Half Seven on a Thursday

by Roisin Meaney

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

'A novelist who has a gift for conveying the charm of the ordinary' Irish Independent on Number One bestselling author Roisin Meaney As opening night nears for a local amateur production, the cast begin to realise that the real drama is taking place off-stage -- and in life there's no such thing as a dress rehearsal ... When Edward Bull agreed to direct the amateur production of Death by Dying, he thought it would take his mind off his wife's recent affair. He was soon to discover, however, that all the real drama was taking place off-stage ... Maria, trapped in a loveless marriage to an older man, makes an appalling discovery. If pushed, she knows she will do whatever it takes to protect her vulnerable son, Pat. But will she find the strength to do the one thing that would save them both? Her sister Ellen, scarred after a tragic motorbike accident, seeks comfort where she can find it. Will she finally come to terms with what happened . . . and, perhaps, open her heart to love again? Handsome, charming Robert glides through life. When Caroline threatens to take his sons away from him, however, he realises that everything he ever wanted was right under his nose. But is it too late? As the weeks pass, the cast members of Death by Dying are brought together and their lives intertwine. And, as opening night draws near, they learn that in life there's no such thing as a dress rehearsal.

Release date: October 7, 2010

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 447

Sample

 

Her hair, Edward saw immediately, was exactly what he’d had in mind for Dorothy. Long, a good foot past her shoulders, iron-straight,
a satiny sheen on it even in this gloomy light, and the precise colour – as far as he could make out –of the soft flesh of
a perfectly ripe nectarine, that beautiful rosy-orange shade you seldom saw on a woman’s head now.


Her figure was somewhat disappointing. He would have liked her a couple of inches taller, a little more willowy –and younger
too, at least five years younger; Dorothy was supposed to be in her late twenties.


But the hair was perfect.

He leaned forward and watched intently as she picked her way through the haphazardly arranged mismatched chairs and low tables.

‘Are you limping?’ he asked.

She started violently, her wonderful hair arcing across her face as she swung towards the sound of his voice, hand flying
to her chest. ‘Jesus! You scared the shit out of me!’


Charming; such polite vocabulary. Edward reached across and tilted the dusty green shade of the table lamp nearest to him,
throwing a fraction more light into the room.


‘Sorry. I don’t usually make much noise when I’m on my own.’

She squinted at him suspiciously, palm still pressed against the bare skin above her top. ‘Why is it so dark in here?’ She looked at the bunched lace curtains on the row of narrow windows. ‘If they took those horrible things down,
we could see what we were doing. She turned back to Edward. ‘You here for the auditions? Is this where they’re on?’


Edward nodded. ‘I am. It is.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You’re three minutes late.’

Her mouth opened a fraction wider. ‘What?’ She looked at her own watch, holding it close to her face. ‘You’re joking, right?’

‘I am, yes.’


He wasn’t. He indicated a nearby chair. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ He wondered if anyone else was going to turn up, and if
so, why they couldn’t be bothered to be on time. Hadn’t they read ‘8:30 sharp’?


She dropped her bag onto the floor and sat. She wore a navy skirt to her knees, that held for Edward a vaguely uncomfortable
suggestion of a school uniform, and a cream top. She pushed out her bottom lip and blew her fringe out of her eyes.


‘My sister’s coming. She’s gone to the loo.’

Great: a brace of cursing females. Probably put a hex on him if he didn’t cast them. For the life of him, Edward couldn’t
remember what exactly had possessed him to take on this ridiculous project.


‘So, are you an actor or what?’ She tucked her hair behind her ear and it immediately slithered forward again. A brief, painful
echo of his wife whistled past him. Women and their hair, always fiddling with it. He smelled oranges.


‘No – I’m going to be directing.’

‘Oh – right.’ And before either of them had a chance to say any more they heard footsteps on the stairs. Both of them turned
towards the open doorway. ‘Here’s Maria.’


But a man appeared instead of Maria. A burly, shambling, tousle-headed male of around, Edward guessed, twenty-five. Blinking
into the gloom, pushing something into the pocket of his jeans.


Moving cautiously until he spotted them at the far side, his solid thigh bumping against a small table as he approached, his
hand reaching out to stop its sideways tilt. A tight, polite smile on his big, broad face.


‘Hello. I’m here for the auditions.’

