Page 114 of Secret Paths

“Oh.”

I stop there because every sentence that presents itself sounds either too casual, too concerned or like something a man says shortly before a woman decides he should live outdoors.

Mandy watches me watching her.

“It was not due until Monday,” she says.

“Right.”

“Which you obviously did not need to know.”

“I am not taking notes.”

“Good.”

A pause.

“Although you did look briefly as if you might.”

“I was deciding what facial expression was safest.”

Her mouth twitches. “And you chose startled bank manager?”

“It is my most reliable setting.”

That gets a small laugh, but it does not quite clear the awkwardness. She folds her arms, then unfolds them, one hand brushing her stomach before she drops it.

“I do not have anything with me.”

“No problem. What do you need?”

She looks at me for a second, as if checking whether I am about to become useless.

“Sanitary towels,” she says. “With wings.”

“Wings,” I reply like I know what that means.

“Not tampons.”

“Not tampons.”

“Tampons give me contact dermatitis.”

The minute the words are out, she closes her eyes.

For a long second, she says nothing.

“Wonderful,” she says eventually. “Excellent. I have been in your house less than twenty-four hours and have already said the words contact dermatitis in relation to my vagina.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

Hard.

“That was useful information,” I say.

Her eyes open. “Do not be kind. It makes it worse.”

“I was not being kind. I was being practical.”