Page 22 of All Our Missing Pieces

But before she could formulate the fleeting thought into anything approaching an idea, the sound of water running into the sink in the kitchen stopped and she could hear Livvie’s voice quite clearly.

‘I mean, it’s not a date date, obviously.’

‘Really?’ Beatrice couldn’t see Orla, but she could picture the smile on her face. ‘What is it, then?’

‘It’s a… it’s just a pizza, or maybe a movie. On Friday night.’

‘Call me old-fashioned,’ Orla said, the smile still there in her voice, ‘but that sounds awfully like a date to me.’

Livvie laughed. ‘Okay. You’re right. It does sound like a date. But what if it isn’t? What if Luke just wants to hang out with me, like as friends?’

‘Then he’d be asking Beatrice to join you and hang out as friends, too,’ Orla pointed out.

Beatrice flinched at the mention of her name. She remembered reading somewhere that eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves. She knew she should walk away – go upstairs to her room, come down later and see if anyone had left any food for her. But she didn’t.

‘Well… maybe.’ Livvie’s voice was almost drowned out by the clatter of plates. ‘When we went to the pub a couple of weeks ago that was all of us, as friends. And maybe he has asked Beatrice to come too. I don’t know.’

But I know he hasn’t, Beatrice thought.

‘If it looks like a date, walks like a date and quacks like a date…’ Orla said.

Livvie laughed again. ‘Which leaves me with the question – what do I wear? I mean, I don’t want to look too try-hard, just in case it turns out not to be a date, and he’s got a girlfriend or something, and he just really fancies a pizza.’

‘He’s never mentioned any girlfriend to me,’ Orla said slowly. ‘Let me think. It’s been – what, almost three months since Luke moved in. And in all that time, I’ve never seen him going off looking like he’s going to meet up with someone special, or heard him sounding all lovey-dovey on the phone, or anything.’

‘Really? Are you sure?’

‘Not that it would be any of my business if he did,’ Orla continued. ‘And it’s not like this place is somewhere you’d want to bring someone for a night of passion. Though I can’t help feeling… he needed a place to live, quite suddenly. Perhaps there was someone before. But there isn’t now – I’m as sure of that as I can be.’

Beatrice heard the snap of a switch and the roar of the kettle starting up.

‘So I dress like it’s a date, then,’ Livvie said, as if she was thinking aloud. ‘But not fancy. Effortlessly stylish. How do you even do effortlessly stylish?’

‘With your figure, you can wear anything,’ Orla said. ‘There’s a reason fashion models are always tall and slender – clothes just hang better. There’s a stall at the market that has some great second-hand designer pieces for bargain prices. I saw a Nicole Farhi dress there last week. Which would be too much for Pizza Express, of course, but if you fancied a browse, I’m sure you’d find something.’

‘Which stall?’ Livvie asked. ‘I might go and have a look – maybe take an afternoon off work.’

‘I’ll show you,’ Orla suggested. ‘We could go together, maybe?’

‘Really? That would be great. Because you totally know how to dress. You always look amazing.’

Really? Beatrice echoed silently. Orla? With her unfashionably short hair that she didn’t even bother covering the greys in, and her clothes that, while admittedly well cut, were all clearly decades old? Why hadn’t Livvie asked her, Beatrice, what she should wear on this date – if it was a date – with Luke?

Eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves. She hadn’t actually heard anything at all, but she felt as if she had. She was queasy and resentful and – yes – hurt.

There was something about the way Livvie and Orla had been talking that told her this wasn’t the first cosy chat they’d had while washing up the dishes from dinner. There was a kind of casual intimacy about their conversation that Beatrice could never imagine there being between her and her landlady – and nor would she want there to be.

Or would she? Livvie and Orla sounded like friends – or more than friends. Like sisters, or even like a mother and adult daughter: affectionate, familiar, respectful.

Beatrice didn’t need a mother; she only wanted the truth. She had a perfectly good mother already, back home in Philadelphia. Although, somehow, she couldn’t imagine asking her own mother for advice on what to wear on a date – she almost laughed aloud at the thought, but stopped herself just in time. Her mother would probably suggest she wear a chastity belt, not some vintage designer treasure from a market stall.

I don’t care, she told herself. Let them go off on their girls’ shopping trip. I don’t care about Livvie and I don’t care about Orla and I certainly don’t care about Luke.

She was fairly certain that the last bit was true.

She crept back into the hallway, eased the front door open and then closed it again, more loudly than she had before, almost slamming it. Then she walked back towards the kitchen again, this time letting her feet thud noisily on the floorboards.

She stepped into the bright warmth of the kitchen. ‘Good evening.’