The woman behind the counter looks up and gives her a perfunctory smile. ‘Miss Renard, I’ll get your prescription. One second.’
I slide my eyes over to her from beneath my fringe. She’s tall, slender, tapping her manicured fingernails on the counter impatiently. The pharmacist comes out from behind the counter, her glasses lowered on her nose, a prescription in hand.
‘Mrs Thorn?’
‘That’s me,’ I say, stuffing the octopus back on the shelf. I’ve been feeling absurdly close to tears just holding it.
‘You’ve got a medication here that reduces intracranial pressure. I’m going to need to know if she’s taking any other medication before I can prescribe.’
‘Oh, yeah. I’ve been given a list.’
I pass it to her and she notes something on her prescription pad, making a noise under her breath. ‘Goodness. There’s a lot going on here. Was it a bad injury?’
‘She had a fall. Some stitches in her scalp but we were told it’s superficial. She’s having memory problems, though, and struggling with her speech. It looks like she’ll need to see a specialist in the next few months.’
‘Well, that’s a real shame to hear. I’ll see what we’ve got here – anything else can be ordered in.’
She turns to the woman with the auburn hair who came in after me and nods towards her. ‘Someone taking care of you, Nancy?’
‘Apparently,’ the woman says. She’s smiling as if she’s making a joke, but the words seem cold and unfunny. She looks at her gold watch. ‘Good job I paid for parking.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be with you soon.’ The pharmacist smiles, then turns back to me. ‘It’ll take us a little while to get this lot ready. Do you want to come back? There’s a cafe over the road. Shouldn’t be longer than fifteen minutes.’
Okay, I tell her. Fine. I risk another glance at the woman waiting at the counter. There it is again, that strange familiarity, like the prick of a needle. Close up I realise she’s not as old as I’d first thought; her pale skin and hooded blue eyes are only finely lined, the irises the colour of old porcelain Wedgwood plates.
Miss Renard. Nancy. I take my phone from my pocket, remembering. Alex pointed to the photo and said, ‘That’s Nancy Renard . . . She was nice. I don’t know why she hung around with that lot of bitches.’
‘Excuse me,’ I say to her. She looks at me, smiling that taut, cold smile. ‘I know this will seem strange, but – are you Nancy Renard?’
She nods. Still smiling. Still cold. Oh God, leave me alone, that smile says. I open my phone and scroll to the photograph, turning it around to face her.
‘That’s you, isn’t it? Right there on the end! Wow. So weird!’
Nancy takes the phone from me and studies the picture. There’s no light of recognition in her face, but a crease appears between her eyebrows and she smiles tightly. ‘Goodness, that’s a blast from the past.’
She hands it back to me coldly, her smile rigid. Her eyes are suddenly hard, glazed marbles. There is an iciness coming from her in waves. I feel a blush building in my cheeks, a growing swell of embarrassment as I slide the phone back into my bag, muttering an apology. Nancy turns her back to me in one swift movement, walking towards the desk, hair swishing in a long shimmering curtain behind her, leaving me standing in her Arctic wake.
The bell rings over my head as I open the door and scurry out, heading to the cafe over the road, dizzy with awkwardness. I don’t know what response I was expecting but it wasn’t that flat, dusty stare, nor that coldness, brisk as winter. My ears buzz, blood rising high.
In the cafe the young man behind the counter is good-looking in that sunken-cheeked Brat Pack way I loved in my teens. It makes me think again of William in the photo, thin and moody, that pout, the way his head was cocked like a pistol. I order a pot of tea and take a seat at an empty table towards the back of the room. The cafe smells of pastry and a light sweetness of honey, making my stomach rumble. I skipped breakfast. Bad dreams shrink my appetite. I watch as Nancy Renard leaves the pharmacy and heads directly for the cafe, a white paper bag in her hand. She approaches the counter and talks with the young man there before walking over to my table in the corner.
‘You’re not going to put that on Facebook, are you?’
I’m surprised by her tone, abrupt and almost accusatory. I’ve become good at reading faces over the years – the years I spent working as a counsellor will teach you that, right off the bat – and hers is anxious and tight, close to tears.
‘The photo?’
‘Yes. I don’t want it on there. On anywhere.’
‘Of course not. I just – it was just a coincidence, that’s all. I found it a few days ago and then, boom, there you are in the same shop. I wouldn’t dream of putting your picture online.’
She relaxes but only for a second. As a counsellor I specialised in post-traumatic stress disorder and anxiety, and I can see the way a person holds trauma – for some it is in the set of the shoulders or the way it compresses their face into a tight knot. Others can’t keep their hands still or stop their leg jittering. It’s how I noticed the way William tugs at his hair when he’s lying. Nancy Renard is uptight, sure, but there’s something else there, something she maybe isn’t even aware of. She licks her thin lips and conjures up another cold smile.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Do you want to join me, Nancy?’
She hesitates, and I don’t think she does, not really. That coldness is a shield, a way to keep people at a distance. But also there’s that element of curiosity, isn’t there? All this worry over a photograph, I think, and then immediately I remember Kim saying, It’s just pictures, that’s all. It’s not real life.
‘Fine,’ she says eventually, making a show of checking her watch and jingling her car keys.
I catch a glimpse of the gold crucifix she is wearing over her polo neck, the small pearl earrings, iridescent in the overhead lights. Nancy rubs at her arms as if she is cold.
‘I got a shock when I saw that picture, too,’ I tell her. ‘I had no idea William went through a goth phase.’
‘Oh, you know William?’
I lift my hand so she can see my wedding band. ‘I married him.’
‘Well.’ Her eyes sweep me then, up and down. Sizing me up. She doesn’t try to hide it. ‘Good for you. I’m at the tail end of a nasty divorce.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. You know why divorces are expensive? Because they’re worth it.’
I laugh politely but she isn’t laughing. Just that same, tight smile. A sweep of the eyes, up, down, before she asks, ‘Any children?’
That pang, like elastic snapping somewhere inside my chest. I shake my head.
‘I’ve got three. They keep me busy. My oldest is nearly the same age as I was in that photograph. I hope she keeps better company. Did William give you that picture?’
I tell her about Mimi’s fall and Thorn House and the box of photos. When I mention Alex her eyes light up. She clasps her hands together. It’s almost sweet.
‘Alex Thorn? He was a sweetheart. I think he had a bit of a crush on me. Is he married?’