Page 7 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘Guess,’ I say.
‘Guess? Your name?’
I nod, slowly.
‘Sarah.’
‘No.’
‘Eleanor.’
‘No.’
‘Catherine.’
‘No.’
‘Charlotte, Lisa, Mel, Claire, Lucy, Andrea, Rosie, Anna, Fay.’
I shake my head, over and over. Then I stop, because it makes me feel a bit sick.
‘I give up,’ he says.
‘Shelley,’ I say.
He tilts his head slightly to one side, keeps his focus steady. ‘Shelley,’ he repeats.
‘Those names, all those names you listed. Are they exes?’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘You just came up with them all so quickly.’
‘They were all girls in my class at primary school.’
I smile then, can’t help it. I imagine him as a young boy. Probably Matthew, then. Grass stains on his trousers and his hair untidy, just like it is now.
He’s been standing up to now, but he goes over to a chair in the corner of the room and sits down, opens his KitKat.
‘Is this okay?’ he asks.
‘Is what okay?’
‘Me, sitting here for a few minutes, having a snack. I’ve been on my feet all day.’
‘Don’t you have other people to get drinks for?’
‘Not just now. I’m going home after I leave you.’
I wonder where home is. Whether it’s a flat he shares with a friend, or a girlfriend. Whether he has a wife and child. I can’t ask. And why do I want to know, anyway? We’re quiet for a couple of minutes as he eats. I take another sip of the tea. It’s cooled down now but it’s undrinkable.
‘My husband tried to kill me,’ I say into the silence.
He coughs, a sort of choke. Recovers himself.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say.