A softer voice than you’d expect from that frame. Looking from one to the other uncertainly, large hands hanging awkwardly
at his sides.


Edward regarded him solemnly, sweeping his gaze past the knobbled, rusty orange sweatshirt – surely too heavy on this unseasonably
warm evening? – the frayed, baggy jeans, the ridiculous shoes that were supposed to suggest that you’d just moored your boat
around the corner.


Much too young for the writer. Pity, that mop would probably have suited Jack McCarthy. They could try ageing him a bit, see
what he looked like in tweeds.


Or possibly the gardener – yes, of course, the gardener would be a much better fit. Wellingtons and a rake, and one of those
woolly hats. Yes. Maybe.


‘Have a seat,’ Edward said. ‘We’re waiting for a few more to turn up.’

He’d deliberately put 8:30 sharp – he hated to be kept waiting – and now it was nearly twenty to nine. He’d give it five more
minutes, and then he’d abort the whole ridiculous business. The redhead would probably swear at him again, but it couldn’t
be helped.


More footsteps outside as the big man sank into a too-low, creaking armchair, and Edward turned and watched Penelope McCarthy
walk in.


Made for the part. The right age for Penelope, mid-thirties or thereabouts, tall enough and thin enough, if she could just
carry off the air of superiority, the cool hauteur that he needed for the writer’s sister.


He tried to picture her in pearls and one of those skirts that women shouldn’t be able to walk in. High heels, of course,
and a cigarette, maybe, in a holder. He wondered if she smoked. She’d have to be a smoker in reality – you could always tell
the ones who weren’t.


‘Over here.’

The redhead was gesturing her into a chair. How could they possibly be sisters? Edward couldn’t see a resemblance. Maybe one
was adopted.


He studied the newcomer again. Pink blouse buttoned almost to her chin, loose grey trousers, flat black shoes. No hips and not much of a chest – the sister had all the curves.
Red in her hair too, but a much darker, almost mahogany shade. Pulled away from her face, emphasising the high cheekbones,
the pointed chin. Not plain exactly, but nothing to stop you in your tracks.


He’d seen her somewhere before, he was sure. Worked in a shop, maybe – or he’d buried someone belonging to her, back when
he had a job.


He cleared his throat. With three of them there, he probably should introduce himself. ‘Edward Bull is my name, I’ll be directing’
– another pointed look at his watch ‘– that is, if enough people turn up to cast the play.’


The second sister offered her hand. ‘Maria. Talty.’

She made them sound like two separate sentences. Her voice was lower in pitch than Edward had been expecting from that fragile
frame. Her hand was cool. She glanced towards the other man, who immediately lunged forward in his armchair, arm outstretched,
causing it to creak violently.


‘Harry Buckley. Pleased to meet you.’ He nodded at Edward and the redhead, both too far away for a handshake.

‘Ellen Greene,’ the redhead said, flapping her fingers at them. Unlike her sister, she wore no wedding ring. If asked to guess,
Edward would have taken her for the married one. She crossed her legs. Edward’s glance swept over them –good knees – before
he could stop himself.


‘So, how many do you need?’ she asked him.

‘Sorry?’

‘People, for this play of yours. How many are in it?’

‘Six,’ he told her. ‘And,’ he added, ‘it’s not my play – I’m simply the director.’ God forbid that anyone would hold him responsible
for it.


As he spoke there were voices on the stairs, and a second later a man and a woman came through the doorway.

‘Hello. Is this where the auditions are on?’ The man strode in. ‘We asked downstairs and they sent us up here.’


The woman followed him into the room. ‘It’s a bit dark, isn’t it?’

‘I said the same thing,’ Ellen told her.

She looked fiftyish, around the right age for the housekeeper, but nothing else about her did anything to inspire Edward.
Not the bobbed, pale brown hair or the eager-to-please expression on the soft, round face. Certainly not the shapeless, dark
cardigan over the horrendous flowery skirt, although of course clothes didn’t matter a damn. But where was the presence he
wanted for Betty? Where was the character, the steel he needed to make her a credible murderer?


The man was slightly more promising. Good-looking, which never hurt, early forties by the look of him, right age for Jack
McCarthy. Well able to carry off the country squire look. And well able too, Edward guessed, to flirt with young, innocent
Dorothy Williams.


‘Edward Bull,’ he told them. ‘Director.’

