A slight figure enters the room. A girl: brassy blonde hair, floral backpack with leather-look straps hanging from one shoulder, skin dyed Egyptian mummy brown, closes the door, turns and gawps as she catches sight of her.
‘Oh,’ she says in a Mersey accent and the high tones of someone who’s barely got used to her hormones. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
Collette can’t find her voice. Her heart is fluttering in her chest and she’s still waiting to breathe.
‘This is Nikki’s room,’ says the girl. ‘Don’t tell me he’s gone and let it already.’
Collette’s heart slows.
‘She’s only been gone two weeks,’ says the girl. ‘Less than that. You’d think he’d have left it a month, anyway.’
She starts forwards, and Collette stiffens, tightens her grip on her bag. The girl stops, widens her eyes and holds her hands up in the air, palms toward her.
‘All right, all right,’ she says, ‘keep your hair on.’
Then suddenly, as if she’s reminded herself by saying it, she reaches up and pulls her own hair off. Stands, blonde mop in hand, and releases a mass of loose curls, bleached so the hair has gone an interesting metallic shade, from the confines of a stocking cap. She runs the fingers of her free hand through it, ruffles up the sweaty roots. Not fake tan at all, thinks Collette. She’s mixed race. Amazing how a change of hair can completely change the way you interpret someone. Don’t I just know that?
‘Phwoar,’ she says, ‘that’s better. I thought my head was going to come off, it’s that hot under there.’
Collette finds her voice at last.
‘What are you doing in my room?’
The girl looks surprised, as though this is an odd question. Then she smiles, and shrugs. ‘Oh, yeah, sorry about that. But to be fair, I didn’t know it was your room, did I? Nikki gave me a copy of her key. So I could come in and watch telly when she was out. I really love Real Housewives. D’you like that? And Judge Judy. Anyway, I heard the Landlord coming down the stairs, and I popped in to get away from him.’
Collette doesn’t say anything, just stares, and waits.
A little frown crosses the girl’s face; the look of someone struggling to make herself understood by a foreigner.
‘You’ve met the Landlord, right?’ She pantomimes waving a hand in front of her face, holding her nose. ‘Yeah, course you have. You’re gorra’ve done, if you rented a room off him. Unless you’re a burglar. Are you a burglar? There’s not much to nick in here, you know. Even the telly’s from a car boot.’
‘No,’ says Collette, ‘I’m not a burglar. Are you?’
The girl bursts out laughing. ‘Only on weekends. You’re all right.’
‘I moved in this morning,’ says Collette.
The girl looks around her, disbelieving. ‘So you’ve just… taken over someone else’s life?’
‘I…’
‘Cause you’ve not exactly put your stamp on the place, have you?’
‘My… my stuff’s coming after… I…’ she stammers, then stops. Hang on, she thinks, what are you doing? It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong, is it? ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I don’t see how it’s any business of yours.’
‘Nikki’s my friend,’ says the girl, ‘I’m looking out for her.’
‘Well, if she comes back, she can have anything she wants,’ says Collette. ‘It’s not like I’m putting it on eBay.’
A silence. They stare each other down. Then the girl drops her bag from her shoulder and says, ‘I’m Cher, anyway. I live upstairs.’
‘Collette,’ says Collette.
Cher puts a finger to her lips and presses her ear against the door. Outside, heavy footfalls plod up the passage and keys jangle in a hand. While the girl’s face is turned away, Collette takes the opportunity to tuck the bag down the side of the bed, get it out of Cher’s sightline. The last thing she wants is for anyone to see its contents.
Chapter Six
It’s a long journey from Ilfracombe to Northbourne by public transport. Vesta’s been on the road for eight hours, hobbling from bus to train to bus again, and is feeling her back and the arthritis in her knee. The walk from the High Street, dragging her suitcase behind her on its wonky wheel, seems to take as long as the trip from Victoria. I’m not sure how many more times I can do this, she thinks mournfully. I feel my age more each year. But, oh – if I didn’t have my two weeks by the sea, what would be the point of any of it? Just Northbourne day after day, the hoodies in the bus shelter and the litter on the common, the rattle of the suburban trains passing by at the end of the garden. Damn you for a coward, Vesta Collins, she chides herself. You always wanted to live by the sea. You should have gone when Mum died, not taken the easy route and tied yourself to a sitting tenancy.