Cold Shoulder

Chapter 5

The following week Lorraine got a job in a florist’s shop. It was only short term, replacing an assistant who was on holiday. She also did four nights at Art’s gallery, as he remained open until ten in the evening. He was rarely there, and she was often alone waiting for the odd customer. A number of paintings had been sold, but business was not flourishing. Art was out looking for new pictures, but whenever he saw her, he greeted Lorraine with affection.

The week was good because she was occupied, and with the little money she earned she bought two more outfits from a garage sale. Nula and Didi dropped in for chats, and always brought some home-made banana cake with them. Didi was still limping but she refused to see a doctor. The two transsexuals admired Lorraine’s taste in clothes and discussed second-hand bargains they’d bought. Because of their size they often found it difficult to get really stylish clothes, and especially shoes. Lorraine was looking better and feeling stronger every day. The sweatings were less frequent and she had put on weight.

Rosie had started doing clerical work at home and had hired a computer and printer so she was always in. They began a routine of sharing the cleaning and laundry. Lorraine contributed towards the rent and groceries. It meant that at the end of the week, after she had bought her cigarettes and clothes, she had little left. But what was left, she saved.

When the florist job finished, Lorraine asked Art if he could use her for a few more hours. As more paintings had been sold, and he had discovered a new artist, he took her on for two full days a week, plus the four evenings. There were few customers, and she didn’t know how the gallery paid for itself let alone paid her salary. On her way to and from work she had to pass Fit As A Fiddle, now called Fit ’N’ Fast, and decided to join one of their classes. She only managed the first ten minutes of the step aerobic session before she felt her energy give way. However, she began to practise in the empty gallery with a stack of telephone directories and slowly built up her strength, stepping up and down until her legs felt like jelly.

Lorraine used Art’s telephone daily to try and trace her ex-husband. She called a number of Mike Pages but so far she had been unsuccessful. He had disappeared. Rosie surprised her by suggesting that she call the Bar Association: if he was still practising, they would know his address.

Mike Page was living in Santa Monica. Lorraine had not spoken to him directly, but to a secretary, who confirmed that he had two daughters, Julia and Sally. Before she could ask any further questions, Lorraine hung up. Then she stacked up the telephone books and stepped until she was exhausted.

It was a Friday evening, two weeks since Lorraine had found Mike’s office number. She had put off getting in touch, always making the excuse that she didn’t have enough money to get the bus to Santa Monica — and she was still in need of better clothes. She arrived home with a banana cake made by Didi and some fresh fruit. She was flushed from walking. It had been a full day of exercise: she had done a light workout with Hector, the owner of Fit ’N’ Fast, who had put together a beginner’s programme, starting with small weights, to build up the atrophied muscles in her arms and legs.

Rosie peered up from a mountain of brown envelopes and watched as Lorraine removed from her bag boxes and boxes of vitamins. Hector had taken to giving them to her free because most were samples. He suggested she took vitamins E, C, D and B12, and with her past record of alcohol abuse, he said, zinc. They all knew about Lorraine’s drinking problem — Nula had told them — but Lorraine didn’t mind. It was easier that everyone knew, and besides, as none of them drank she was never tempted.

‘I see we’ve been to the hairdresser’s — or did Hector turn his muscular body to that, too?’ Rosie smirked.

‘No, I had it done at the local.’ She still had the short cropped cut, but she’d had new streaks put in.

Rosie licked a few more envelopes, slapping them down. She didn’t say how good Lorraine looked because she was jealous. Lorraine was changing before her eyes. She was lightly tanned from all her walking back and forth to the gallery and whereas before she had seemed to shuffle, head bent forward, shoulders rounded, now she was straight-backed and looking fit.

Lorraine counted her money, putting some aside for Rosie. Then she went into the bedroom and opened the crammed closet. She took out her shoes, and stuffed the money inside with the rest of her savings. She sniffed gingerly: Rosie’s clothes stank of body odour. She wished she had her own closet.

‘You comin’ to a meeting with me tonight?’ Rosie asked, lolling at the door. ‘Only I got to deliver these so I thought I’d maybe go straight on.’

‘I said I’d go over to see the new paintings being hung.’

Rosie pursed her lips. ‘Hector helping out, too, is he?’

Lorraine sighed. ‘Hector’s gay, Rosie, okay?’

‘Maybe he swings both ways — some of them do, you know...’

‘Rosie, don’t start. Go mail your letters, I’ll make some supper.’

Rosie banged out and Lorraine went into the kitchen. She cleaned up, then sat down by the telephone. She knew it was after office hours, but she just felt like making another of her calls. Mike Page’s answering machine was on. This time she heard his voice, which gave an emergency number where he could be reached. Lorraine jotted it down and waited a moment before she dialled.

‘Hello.’

The high-pitched voice was obviously a child’s.

Lorraine hung up. She lit a cigarette and smoked it before dialling again. This time Mike answered. She had to swallow hard before she could speak.

‘Mike, it’s Lorraine.’

There was a pause before he spoke.

‘Well, long time. How are you?’

‘I’d like to see you... and the girls.’

Another long pause, and then Mike coughed.

‘Yeah, I understand that, and it’s fine by me. When do you want to come?’

Lorraine’s hands were shaking. She couldn’t answer. Mike asked if she was still there. ‘Maybe this weekend?’ he said.

‘You mean tomorrow?’ Lorraine could hardly get her breath.

‘Or Sunday.’ He suggested twelve thirty. They could have lunch, maybe walk on the beach together.

