Case Histories

Amelia was surprised that when midday came around Julia hadn't sought her out to suggest lunch. When she went looking for her she found her leaning against Victor's desk, a troubled look on her face. "What?" Amelia said, and Julia indicated one of the drawers to Victors desk. "I broke the lock," she said.

"Well, it doesn't matter," Amelia said. "We have to go through everything. And technically it all belongs to us now."

"No, I didn't mean that. I found something," Julia said, opening the drawer and removing an object, handling it delicately like an archaeologist removing an artifact that might disintegrate in the air. She handed it to Amelia. For a moment Amelia was puzzled and then suddenly she was stepping into space, as if she'd walked through a door that opened onto nothing. And as she fell all she could think of was Olivia's Blue Mouse, clutched in her hand.

"You like him."

"No, I don't." They were making supper together, Amelia poaching eggs, Julia warming baked beans in a saucepan. They were both at the frontier of their culinary capabilities.

"Yes, you do," Julia said. "That's why you were so antagonistic toward him."

"I'm antagonistic toward everyone." Amelia could feel herself blushing and concentrated on the bread in the toaster as if it needed psychic assistance to pop up. "You like him too," she muttered.

"I do. There's something very attractive about Mr. Brodie. He has his own teeth, he isn't even going bald yet," she said. "I bags him," and Amelia said, "Why you?" and Julia said, "Why not? And anyway, you already have a boyfriend. You have Henry."

Amelia thought the word "boyfriend" sounded ridiculous when it was applied to a forty-five-year-old woman. When it was applied to herself.

It was a shame Julia hadn't encountered Jackson Brodie when she was wearing her goggles and face mask. He wouldn't have found her so attractive then. Because he had found her attractive, there was no doubt about it. Of course some men were into things like that, masks and bondage and God only knows what else Rubber! Why?).

"Oh, you're such a prude, Milly," Julia said. "You should try something adventurous with Henry. Spice things up between you. It took you long enough to find a boyfriend, it would be a shame to lose him because you can't get out of the missionary position."

Amelia buttered the toast and laid it on plates. Julia tipped the beans on top. Amelia had begun to enjoy sharing domestic tasks with Julia, basic though they were. She'd lived on her own since her second year at university, that was a long time, more than two decades. Solitary life hadn't been a choice, no one had ever wanted to live with her. She mustn't get used to being with Julia. She mustn't get used to waking up in a house where someone knew her, inside out.

"Handcuffs," Julia continued airily, as if she were discussing seasonal accessories, "a little bit of leather or a whip."

"Henry's not a horse," Amelia said irritably. Were accessories still seasonal? They were when their mother was around. Rosemary had worn white shoes and carried a white handbag in the summer. A little straw hat. Zip-up suede boots for winter and – was she imagining this? – a woolen tammy. If only she'd taken more notice of Rosemary when she was alive.

"There's nothing wrong with a little light bondage," Julia said, "I imagine Henry would like it. Men love anything filthy." She said the word "filthy" with relish. Amelia had once, completely unintentionally, accompanied Julia into a sex shop in Soho. Upmarket, aimed at women only, as if it were a proud emblem of the triumph of feminism, when in fact it was just full of pornographic smut. Amelia had followed Julia inside under the misapprehension that it sold bath products and was stunned when Julia picked up an object that looked like a pink horse's tail and declared admiringly, "Oh, look, a butt plug – how cute!" Sometimes Amelia wondered if women hadn't been better off darning and sewing and baking bread. Not that she could do any of those things herself.

"Are accessories still seasonal?"

"Yes, of course," Julia said decisively, and then, less certain, "aren't they? You know, you're very lucky to have a steady boyfriend, Milly," and Amelia said, "Why, because I'm so unattractive?" and Julia said, "Don't be a silly-Milly." "Silly-Milly" was what Sylvia called her when they were young. Sylvia always made fun of people. She could be very cruel.

"At your age," Julia said (would she just shut up?), "women are usually either on their own or stuck in tedious marriages." Amelia slipped the poached eggs on top of the beans.

"Our age," Amelia corrected her. "And you're being patronizing, 'Steady boyfriend' and 'Julia' aren't words that have ever occurred in the same sentence. If it's not a good thing for you, why is it a good thing for me?" There was something about eating eggs that seemed wrong – swallowing something, annihilating something that contained new life. Banishing it into the inner darkness.