‘Robert McInerney.’ His handshake was solid. ‘And I have no idea who this charming lady is – we met on the way in.’

‘Judith O’Sullivan.’

She had a nice smile, her whole face crinkling with it. Edward made the rest of the introductions – twenty-three years of
dealing with bereaved people had left him good with names – and then bent towards his briefcase. ‘We may as well get started.
Hopefully a few others will—’


Someone thumped suddenly up the stairs, drowning out the end of his sentence. They all turned to look as a woman burst through
the doorway and clumped heavily across the room. What on earth was she wearing on her feet?


Thick, unusually curved heels, soles at least three inches high, shiny uppers that covered her ankles and laced across the
front. They looked like they had come straight off the feet of some demented fairytale witch, except that they were purple instead of black.


Above the shoes she wore a loosely cut green dress that fell to just below her knees, in the kind of material that made Edward’s
teeth sore, and she’d dyed her hair the horrible false, sharp pink of the candyfloss he’d tasted once as a child, fascinated
by the feathery look of it but immediately revolted by its cloying grittiness in his mouth.


Her features weren’t regular enough to be pretty – wide, slightly hooked nose, pale eyes a fraction too far apart, overlarge
teeth between alarmingly purple lips – but she was striking in a slightly off-kilter way.


If Edward was stuck, she might just do for the postmistress, but the pink hair would have to go. She was far too old for it,
for one thing – had to be at least thirty.


‘Sorry, have you started?’ She looked at the bundle of scripts in Edward’s hand. ‘My baby is teething and it took forever
to get her to sleep.’


Edward shook his head. ‘No, we were just about—’

‘Oh, good. I’m Theo DeCourcy, by the way.’ She sank into a chair and crossed one awful, witchy shoe over the other. ‘I’ve
no acting experience whatsoever, but this sounded interesting.’ She stuck out a hand – covered in a ridiculous lacy fingerless
glove – and Edward obediently put a script into it. She peered around the room. ‘Is it me, or is it really dark in here?’


And a second later: ‘Death by Dying? What kind of a name is that?


An hour and forty minutes later there were far too many people scattered throughout the long, narrow room, sprawled on chairs,
perched on window sills or simply propped against walls. They’d pushed open what windows would budge, but it was still uncomfortably
warm. Layers were peeled off, sleeves were pushed up, and the six by now slightly wilting scripts were being flapped enthusiastically in front of damp, rosy faces.


Someone had discovered a central light whose bare bulb was harsh and unflattering, but which at least made the lines of dialogue
easier to read. Edward had made sure that everyone tried out for at least one part, cringing quietly as words were mispronounced
or skipped altogether, as cues were missed, as conversations were reduced to a series of halting, unconnected phrases by people
who he fervently wished had stayed at home.


‘Right.’ He stopped scribbling and put down his biro and stood up.

It took a good fifteen seconds for the whispers and mutters and fidgeting to die down, for all the faces to turn towards him.

He’d never been comfortable talking to a crowd, never at ease with attention focused on him. He wished someone would flick
the light switch and send them all into the gloom again. He cleared his throat and looked down at the notes he didn’t need.


‘First of all, has everyone signed this?’ He held up the sheet he’d sent around, collecting names and contact numbers. Experience
had taught him the importance of back-up – who knew what problems might arise within his chosen cast?


A general nodding. Edward slid the sheet into his briefcase and continued. ‘As you all know, there are only six parts in this
play, so apologies to those who’ll go home without one.’


Not a sound. A bead of sweat trickled unpleasantly down his back.

‘At this stage, before I announce the cast’ – Lord, how pompous that sounded – ‘I’d like to repeat that I will expect complete
commitment from each and every one of you.’ His stern gaze left nobody out. ‘If anyone feels at this stage that there’s the smallest chance of their not turning up here every Thursday evening – and probably two or three extra evenings in the week before production’ – he gave this a second to sink
in – ‘I would like them to please leave now.’


His words created a small, self-conscious ripple. Feet shuffled. A throat was cleared. A few heads swung around, searching
for deserters. Nobody got up, nobody headed for the door.


Edward went back to his notes. ‘In that case, thank you all for coming, and I would like the following people to remain behind
please.’


