She hands it back to me coldly, her smile rigid. Her eyes are suddenly hard, glazed marbles. There is an iciness coming from her in waves. I feel a blush building in my cheeks, a growing swell of embarrassment as I slide the phone back into my bag, muttering an apology. Nancy turns her back to me in one swift movement, walking towards the desk, hair swishing in a long shimmering curtain behind her, leaving me standing in her Arctic wake.
The bell rings over my head as I open the door and scurry out, heading to the cafe over the road, dizzy with awkwardness. I don’t know what response I was expecting but it wasn’t that flat, dusty stare, nor that coldness, brisk as winter. My ears buzz, blood rising high.
In the cafe the young man behind the counter is good-looking in that sunken-cheeked Brat Pack way I loved in my teens. It makes me think again of William in the photo, thin and moody, that pout, the way his head was cocked like a pistol. I order a pot of tea and take a seat at an empty table towards the back of the room. The cafe smells of pastry and a light sweetness of honey, making my stomach rumble. I skipped breakfast. Bad dreams shrink my appetite. I watch as Nancy Renard leaves the pharmacy and heads directly for the cafe, a white paper bag in her hand. She approaches the counter and talks with the young man there before walking over to my table in the corner.
‘You’re not going to put that on Facebook, are you?’
I’m surprised by her tone, abrupt and almost accusatory. I’ve become good at reading faces over the years – the years I spent working as a counsellor will teach you that, right off the bat – and hers is anxious and tight, close to tears.
‘The photo?’
‘Yes. I don’t want it on there. On anywhere.’
‘Of course not. I just – it was just a coincidence, that’s all. I found it a few days ago and then, boom, there you are in the same shop. I wouldn’t dream of putting your picture online.’
She relaxes but only for a second. As a counsellor I specialised in post-traumatic stress disorder and anxiety, and I can see the way a person holds trauma – for some it is in the set of the shoulders or the way it compresses their face into a tight knot. Others can’t keep their hands still or stop their leg jittering. It’s how I noticed the way William tugs at his hair when he’s lying. Nancy Renard is uptight, sure, but there’s something else there, something she maybe isn’t even aware of. She licks her thin lips and conjures up another cold smile.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Do you want to join me, Nancy?’
She hesitates, and I don’t think she does, not really. That coldness is a shield, a way to keep people at a distance. But also there’s that element of curiosity, isn’t there? All this worry over a photograph, I think, and then immediately I remember Kim saying, It’s just pictures, that’s all. It’s not real life.
‘Fine,’ she says eventually, making a show of checking her watch and jingling her car keys.
I catch a glimpse of the gold crucifix she is wearing over her polo neck, the small pearl earrings, iridescent in the overhead lights. Nancy rubs at her arms as if she is cold.
‘I got a shock when I saw that picture, too,’ I tell her. ‘I had no idea William went through a goth phase.’
‘Oh, you know William?’
I lift my hand so she can see my wedding band. ‘I married him.’
‘Well.’ Her eyes sweep me then, up and down. Sizing me up. She doesn’t try to hide it. ‘Good for you. I’m at the tail end of a nasty divorce.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. You know why divorces are expensive? Because they’re worth it.’
I laugh politely but she isn’t laughing. Just that same, tight smile. A sweep of the eyes, up, down, before she asks, ‘Any children?’
That pang, like elastic snapping somewhere inside my chest. I shake my head.
‘I’ve got three. They keep me busy. My oldest is nearly the same age as I was in that photograph. I hope she keeps better company. Did William give you that picture?’
I tell her about Mimi’s fall and Thorn House and the box of photos. When I mention Alex her eyes light up. She clasps her hands together. It’s almost sweet.
‘Alex Thorn? He was a sweetheart. I think he had a bit of a crush on me. Is he married?’
‘He’s still single, as far as I know. He spoke highly of you.’
‘Really? What did he say?’
I don’t know why she hung around with that lot of bitches.
‘Just that you were the nicest of all of them.’
‘Well, that wasn’t hard. None of us were particularly likeable. Teen girls, you know? Think they rule the world. Ah, Alex. Such a sweetheart, he was. Shy. William was always a handsome devil. I used to feel intimidated by him, and Edie of course. He was whip-thin and he had a Dead Kennedys T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Everyone thought he was the greatest.’
I laugh. ‘It’s a side of him that’s completely new to me,’ I admit, pulling up the photo and enlarging it. ‘He doesn’t talk about his life down here much.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he? Not after everything that happened.’
I lower my cup into the saucer. Nancy sniffs and presses a tissue to her nose. Everything about her is dainty and bone-white, like a china tea set.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Just now. You said “after everything that happened”.’
‘Oh, just. You know. The stuff we did as kids, all of us. Messing around.’
‘Like what?’
She looks at me with a trace of a smile. Her cupid’s bow is a sharp inversion, an arrowhead. ‘You know what we called ourselves? A coven. We used to write poetry and light
