“My first distinct, logical memory,” said Crissie, “is of my father saying to me, You’ve been a good girl. And I didn’t know what he meant, but my mother nodded, I can see her now, nodding. And I felt pleased with myself for being this Good Girl. The poltergeist activity hadn’t happened, apparently, for a month, which till then was unheard of. My father said, Now you can have that bike I promised. And I didn’t know what he was talking about. But you see, I understood language. I’d learnt how to talk and walk. I could even read and write, rather well actually. I just couldn’t recall how I’d learnt any of it. Like I didn’t recall the paranormal stuff that seemingly I’d caused until it stopped and I was a Good Girl, and earned the bike.”
Susan said, “There was a poltergeist here, in this building, before it was converted into flats. So I’ve heard.”
Crissie glanced at her. She looked intrigued not dismayed. “Really? I know they crop up here and there. Mine wasn’t the only case.”
“Why did you take the flat here, Crissie?”
Susan heard the churlish, Inquisitional note in her voice. Perhaps Crissie didn’t.
“The agency found it for me. They’re really helpful that way. I was living in Highgate but I wanted a bigger place. They sorted it all out. I just moved in. That was the first time I saw the flat.”
What is it?
Look at her. She’s twenty years old now. She looks it tonight. No make-up, her old sweater that cost perhaps only a hundred pounds. Barefoot.
No it isn’t anything.
A coincidence.
It could all be rubbish, lies, anyway. She could be a total fucking romancer. Even all this about her job – whore – how do I know? All I know is what she’s told me. And that one man I saw her with – some rich old sugar-daddy – even, for God’s sake, her daddy, the builder. Her money comes from somewhere, but why from working at anything? She’s out a lot, so she goes out a lot.
I don’t know a thing about her. Have taken her on trust, like I take everyone. Ghastly useless selfish Patrick and conniving oh-so-genuine R.J., and my bloody slapper of a mother, who is the real hooker, if anyone is, lapping up Wizz’s dollars, first in exchange for sex, then in exchange for keeping quiet about his sex with all the little Madisons.
Christ, this sounds like my mother, like Anne, as she is now.
I feel like her.
I am not Anne.
I am me.
And Crissie?
I don’t know what the fuck Crissie is.
“Crissie, look, I’d better go. Thanks for telling me. But I shouldn’t have stayed so long – I’ve got to organise a few things, if Anne’s coming.”
Crissie smiled. Nothing to it. Unfazed. Knowing.
“Yes, Crissie, it did sound a bit weird. Sorry. But.”
“It’s okay, Susan. I’ve got some washing to do anyhow. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She has conned me.
She is the con artist.
Lulled me and listened, and been lovely, and then told me her ghost story and made my skin crawl –
In her own flat, Susan switched on all the lights. Then she pulled the wire out at the telephone point, afraid the phone would start to ring and ring.
The driver wanted to chat all the way to Heathrow. He began by asking Susan where she was flying to, though she had no luggage. Then, when she said she wasn’t going anywhere, he commenced asking in-depth questions about who she was going to meet, where they had come from, why they were here – it was, Susan thought (inaccurately) like an interrogation.
She had felt already tired and depressed when she got into the cab. Walking into the terminal, where the crowds swirled over endless floors, she felt drained – by the crowd, the space and its synthetic smell, the dull morning light, the cabdriver, her mother, everything.
Is she going to recognise me? Perhaps I should hold up a card printed with my name or hers.
Then another thought, worse. Will I recognise her?
It was a long wait.
Sourly, the thoughts pressed home. What are we going to say to each other? Do together? (I could have introduced her to Crissie – the gush of pride – “This is Crissie, my friend –” But that was out of the question, now. Susan had been avoiding Crissie, and Crissie made no overtures. Susan… didn’t know about Crissie.)
(Or anything.)
When Anne finally came through, Susan started almost in alarm. For Anne looked just as she had always done. She wore a well-cut navy suit, not even seeming at all crumpled. She was tanned, eyes and lips painted, her shortish hair a sheer bold white. Her nails were pale gold and on her hand flared the emerald. She carried one small suitcase, a piece of hand luggage and her American purse.
“Anne – you look wonderful!” Susan cried in a shambles of shame. And even as she said it, having now come near enough, she saw that the suit was crumpled, a very little, that the white hair was too dry, the brown skin creased, the mouth too bright. And with this too-bright mouth Anne leaned forward and kissed her, hugging her in the bony embrace, leaving a lipstick mark Susan could feel on her cheek, and had to wipe away surreptitiously. Anne would never have done that, not even last time – but ten, twelve years had passed. Had it really been so long?
“God, I am exhausted,” said Anne. Her eyes were not very clear, she looked half-cornered with irritation. “What a goddam bloody flight. Turbulence – delays – how late am I?”
“About two hours.”
“Christ. That was the other thing. My watch stopped. Wouldn’t you know it? One year old from Tiffany’s, and it stops. This is Delores.”
Susan looked where her mother off-handedly indicated. Susan had forgotten the annoyingly foisted