He called out the six names and stayed standing through the subsequent clatter of chairs being pushed back and jackets being
gathered up and the general bustle of the room emptying out, until they were left, finally, to themselves.


Edward dropped his notes into his briefcase and turned to face them. ‘I hope none of you are afraid of hard work,’ he said.
‘Despite the fact that this is an amateur production and none of you will be getting paid, I expect you to give as much commitment
as if you were all on Hollywood salaries.’


They smiled politely. It had sounded funnier at home.

‘I speak as I find,’ he told them. ‘If I’m not happy, you’ll know about it. I will be fair but demanding, and as director,
my decision on any queries that arise will be final. I expect lines to be learned promptly, and I expect you to turn up to
rehearsals on time – particularly as I was the only person here at eight-thirty tonight.’


He let that bit sink in too. No harm to lay down the law from the start.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘any comments before I give out the parts?’

And immediately they all began to speak at the same time.

‘What character am I playing?’ asked Theo DeCourcy. ‘I hope it’s not the postmistress – she’s not very exciting, is she?’


‘I’d just like to say thanks very much,’ said Harry Buckley. ‘I never thought I’d be offered a part.’

‘I was sure you weren’t going to cast me,’ said Ellen Greene. ‘You kept cutting me off when I was reading – I thought you
hated me.’


‘What time are the rehearsals?’ asked Robert McInerney. ‘It’s just that Thursday is our late opening, and if we’re busy it
might be tricky to be here much before eight.’


‘I hope I won’t have too many lines to learn,’ said Maria Talty. ‘My memory is hopeless. I’ll do my best, of course, but it
might take a while.’


‘I can paint backdrops too,’ said Judith O’Sullivan. ‘If you need that done, I mean – just a thought. I’m an art teacher,
you see.’


Edward listened to the babble of their voices. He had barely six weeks, maybe ten rehearsals altogether, to shape this best-of-a-bad-lot
collection into some kind of a team. Only one of them had any acting experience; two, possibly three, out of the six could
be called attractive; and one already showed distinct signs of lacking commitment.


Not to mention the fact that the play was mediocre at best, the first effort of a young, inexperienced local man. Talk about
mission impossible.


‘Rehearsals,’ he told them, ‘will take place at seven-thirty sharp each Thursday,’ – looking pointedly at Robert –‘and will last approximately two hours, possibly longer. You will be expected
to learn your lines on time’ – a glance in Maria’s direction – ‘and parts’ – to Theo – ‘are not negotiable.’


He began to distribute fresh scripts, thinking with longing of the very large brandy with his name on it in the pub downstairs.

*

‘He was like Hitchcock,’ Ellen said, ‘sitting there in his armchair, not making a sound. I nearly got a heart attack when
he spoke.’ She stopped suddenly. ‘I just remembered – he asked me if I was limping.’ She looked indignantly at Maria. ‘The
nerve.’


‘Watch the road.’ Maria pushed her seat belt into its casing and tucked her blouse down under it. ‘Well, you do limp.’

‘I do not. Well, barely. Most people don’t even notice.’

‘He did, obviously, the minute you walked in.’

‘Well I don’t know why he asked then, if he could see it. I didn’t tell him anyway. It’s none of his bloody business. I have
the part now – he can’t very well take it away from me.’


‘I never thought we’d get parts,’ Maria said. ‘I didn’t even want one.’

‘Me neither … but I kind of got into it.’

Maria frowned. ‘I thought you were dying for a part. That’s what you said when you rang and practically begged me to go with
you. That’s the only reason I came along.’


‘Oh, I was,’ Ellen said quickly. ‘I mean, I love the idea of being in a play – I’m just not too sure that this play is the one I’d choose. You were brilliant as Penelope though, much better than anyone else. I wasn’t surprised when
he picked you.’


They drove in silence for a few minutes, past the community centre, through the roundabout, across the city’s newest bridge,
up the hill and towards the housing development where Maria lived.


Ellen shifted gear as they turned into the wide avenue of red brick houses. ‘You don’t hate the thought of it, do you? I wouldn’t
like to think I’d forced you into it.’


‘Actually,’ Maria said slowly, ‘I don’t. I thought I would, but I don’t.’

‘Good.’ They pulled up in front of Maria’s house. ‘But honestly, sitting there like God Almighty, judging us all.’


Maria laughed. ‘Ellen, he is the director – it’s his job.’


