bored out of his skull, but still nothing was allowed to fill those prohibited zones. Other more fortunate diary slots – nine on a Monday morning, say – were allowed to contain events. Charlie had never got to the bottom of this peculiar time apartheid, and now wasn’t the moment.
‘If I’m reading, I’m reading what I want to read,’ Simon said quietly.
‘What? Oh.’ He was back to Liv’s wedding. At which there was zero chance of his being allowed to read any part of
Moby-Dick
.
‘She looks like him. It’s like having a piece of him in the house.’
Back to Proust’s daughter again. Switching between subjects so quickly wasn’t like Simon. Nor was it like him to be diverted from obsessive thoughts about an ongoing case. He was more anxious than he was willing to acknowledge, and there was no need for it. ‘Tell her you’re not prepared to talk to her and ask her to leave,’ Charlie suggested.
The kitchen door swung open. Regan Murray stood on the threshold. ‘Please don’t,’ she said. ‘However much you might want to.’
‘Our mistake was to let you in,’ said Charlie, putting herself between Simon and this diluted female version of the Snowman: a protective barrier. ‘There’s no reason for you to be here. Any communication that needs to take place between Proust and Simon can happen at work. They have no personal relationship outside work, and I’m pretty sure whatever you want to say is something personal, which makes it something we don’t want to hear.’
Regan stepped sideways so that she could see Simon. ‘You asked why I’ve got two names, and how I knew your address.’
‘Did you have your ear pressed against the door?’ Charlie asked.
‘I got your address from my mum’s address book. I have two names because—’ She broke off with a sigh. ‘Well, the surname part’s obvious. Murray is my married name.’
‘That makes a good tongue-twister,’ Charlie told her. ‘You could even add a bit: “Murray is my married name, I married Mr Murray”. Did you know opera singers repeat tongue-twisters before concerts, to make their lips more flexible? I heard it on the radio.’
‘I changed my first name to Regan two months ago. Dad doesn’t know. Neither does Mum. I didn’t want to be Amanda any more because my father chose that name for me, so I changed it. It’s easy enough to do. Not so easy to tell my parents.’ She smiled at Simon, who was resolutely not looking at her. He’d been staring at Charlie since Amanda-Regan had walked in, as if he wanted her to take care of the situation. Not, obviously, by prattling on about tongue-twisters, though Simon would have been the first to admit that it was impossible to get to the good ideas unless you went via the bad ones.
‘Is that my coffee?’ Regan asked, pointing to the mug.
Charlie handed it to her.
‘Thank you. Are you familiar with the name Regan?’ she asked. ‘From
King Lear
?’
‘And from every council estate in the Culver Valley,’ said Charlie.
‘Regan is Lear’s spineless traitor daughter who doesn’t love him but pretends she does.’
‘You chose Regan over Goneril?’
Yes, this is really happening. You are standing in your kitchen, beside a statue of your husband, debating King Lear’s baby name choices with Proust’s daughter.
‘I’m too spineless to tell my father I’ve changed my name,’ Regan said to Simon, ignoring Charlie completely. ‘He’d ask me why, and I’d be too frightened to tell him the truth. I’d end up hating myself more for creating another opportunity for him to win.’
The thing about people who hate themselves, Charlie thought, is that you totally identify and sympathise at the same time as massively not wanting them as house guests. ‘Don’t you think it’s weird that the expression “son of a bitch” is so well known, but no one ever calls anyone a “daughter of a bastard”?’ she asked, looking around.
All responses welcome. The more the
‘If I’m reading, I’m reading what I want to read,’ Simon said quietly.
‘What? Oh.’ He was back to Liv’s wedding. At which there was zero chance of his being allowed to read any part of
Moby-Dick
.
‘She looks like him. It’s like having a piece of him in the house.’
Back to Proust’s daughter again. Switching between subjects so quickly wasn’t like Simon. Nor was it like him to be diverted from obsessive thoughts about an ongoing case. He was more anxious than he was willing to acknowledge, and there was no need for it. ‘Tell her you’re not prepared to talk to her and ask her to leave,’ Charlie suggested.
The kitchen door swung open. Regan Murray stood on the threshold. ‘Please don’t,’ she said. ‘However much you might want to.’
‘Our mistake was to let you in,’ said Charlie, putting herself between Simon and this diluted female version of the Snowman: a protective barrier. ‘There’s no reason for you to be here. Any communication that needs to take place between Proust and Simon can happen at work. They have no personal relationship outside work, and I’m pretty sure whatever you want to say is something personal, which makes it something we don’t want to hear.’
Regan stepped sideways so that she could see Simon. ‘You asked why I’ve got two names, and how I knew your address.’
‘Did you have your ear pressed against the door?’ Charlie asked.
‘I got your address from my mum’s address book. I have two names because—’ She broke off with a sigh. ‘Well, the surname part’s obvious. Murray is my married name.’
‘That makes a good tongue-twister,’ Charlie told her. ‘You could even add a bit: “Murray is my married name, I married Mr Murray”. Did you know opera singers repeat tongue-twisters before concerts, to make their lips more flexible? I heard it on the radio.’
‘I changed my first name to Regan two months ago. Dad doesn’t know. Neither does Mum. I didn’t want to be Amanda any more because my father chose that name for me, so I changed it. It’s easy enough to do. Not so easy to tell my parents.’ She smiled at Simon, who was resolutely not looking at her. He’d been staring at Charlie since Amanda-Regan had walked in, as if he wanted her to take care of the situation. Not, obviously, by prattling on about tongue-twisters, though Simon would have been the first to admit that it was impossible to get to the good ideas unless you went via the bad ones.
‘Is that my coffee?’ Regan asked, pointing to the mug.
Charlie handed it to her.
‘Thank you. Are you familiar with the name Regan?’ she asked. ‘From
King Lear
?’
‘And from every council estate in the Culver Valley,’ said Charlie.
‘Regan is Lear’s spineless traitor daughter who doesn’t love him but pretends she does.’
‘You chose Regan over Goneril?’
Yes, this is really happening. You are standing in your kitchen, beside a statue of your husband, debating King Lear’s baby name choices with Proust’s daughter.
‘I’m too spineless to tell my father I’ve changed my name,’ Regan said to Simon, ignoring Charlie completely. ‘He’d ask me why, and I’d be too frightened to tell him the truth. I’d end up hating myself more for creating another opportunity for him to win.’
The thing about people who hate themselves, Charlie thought, is that you totally identify and sympathise at the same time as massively not wanting them as house guests. ‘Don’t you think it’s weird that the expression “son of a bitch” is so well known, but no one ever calls anyone a “daughter of a bastard”?’ she asked, looking around.
All responses welcome. The more the
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