Page 106 of Secret Paths

Through the narrow glass panel beside the door, I see a dark coat, wet shoulders and a hand pressed briefly to the frame as if its owner has changed her mind and stayed anyway.

When I open the door, Mandy looks up at me.

Her hair is pinned up, but badly, strands loose around her face. Her blouse collar is caught under one side of her coat. There is rain on her eyelashes.

She looks at me and says nothing.

“Mandy.”

“Were you asleep?”

“No.”

“I should have texted.”

“You are here now.”

Her eyes flick past me into the hall, then back to my face. “Can I come in?”

I step aside.

She crosses the threshold, and I close the door behind her. For a moment, she stands in the hallway, dripping quietly onto the lino floor.

I reach for her coat. “Here.”

She lets me take it.

That tells me something too.

Mandy does not usually let people do things for her without comment. There is no joke about independence, no pointed reminder that she has functioning hands. She only slips one arm free, then the other, and stands there in work trousers and a pale blue blouse that looks as tired as she does.

Her hands are cold when my fingers brush hers.

“Tea?” I ask.

“No.”

“Wine?”

“No.”

“Food?”

“No.”

I shut my mouth.

I hang her coat over the banister. “Bad day?”

She looks down at her shoes.

There is mud on one heel.

“Bad week.”

“All right.”

I do not ask what happened.