‘I’d say he loves laying down the law.’

‘He’s quite attractive though, you have to admit that. He reminds me a bit of Tommy Lee Jones.’

‘I don’t care what he looks like, he’ll still be bossing us around every Thursday. So what do you think of the play anyway?
It’s a bit corny, isn’t it?’


Maria unbuckled her seat belt and reached for her bag on the floor of the car. ‘I’m surprised it’s a new one – it seems kind
of dated to me. It reminds me of the old black and white films we used to watch on Sunday afternoons.’


‘Wait till Mam and Dad hear we’re both in a play. Wait till I tell them I’m the murder victim.’

Maria laughed. ‘You’ve got a great part. I only have a few scenes, not important at all.’

‘I think Penelope is interesting, and you’ve some good bitchy lines. Wonder what Herr Direktor thinks of it.’

‘I presume he likes it, if he’s agreed to direct it.’ Maria opened the car door. ‘Want to come in for a cuppa?’

Ellen hesitated. ‘I don’t think so, thanks. I’ve a pile of ironing waiting at home.’

Like ironing had ever stopped her staying out; like Maria was fooled for a second. But the offer was always made, and always
refused.


‘OK. See you Sunday.’

‘See you.’ Ellen watched her sister walking up the path of number fourteen, rummaging in her bag. Pushing her key into the
door, turning to wave.


Driving home, Ellen felt vindicated. Playing the sympathy card, making out that she’d needed Maria’s moral support to go to
the auditions, had made her feel vaguely guilty. She could easily have gone to McMillan’s on her own – if she’d had the slightest interest in being in a play, which she hadn’t. But of course she was doing it for Maria, not the other way
around. Her sister needed something like this, some kind of escape from that awful life of hers, even if it was just for a
couple of hours a week, and now she had it. And by the sound of it, Maria was quite happy with the outcome, so Ellen’s plan
had worked beautifully.


The only problem was that now she was tied – they were both tied – to being ordered around for the next six weeks by a man
who clearly revelled in telling everyone else what to do, and Ellen wasn’t at all sure how she’d cope with that. She didn’t
relish the idea of learning lines, of having to stand up in front of the others every Thursday and put on an act.


She’d just have to keep reminding herself why she was there, and hopefully the experience would bring Maria out of herself
a bit, help her to make a few friends who’d distract her from her problems at home, more than that dreary little bookshop
could. Although it was doubtful that Maria would have much in common with that loud pink-haired woman, and the other one was
a bit long in the tooth, but still.


As she turned down a narrow side street, the open doorway of a pub and the scattered smokers around it caught Ellen’s eye.
She glanced at the dashboard clock – five past eleven. Plenty of time.


She pulled into a space and checked her reflection, ran lipstick across her mouth, dipped her head and swung it back and tousled
her hair with her fingers. Undid another button on her top.


She walked slowly into the pub, disguising the limp as much as she could – not that it ever bothered them – and tried to remember
when she’d changed the sheets on her bed.


*

As he drew up to the edge of the path and swung his leg over the crossbar, the bottom of Harry’s jeans caught on the carrier,
and the resulting loss of equilibrium sent bicycle and rider crashing heavily to the ground.


‘Blast!’ He scrambled to his feet, already feeling the sting of a palm that had slapped hard onto the concrete, and an ominous
throb in one hip. ‘Damn and blast!’ He gave a quick look around and saw nobody – thank God.


He should have put on the clips. So what if they’d seen him, who cared if they thought bicycle clips were naff? They were
nothing to him, they were complete strangers to him – apart from Judith, whose face he’d recognised as soon as she’d walked
in. He was good with faces.


But he’d left the blasted clips in his pocket, too self-conscious to use them in front of the others, and now it served him
right.


The stupid thing was, they probably hadn’t even noticed him. By the time he’d unlocked the bike, they were more than likely
walking towards their cars, not looking in his direction at all, not in the least bothered whether he wore bicycle clips or
not.


He examined his palm. Not a bad graze, bit of Savlon on it when he went in. He massaged his hip – stiff in the morning probably,
but he’d live.


He hauled the bike up and wheeled it in through the gate, hearing the wheeze of a mudguard scraping every so often against
the front tyre. In the shed he took the script from the carrier and smoothed it out.


Imagine, him in a play. Wait till he told Ma.

