The Other Side of the Door, Nicci French [new reading .TXT] 📗

She looked at me appraisingly. She gave me a little nod. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t turn up.’

‘I nearly didn’t.’

‘Is anyone else here yet?’

We stood in the room like hosts waiting for a party to start. There was no conversation that wouldn’t seem artificial. I had the clutching sense of a friendship coming to an end because what she had done for me was so huge, a favour that overshadowed everything else.

‘Sonia,’ I began, and the doorbell rang again, three short jabs of sound.

It was a hot day but Joakim was wearing a thick hoodie, whose sleeves came over his hands. He was carrying his violin tucked under one arm and his face was chalky. There were purplish smudges under his eyes. He grunted some sort of greeting.

‘Not with your dad?’ I said.

He grunted something else.

‘You look a bit rough,’ Sonia said cheerfully.

‘I feel crap,’ Joakim said. He flung himself onto the sofa. ‘Where is everyone? I thought I’d be the last to arrive.’ He huddled against the cushions like an animal retreating into a burrow.

‘You need some strong coffee,’ I said.

I went into the kitchen, and when the doorbell rang again, I stayed there, leaving Sonia to answer. I heard murmurs but couldn’t tell who had arrived until I carried Joakim’s coffee into the living room. It was Guy, in what passed for casual wear—ironed denims and a short-sleeved blue shirt. He hauled in his drum kit, nodded at me curtly, then turned his attention to Joakim. ‘Where the bloody hell were you?’

Joakim shrugged. ‘Out.’

‘And you couldn’t have rung us? Your mother was frantic.’

‘I’m eighteen. Jesus!’

‘You still live with us and while you do—What’s the matter?’

‘I feel a bit sick.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

‘The loo’s through there,’ I said, pointing, and Joakim lurched to his feet.

Someone hammered at the door, ignoring the bell, and this time I went to answer. I turned away from Neal so that I didn’t have to meet his eyes. My voice came out in a croak. I didn’t know how my legs were holding me steady.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said.

I didn’t reply, wanting to tell him to go away, leave me alone. I felt I couldn’t have him near me, looking at me with his dark, comprehending eyes.

‘Am I the last?’

‘No. We’re still waiting.’ Then I did look at him and he looked back at me and for a moment we stood in the middle of the room gazing at each other. A small tic started up just under my left eye—surely everyone could see it dancing above my cheek, a sign of my guilt. ‘Waiting for Hayden and Amos,’ I said—made myself say. The words came out too loudly into the silence that had suddenly fallen. Sonia came over and put a hand on my shoulder. Gradually the room steadied. I dropped my eyes. My face pulsed. Joakim stumbled back into the room, paler than ever.

‘Maybe you should go home,’ Sonia said to him.

‘No.’ Guy’s voice was sharp. ‘He promised to be here. A promise is a promise.’

‘The boy’s ill.’

‘My son is hung-over.’

‘We’ve all been there,’ Neal said sympathetically to Joakim, who had slumped back on the sofa.

‘Where are they?’ Guy checked his watch and gave a deep, exasperated sigh. ‘For God’s sake, why can’t we all arrive when we’re meant to for once? Everyone’s time is precious.’

‘Maybe we should start without them,’ I said.

‘What’s the point?’

‘We can tune up, at least,’ I said, and went over to my banjo case. I saw Amos through the front window, walking slowly down the road towards the house. He was carrying his guitar on his back, like a rucksack, and his hands were thrust into his pockets. His head was bowed and he was frowning slightly, as if he was deep in thought. I fumbled with the lock on the case. Why didn’t everyone notice? How could they not know? The bell rang and Neal went to answer.

I heard my own voice say, ‘So where’s Hayden got to this time?’

Before

‘How’s it all going?’ asked Liza.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

She laughed and tucked her legs under her. She was wearing a very purple all-in-one suit, rather like a vast, wrinkled Babygro, and had her hair in plaits, one of which she kept putting into her mouth and sucking. ‘It’s just one of those routine questions. You know, when you meet someone and you say, “How are you?” and they say, “Fine.”’

‘Yes, I know that.’

‘So: how’s it all going?’

I was sitting on her big stripy sofa that made it impossible to sit up straight. On the wall opposite there was a lovely picture, an orange blur on a bright blue background. Liza herself was a mess, but her flat was so well ordered: all the curios and knick-knacks that she had brought back from the countries she’d visited were placed tidily on shelves; probably she had spent hours deciding where each one should go. There were thriving plants on the window-sills and the mantelpiece, their green foliage a reminder of soft rain and cool forests. I thought of the mad disorder and dust of my flat and felt tired at the effort that lay ahead. Bloody Amos.

‘You want a glass of wine?’

‘I’d better not.’

‘I’m having one.’

Liza walked through to the kitchen and came back with a bottle, two glasses and a large bag of pistachio nuts. ‘I insist,’ she said.

‘Just a bit.’

She poured more than just a bit into both glasses and handed me one. ‘What I really meant was, how is the music going?’ She deftly shelled several pistachios and popped them into her mouth. ‘Are you nearly ready for the wedding?’

I took a gulp of wine. ‘We’ve only got together a couple of times. It’s not until the middle of September.’

‘It’s brave of you to take it on. I didn’t think you would.’

‘I’ve got this habit of acting without thinking,’ I said, ‘and by the time I discover why I shouldn’t have done something, it’s too late.’

‘You’ve got the