Free Thursday's Children by Nicci French

you think.’ She sat up straight and put her glass down on the table with such firmness that some of the wine spilled. ‘Oh, well. If that’s what you want. But don’t you remember what it was like when you were my age? I bet the eighteen-year-old Frieda would have been a bit more unbuttoned about all this.’
    Frieda put her own glass down. ‘It’s time for you to go. It’s late.’
    Chloë got up and pulled on her jacket. ‘Well, that wasn’t a great success,’ she said.
    ‘I’m sorry you think so.’
    ‘If you reckon it’s all a great mistake, you should just say so.’
    ‘It’s clearly not a mistake,’ said Frieda. ‘I don’t see why it matters what I say.’
    Chloë gave Frieda a last puzzled look. ‘Of course it does. It matters more than anything.’
    When Chloe had gone, Frieda washed the glasses and put them away. She looked in the fridge and found some blue cheese, past its best, that she sliced on to crackers. Then she made herself camomile tea and had a long soak in the wonderful large bath that her friend Josef had installed forher with Stefan’s help. Afterwards she got into bed and turned the light out. Instantly she knew that there was no chance of sleep, not for hours. In normal times she might have considered getting up and putting her clothes on, going out and walking somewhere through late-night London to wear her body out and still the voices in her head. But just now she didn’t want to leave her house. She lay and stared at the ceiling and tried not to think of the events of the day, of what she had said to Karlsson, of what she hadn’t said to Chloë. She thought of the eager, happy, ridiculous face as she arrived. However, she had no intention of having an intimate discussion about sex with her niece.
    So she lay there for hour after hour of a raw night, somehow having dreams without sleeping. From time to time she would look at the clock on the bedside table and see that another half-hour or hour had passed. Some people said that what you felt at four in the morning was the bleak, spare truth that you couldn’t face up to in the daytime. Others said it was just a symptom of low blood sugar and the feelings were sham and a delusion. For much of the night, though she was in a dark that seemed like it would never end, Frieda felt she was staring at the sun, a cold and joyless sun.
    Somehow she must finally have slept because she was woken from uneasy dreams by a sound that seemed a horrible part of the dream, then turned into her front doorbell. She looked at the clock. A visit at this time of the morning could only be more bad news. She pulled a dressing gown around her and padded downstairs in her bare feet. She stood for a moment by the door, taking a deep breath,delaying whatever was there for a few more seconds. Then she opened it.
    ‘Oh, my God,’ she said.
    A man was standing outside, wearing a leather jacket, with a large shoulder bag. He looked tired and slightly sheepish and very concerned. It was Sandy.



9
     
    ‘This property,’ said the woman, ‘will be snapped up.’ She clicked her fingers expertly. Her name was Melinda. She had vermilion nails, thick peppery-blonde hair and natty brown boots, whose heels tapped briskly over the bare boards.
    Sandy looked noncommittal.
    ‘Prime location. Recently renovated.’ Her voice followed them from room to room. ‘Double glazing. Concierge. En-suite bathroom. New boiler. No chain.’
    Each room was bare and echoey, every wall freshly painted white. Frieda stood by the window, gazing out on to the street. It was drizzling, and people passed below under their umbrellas.
    ‘Are you buying together?’ asked Melinda.
    ‘No,’ Sandy and Frieda replied simultaneously.
    ‘It’s just me,’ added Sandy.
    She looked uncertain, not knowing how to read the situation. Frieda saw her eye dart to her wedding finger, bare of rings. ‘Well, it’s perfect for one person. Do you have any questions?’
    ‘I can’t think of