living-room, picked up her guitar and started to sing ‘A Pair of Brown Eyes’, strumming along in time.
Connor was mid-way through removing his trousers when he heard the conversation commence between Brera and Sylvia. He thought, I can’t sustain an erection with those two chatting away like they’re in the same room.
He pulled his trousers back on and did up the buttons. Sam groaned, exasperated, from her position on the bed and grabbed hold of her T-shirt. ‘Why don’t we go back to your flat? It was you who wanted to come here in the first place.’
Connor had half an ear on the conversation in the hallway. He turned down the music on the tape recorder and said, ‘I didn’t mean for us to come here for sex. I just wanted to meet everybody.’
He listened to their voices again. ‘Your sister’s voice is so hoarse. She sounds like Rod Stewart. Does she sing?’
Sam laughed. ‘What do you think? She writes a weird kind of music. Like jazz but less tuneful. That’s her contribution to things. She likes doing it. It’s kind of methodical. She’s hardly even got a speaking voice, though, let alone a singing one.’
As she spoke, Sam put on her T-shirt and picked up a book from her bedside table.
Connor moved a few steps closer to the door. He heard Brera mention his name.
Sam said tiredly, ‘It’s her allergy. If she tries to sing or shout her voice disappears altogether.’
‘It sounds amazing, though, really distinctive.’
Sam looked up at him. ‘The only reason she talks that way is because she’s gradually choking herself. It’s a slow process of strangulation.’
Connor felt foolish for being so enthusiastic. He turned towards her and changed the subject. ‘What’s that you’re reading?’
She turned the page. ‘Something about Hélène Cixous. She’s this brilliant French intellectual. I’ve read all her stuff, but it’s difficult. She’s very controversial. She won’t even call herself a feminist because feminism’s too bourgeois.’
Connor looked down at the plate on the floor. ‘What sort of
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