Free Chosen by Lesley Glaister Page A

the phone again to tell Rod then?’ she says. ‘They’ll be up now.’
    Martha looks embarrassed. ‘Actually, this phone only handles incoming calls.’
    â€˜Another one then?’
    A bell rings dimly, somewhere far off in the building.
    â€˜Time to eat.’ Martha smiles. ‘I’m sure you’ll be happy to join us, Dodie?’

8
    M artha frees them from the room and John and Daniel hurry on, heads down, conversing quiet ly. Daniel flicks a look back at Dodie as they round a corner.
    â€˜You OK?’ Rebecca says.
    â€˜Knackered. I just don’t understand –’
    Martha puts her finger to her lips.
    â€˜And I need to phone Rod,’ Dodie says. But phone calls are not enough, not
tangible
enough, that thready disembodied voice, it only makes the missing worse. What she needs is Rod’s arms round her, her arms round Jake. And Seth. Need, need, need. It’s exhausting.
    â€˜Eat first,’ Martha says. ‘And after you’ve eaten youcan speak to Rod. Then maybe you’d like to take in struction? The more you know, the more you’ll understand. And understand Seth’s decision to follow this path.’
    â€˜I was thinking more of a nap,’ Dodie says. ‘I’m just so tired.’ She longs so much to be alone. ‘I’ll have a nap this afternoon, if you don’t mind. Maybe you’ve got some magazines or something?’
    Rebecca’s pale eyebrows shoot up. ‘Come on,’ she says, tucking her hand into Dodie’s arm.
    â€˜I need to pee,’ Dodie says.
    â€˜I’ll leave you,’ Martha says, ‘and see you later on, Dodie.’
    â€˜The phone?’ Dodie calls after her, but Martha doesn’t turn, just holds her hand up.
    â€˜Come on.’ Rebecca takes Dodie to a long bathroom. On one side there’s a row of washbasins, on the other lavatories – with no cubicles around them. A woman is sitting on one. Rebecca pulls down her trousers and does the same. Dodie accidentally glimpses a colourless puff of hair and looks away quickly. Her urge to urinate disappears. Rebecca finishes, wipes herself briskly with a wisp of paper. ‘You get used to it,’ she says. She runs her hands under a tap.
    Three more women come in. The widdly sounds get to Dodie’s bladder and, blushing, she goes as far away as possible, sits down and lets it out, gets up quick, flushes and washes her hands. No one takes any notice. Rebecca waits for her by the door.
    â€˜Why no cubicles?’ Dodie says, when they’re out in the corridor.
    Rebecca shrugs. ‘I know it seems weird at first, but when you think about it, why should there be?’
    â€˜For privacy?’
    â€˜We’re not meant to, like, talk in the corridors,’ Rebecca says. ‘And there’s
no
talking in here.’
    She opens a door into a big dining room, a sea of lilac and lavender diners with bad haircuts, and an institutional soupy smell. Dodie follows Rebecca to a short queue by a hatch. She’s the only person in here not in purple of somesort and conspicuous in her boots, jeans and sweater, long hair tangling down her back.
    They sit at the end of a table of strangers, who glance curiously at Dodie, then return their concentration to their food. It’s a bowl of soup, thin, with floating shreds of green, and white squares of tofu lurking at the bottom. There are water jugs and glasses on the table.
    â€˜Water?’ Dodie asks, reaching for a glass. The others on the table look up sharply and Rebecca, wincing, puts her finger to her lips and shakes her head.
Oh for God’s sake!
Dodie pours herself a glass. She eats the soup, very bland, and waits for Rebecca to finish so they can collect their next course – but there is no next course. They take the bowls to another hatch and pass them through.
    â€˜Is that it?’ Dodie whispers.
    What about the carrot cake and the wine? What about