Page 25 of All Our Missing Pieces

Questions wheeled in my brain. How could she have been so close to a relative as to have been left a whole house, yet gone half a lifetime without seeing her? How could she talk about her grandmother with such fondness, yet not miss her? But the look on Orla’s face – not sad, not angry, just sort of closed off – prevented me from asking her anything more.

‘Well, thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much. I love the dress. And this afternoon – it’s been an education. It’s been fun. I feel like you’ve been my fairy godmother.’

The smile returned and Orla laughed delightedly. ‘You know, Livvie, that’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. And you shall go to the ball – or at least to Pizza Express.’

EIGHTEEN

Beatrice was woken by sunlight. The nights had grown almost as short as they were going to be and walking to the bus stop in the dark was a distant memory, but this was different – even brighter than usual. Blearily, she turned over in bed and looked at her watch.

Shit. It was quarter to seven. She’d overslept – her alarm was set for six but she must have turned it off in her sleep after sitting up late the previous night working on a drawing of Orla and Livvie in the kitchen, their heads together and their faces alight with laughter. The space around them was in darkness, heavy cross-hatching giving way to brightness at the table where they sat.

She’d tried to make them look like witches in a coven, but it hadn’t worked – neither artistically nor as a way to relieve her feelings.

And now she was late for work – too late even to have a shower.

She sprang out of bed and pulled on yesterday’s jeans and an old T-shirt from a Met exhibition of John Singer Sargent’s early work, which was the only clean garment she had left. Livvie had offered the previous day to take some of Beatrice’s stuff to the launderette with her own, but Beatrice had forgotten and Livvie hadn’t reminded her.

If she’d bothered, I’d have clean clothes, Beatrice thought resentfully.

After hastily cleaning her teeth and pulling her hair back into a ponytail, Beatrice hurried downstairs. Orla was already up; she could hear the back door opening then slamming shut again. Well, she had no time for chit-chat over coffee – or any coffee at all, come to that. Never mind breakfast.

‘Beatrice?’ Orla must have recognised the sound of her sneakers on the stairs.

‘I’m just heading out.’

Orla emerged into the hallway. She was in her bathrobe, her hair unbrushed and slippers on her feet. There was an open notebook in her hand; Beatrice glanced at it curiously but it appeared to hold only writing – line after line of Orla’s careful script. In her other hand was a cotton drawstring bag.

‘Just one thing before you go,’ Orla said. Her voice was calm and patient as always, but Beatrice could see tight lines around her mouth. ‘Would you mind, when you make your breakfast in the mornings, putting the bread back in this bag and in the breadbin?’

‘The what? Oh, the bread. Did I leave it out?’

Distractedly hunting for her keys, Beatrice cast her mind back. Yes, she’d probably made toast the previous morning, from the heavy wholemeal bread Orla for some reason insisted on baking. Had she forgotten to put it away when she was done? Maybe. Probably.

‘Yes,’ Orla said. ‘Livvie gets a pastry on her way to work, Luke was up before you, and I don’t eat breakfast. It was all stale this morning. I had to put it out for the birds.’

A spark of annoyance ignited inside Beatrice. ‘Sorry. But I mean, come on. It’s only bread.’

‘Bread that takes time, ingredients and effort to make.’ Orla’s voice didn’t sound quite so calm now.

‘So don’t make it. Go to the grocery store and buy it, like everyone else.’

‘Beatrice. It’s not just about the bread. Everyone else here prefers homemade to supermarket bread, and I think it’s better for us and for the planet. If you don’t like it, you’re free to buy your own, but don’t leave it to spoil for other people. And actually, I’d feel the same if it was Sainsbury’s sliced white you were wasting.’

‘Think of all the starving children in Ethiopia,’ Beatrice said mockingly.

‘As a matter of fact,’ Orla countered, and Beatrice sensed she was becoming properly angry now, ‘I do think of them. I think of the impact food waste has on everything – the fuel that’s used to transport it, the depletion of global resources, the packaging it comes in.’

‘God.’ Beatrice rolled her eyes. ‘It’s one loaf of fucking bread.’

‘If you don’t want to think about those things, you don’t have to. But have some consideration for the people who share this house with you.’

‘Why didn’t you tell that to Livvie when she went to do washing yesterday and couldn’t be bothered to take my stuff?’ Beatrice demanded, properly on the defensive now.

‘Livvie said she’d asked you, and you hadn’t given her anything to take.’

Success – Beatrice thought – I’ve got Orla off the subject of the stupid bread. But she’d inadvertently got her on to one Beatrice didn’t like any better.

‘Oh, so now Livvie’s been tattle-taling about me? And she’s your favourite so she’s right and I’m wrong – obviously.’