Eve was in the kitchen, in George’s dark blue pyjama top and a pair of grey leggings. Harry liked her short blonde choppy
fringe, the contrast with her heavy dark eyebrows.


‘Hi Harry.’ She held up a slice of brown bread. ‘I’m making toasties – want one?’ A block of orange cheddar sat on the worktop
beside the sliced pan.


Harry shook his head, moving past her towards the door into the hall. ‘No thanks, think I’ll just—’


‘Oh, hey, how did you get on?’ She was barefoot, her toenails painted a deep pink. ‘Did you get a part?’

Harry grinned, feeling the heat in his face. ‘I did, yeah. I’m—’

‘Oh, that’s brilliant – wait till I tell George.’ She turned back to the worktop and began slicing thick wedges of cheese.
‘Well done you.’


‘Thanks … well, I’m off to bed. See you tomorrow.’ Harry left the kitchen and went upstairs. Passing their bedroom door, he
heard Amy Winehouse singing about not going to rehab.


He imagined the conversation when Eve brought up the toasties.

‘Guess what – Harry got a part in the play. Can you believe it?’

‘You’re joking.’ George lowering his book and looking over his John Lennon glasses at her.

‘No, he really did.’

And they’d wonder – in a nice way, though – how on earth he’d managed it.

In the bathroom he cleaned his hand and rubbed Savlon on the graze. He pulled down his jeans and examined the slightly pinker
patch of skin on his hip.


He hardly knew what had possessed him to go along to the auditions. He’d never stood on a stage in his life, never had the
slightest inclination to act in anything.


But for some reason, the ad in the paper had stayed with him. In the days that followed, he’d begun to find the idea intriguing.
He’d imagined standing up on a stage in front of lots of people, not as Harry Buckley in the library who you wouldn’t look
twice at, but as someone different. Someone, maybe, who wasn’t afraid to say what he felt, or who wouldn’t let anyone walk
all over him.


Not that it mattered, though, what the character was like – he could be as obnoxious as anything. The main thing was that
he wouldn’t be Harry. It was his chance to try out another person’s skin, maybe the only chance he’d ever get.


Oh, he knew it would only be for a few weeks, and that it was all pretend anyway, and when it was over he’d have to go back
to being himself again and nothing would have changed. But wouldn’t it be something?


And before you knew it, before he could give himself time to change his mind, he was heading into McMillan’s on Thursday evening,
walking past the little knots of late office workers and early evening drinkers, and up the narrow stairs whose carpet disappeared
when you turned the corner, even as the little voice that he’d managed to stifle up till then began to whisper: What do you
think you’re doing? You can’t seriously imagine that anyone will want you –you’re having a laugh, aren’t you?


But it was too late by then, because he was through the doorway and into the long, badly lit room, and two people were sitting
at the other end, watching as he blundered towards them, almost knocking over one of those tiny little spindly-legged tables
that made him feel even more like Gulliver in Lilliput.


And the more people who’d shown up, the more nervous he’d become, the more certain that he was wasting his time. And then,
miraculously, he’d landed the part of Tom the gardener, silently attracted to poor, doomed Dorothy.


It wasn’t a very big part, which was probably just as well. Not too many lines to learn, not too much of the spotlight resting
on him. And Tom’s character wasn’t a million miles away from Harry’s own, which probably helped. His nervous stuttering hadn’t
mattered, might even have added to the part. So for the next six Thursdays Harry Buckley would disappear and be replaced by
Tom Drury.


He leaned against the door of his bedroom and examined the script. Death by Dying, it said on the cover. A play for theatre by Jonathan Crosby.

He thought again about telling Ma on Sunday. She’d have to react to that, wouldn’t she? Usually he had nothing interesting
to tell her; it was no wonder she didn’t say much. This would be different.


He turned the cover over and began to read, his eyes flying back and forth.

*

She stood in the hall and listened. No sound from upstairs. A burst of laughter, too loud, from the sitting room. She walked
in.


‘Turn that down a bit, will you? Guess what.’

Ben was lying on the couch, spread out the length of it. ‘Hey.’

He reached for the remote control on the floor and pressed the mute button. He opened his arms and Theo dropped her bag, kicked
off her purple shoes and lowered herself onto his body. Their faces were almost touching.


‘Guess what,’ she said again.