Free Until It's Over by Nicci French Page A

hurting.’
    ‘You’re asking to be hurt.’
    ‘I never ask to be hurt.’
    ‘Oh, excuse me.’ Orla’s drawl made us spring apart. ‘Am I interrupting something here?’
    ‘Nothing at all,’ I said brightly.
    Owen muttered something and retrieved the lens. I had thought Orla might have gone to the toilet to snort some coke. No such luck. She was as lackadaisical as ever, and asked if she could have something to drink before we resumed. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Coffee, tea, water, orange juice, cranberry?’
    ‘Do you have mint tea?’
    ‘No, sorry.’
    ‘Or camomile?’
    ‘Just Tetley’s.’
    She winced. ‘Is the coffee decaffeinated?’
    ‘Not as such.’
    ‘What kind of water?’
    ‘Tap,’ I said.
    She made another disgusted face. ‘I’ve got a headache,’ she said.
    ‘Do you want a paracetamol?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Would you like to reschedule this for tomorrow?’ asked Owen. His voice was soft and creepy.
    It didn’t bother Orla, though. ‘I’m on set tomorrow,’ she said.
    ‘Then we’ll just have to do it now, won’t we?’
    ‘S’pose.’
    Owen unscrewed his camera from the stand and walked over to her. ‘I’d like to make things a bit more casual, less posed,’ he said. ‘But you know that the magazine wants you animated, happy. Do you think you could manage that?’
    Orla just shrugged and stayed in exactly the same position, staring into the lens. Owen took some photographs and Orla was as unresponsive as it was possible to look. She didn’t even glower.
    ‘Orla,’ said Owen, eventually. I could see a muscle working in his jaw.
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘You’re an actress, aren’t you? Can’t you manage one small smile? Look at you – you could be made of wax. Not my idea of sexy at all.’
    ‘There’s no need to be so rude. I think I’m going to call my agent and ask for someone else to photograph me.’
    I looked at Owen, standing there clutching his camera as if he was about to bludgeon her with it. Then I nodded at Orla. ‘Can I have a moment?’ I said.
    ‘Astrid?’ said Owen. ‘You want a fucking girls’ chat now? You want to find out how she puts on her makeup?’
    ‘Behave,’ I said. I signalled to Orla to follow me across to the far side of the huge studio. We were standing by a window, latticed with steel bars, that looked out over the canal. It was raining, the drops dimpling the surface of the grey water. I took my jacket off.
    ‘You said you liked it,’ I said. ‘I want to give it to you.’
    ‘Are you sure?’ she said, unsurprised. ‘That’s really kind of you.’
    ‘It’ll suit you,’ I said.
    She pulled on the jacket with the eagerness of a small child.
    ‘Could you do me a favour in return?’ I said.
    She stood in front of a full-length mirror on the wall opposite the window and admired herself. ‘What?’
    ‘Like Owen said, you’re an actress,’ I said. ‘I know it’s grim and you’re tired, but for the next five minutes, could you play the part of a person who’s happy and vivacious and having a really great time?’
    Orla’s expression was thoughtful, then she looked round at me and smiled, her eyes suddenly illuminated as if from the inside, her thin face radiant and sweet with imitation joy. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘What’s the problem?’
    ‘Astrid?’
    We were walking back along the canal, through the gathering rain, both carrying a bag with Owen’s cameras and equipment.
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘You’re welcome.’
    ‘Except that I hate myself for not kicking her out on her little arse.’
    ‘Don’t hate yourself.’
    ‘I’ll buy you another jacket.’
    ‘I didn’t even like it that much.’
    ‘And you’re getting wet and cold. Put this on.’
    He took off his own and put it over my shoulders. ‘Are you always this forgiving?’ he asked.
    ‘Of you or her?’
    ‘Doesn’t matter.’
    The rain was heavy now, ploughing up the canal and pattering in the leaves of the trees. It trickled down my neck and bounced off