Have you noticed how things are louder when you sleep? How the clock that ticks benignly in the lounge suddenly sounds like the countdown of a bomb strapped to your chest? Perhaps that's why husbands and wives had separate bedrooms back when: all that snoring and grinding of teeth is bound to get on someone's nerves.
"So it's you," she said. "The Norah Singleton."
I swallowed.
"Do you two know each other?"
"Not exactly," I said.
"Oh, I know her all right. She's been flirting with my Henry for years."
The refuse truck shuddered the sash windows as it passed Will's front door. He waited for the last of the diesel fumes to dissipate before starting the timer on his watch. Mrs Phillips' Basset Hound regarded him with watery eyes as he pounded past the daffodils and around the mailbox. There was a bite in the air, not that he noticed. His head was full of yesterday's disaster.
"Have you met Tyrone?"
Miss Joan's eyes swept the mess hall as, one by one, the shop assistants turned in the direction of her voice.
"He's joining us as the chief in charge of outdoor apparel."
Her eyes darted in attempt to track the sniggers. Granted, Tyrone was portly, but he'd convinced her that he could handle the demands of the job.
No matter which way he turned, John could not outrun the branches tearing at his hair and face and arms and legs. The faster he went, the harder they scraped against him, cutting his flesh to scarlet ribbons. The light that was guiding him seemed to be slipping away, and all he could think to do was stop. Stand still. Catch his breath. Try to ride out the pain. As he did, the branches pulled back, his wounds healed and the light grew brighter. He heard a voice that seemed to come from within his own mind: Stop running from the truth, John.
As Sadie lowered herself in to the lavender fumes, she offered mental thanks to the inventor of bath bombs. Not only did they provide a bizarre kind of entertainment as they fizzed into obscurity, they were the bearers of soothing oils and scents. Which she desperately needed after the week she had.
Jerry was in a bad mood. His door slammed seven times in the past twenty minutes, not that Jane was really keeping track. The story was that he had the big guns on his case about upping the circulation and not doing enough to keep the advertisers happy. Some days she hated being part of the corporate machine. Her in tray was bulging with letters, and Roger from the mail room popped round to let her know that the Citizen Jane Fan Club, as he called it, needed its corner cleared out, pronto.
