Page 47 of Insomnia

“It’s a lovely house. And good paint job.”

In the kitchen she takes a half bottle of white wine from the fridge and divides it between two glasses.

“Let’s hope some buyers like it. I’ve got my eye on a flat down by the water. Shared ownership. Will be much cheaper on bills too,” she says, and although she smiles, she doesn’t look happy aboutit. But why would she? It must be upsetting to sell your family home for care home costs.

“What’s going on at work? I may be able to help. If it’s a legal thing?”

“Oh, you know how it is, a manager who doesn’t like me. Can’t do anything right.” She takes a sip of wine and hands me the other glass. “I shouldn’t let it upset me, but it’s just relentless. I feel like she bullies me, which is stupid because I’m a fully grown woman. Nearly forty-three and she makes me feel like I’m back at school. I can’t talk to her either. She brushes whatever I say aside.”

“Have you been logging the incidences? If not, you should. And try emailing her—that way you have evidence of her ignoring you if you need to raise a complaint.”

“I haven’t been, but I’ll start,” she says. “Thank you.” She pauses, and then smiles as if she’s decided that maybe I’m not a weird stalker. “I made a curry earlier. We can have that instead of a takeaway? It’s probably still warm and I can nuke some rice? Saturday nights are so slow on deliveries.”

“That’d be lovely. Thank you.” We’re so polite. The awkwardness of strangers trying to make friends. There’s a moment’s silence and I see a small Bluetooth speaker on the side of the table. “Can I put some music on?”

“Sure.”

I sync my phone and hit shuffle, quiet music filling the gaps in our conversation as she busies herself with the food. “What about you?” she says. “Are you sleeping better?”

“I wish.” I sip some wine. “God, I don’t even know where to start. So much shit going on.”

“Tell me.”

“You’ll think I’m crazy...”

“I think most people are crazy, if I’m honest,” she says. “Including me. The world is crazy.”

And so, as we eat, I tell her. I don’t go into details but I broadly share my phobia of turning forty because of my mother going mad and how she nearly suffocated Phoebe, and how now that my own fortieth is only a couple of days away, it’s stopping me sleeping. The note under my windshield and my slashed tire. I tell her about my mother dying, waiting for CCTV to prove me innocent, and then about Phoebe’s return and how she’s worming her way into my family.

“She changed after what happened when we were kids,” I say. “She’s envious of me. I don’t know what’s going on in her head these days. I’m just so tired. I had to put a NightNightin my husband’s tea so I could feel like he wasn’tstudyingme all night. Of course, it sent him off to sleep fine, where my superstrength prescription did nothing for me.”

“Do you think she slashed your tire?”

“Phoebe?” I push the last forkful of food around my plate. “I don’t know. She was outside my house that night. I saw her, briefly. But I do have a client with an ex-wife who hates me. It could well have been her. I’m pretty sure she keyed my car, so this wouldn’t be such a leap.” She doesn’t say anything, just watches me, face full of concern, and I sip my wine, feeling awkward.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I needed someone to talk to and I know this probably sums up my pathetic loneliness more than anything, but I felt like we had a connection. Two fragile people. It’s stupid. Like a new friendship.”

“I haven’t made any new friends in a long time,” she says and then raises her glass. “To new friends. And hopefully all our issues will straighten themselves out soon enough.”

We clink glasses, and I wish I’d brought another bottle. Being around her makes me calmer.

“Oh god,” I say as she takes our plates away. “I haven’t mentioned this icing on the cake. I found out our seventeen-year-old daughter is sleeping with the father of a kid she babysits for. The couple are in our circle of friends. And I haven’t told Robert yet. I meant to, but there’s been no time. I’m hoping the fact that I know will scare the shit out of the guy and he’ll finish it.”

“That’s awful,” she says, eyes widening. “And you haven’t confronted this man? Spoken to his wife even?”

“No, not yet. There’s just so much other stuff going on, I don’t want to drop this bomb in the middle of it.”

“Yeah, I get that,” she says, filling the kettle and getting mugs out. As much as I’d like more wine, tea is probably a better idea. I have to drive back to the hotel. Thinking of the drive makes me realize that my bladder is screaming.

“Could I use the loo?”

“Just along the corridor before the stairs. Tea? Milk and sugar?”

“Just milk please.”

The downstairs toilet is actually a large disabled wet room with grab rails. Maybe her mum had moved downstairs before going to the home. In that respect Caroline and I are once again different. I barely knew my mother and her life has obviously been spent looking after hers in a lot of ways. So odd, how on paper we have nothing in common and yet I feel so utterly drawn to her.

The song is playing when I come back into the kitchen. “This is a cool tune,” she says. “I like a folky sound.” She puts the teacups down. “Can you play it again?”

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