There was another pause. Then Lorraine said, ‘Twelve thirty Sunday, then,’ and hung up before he could say anything else. She stared at his address. Her mouth was dry. She mentally repeated every word they had said to each other. They had not spoken for so long.

She sat cupping a mug of coffee in her hands. She had finally done it. Slowly she calmed herself down. She’d be able to cope, she’d coped so far, and she was looking good. More important, she was sober.

Bill Rooney sat opposite his chief, Michael Berillo, leaning forwards, which made his squat backside spread even more. ‘Nothin’. We’ve not got a single witness—’

‘But there was a witness, Bill.’

Rooney nodded. ‘Yeah, but that was Helen Murphy. We reckoned he must have tracked her down again after the attack, right? And made sure the second time.’

‘But before she died, this phone call...’

Rooney nodded. ‘That’s what we’ve been going on — all we’ve had — and it was a pretty good description.’

What about the bite?’

‘By now it’ll have healed, or scabbed over, I dunno.’

Chief Michael Berillo was a big, glowering man. No matter what hour of the day or night, he always had a dark, five o’clock shadow. As he leaned back in his chair, his expansive chest almost burst the buttons on his sweat-stained shirt. ‘Any of this Helen Murphy’s associates give you anything?’

‘Nope. She was a real old dog, though, hard to believe anyone’d pick her up, let alone screw her, and most of the people we talked to don’t have a lot to say about her. Nothin’ complimentary — she was trouble with a major T. She’s also moved around. We can’t trace her husband — he’s a trucker, nobody seems to know where he is — and she’s got three kids in care.’

‘Irish?’

‘What?’

The Chief yawned. ‘I said, was she Irish? With a name like Murphy...’

‘No, that’s her husband and he’s from Detroit. We talked to a woman she roomed with, a real dive, and she said nobody had seen the husband for at least six or seven months. But we got him circulated so as soon as he’s traced we’ll question him.’

The two men remained silent, each wrapped in his own thoughts.

‘Six.’

Rooney nodded. ‘Yeah. Six — seven if we attach Norman Hastings. We’ve interviewed everyone he worked with, everyone he knew. He’s got — or had — a real nice wife and two kids, nobody seems to have anything against him. He was a well-liked, ordinary guy, played poker with a few pals, went to ball games, good steady worker, and—’

The Chief banged his elbows on the desk. ‘No connection to any of these women. Did he pick up hookers?’

Rooney shook his head. ‘If he did, his wife didn’t know it, and none of his friends did either. Unless they were lying.’

The Chief thumbed through the massive dossier which represented the hours and hours of interviews and statements, the lists of officers assigned to the investigation. ‘Okay, we’ll open it up further. Let’s see if any other states have anything on record. Reason is, to keep this on the boil I’m going to need more. We got a hell of a lot of men with their thumbs up their asses and we’ll have to open it up to the press.’

‘Shit! You do that and we’ll have our job cut out for us — you know what a circus starts when there’s a whiff of a serial killer on the loose.’

‘You’ve had it all to yourself, Bill, and you’ve drawn a blank. We got a fucking maniac out there and I can’t hold this back any longer. We’ll get in a psychological profiler.’

Rooney snorted, and the Chief rapped the desk. ‘Get all the help you can, Bill, and get it fast. If you and your team don’t get a result soon, I can’t let you sit on this — and you know it. Bring in that Helen Murphy’s husband. So far he looks like the only possible suspect and you need one.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You dumb? I’ll have to bring in more than a fucking profiler. Don’t you understand? I’m under pressure. That last kid might have been a hooker, but she was only seventeen years old. And Norman Hastings was, as you’ve laid out thick and clear, an upright citizen. You think his family don’t want a result? It’s not just old tarts. One dead bitch like the one you dug up from your pal Sparks can be put on ice. Hastings can’t. A pretty blue-eyed angel called Holly can’t. You with me?’

Rooney felt the carpet being tugged from under his feet. If they wanted a profiler then he’d get one. If they wanted Clint Eastwood they could have him too. Anything, so long as they didn’t give him the side-step just before he was due to retire. ‘I hear you loud and clear, Chief.’

‘Good — and, Bill, any other bright ideas you get, run them by me first. You started the ball rolling, now it’s out of control.’

Rooney got out fast.

Unfortunately, Bean was in his office sitting in his chair. It was a bad omen and Rooney yelled at him to shove his butt off. ‘Get onto one of those profilers — and by tonight. And don’t say one word. Then I want every man on this fiasco in the main incident room in one hour. We want Helen Murphy’s fuckin’ husband found and brought in.’

Bean coughed. ‘There’s another one.’

‘What?’ Rooney’s face flushed a deep puce.

‘I said there’s another one come in, from a Brian Johns, Santa Monica, details on your desk.’

Rooney reached over and picked up the fax sheet. Prostitute murdered 1992, found inside the trunk of a Cadillac, face and skull beaten. Mona Skinner, aged forty. Possible murder weapon: a blunt instrument, some kind of hammer.

Bean shut the door as Rooney thudded into his chair. It creaked ominously, the springs taking the strain of his eighteen stone. Mona Skinner was an ugly, square-faced woman with long, frizzy, bleached-blonde hair and her mouth was turned down in a thin scowl. Her mean, aggressive eyes stared back at Rooney with a ‘fuck you’ expression. She had been charged with soliciting more than nine times over a period of fifteen years. She had also served four years for assault and battery, and receiving stolen property.

Rooney leaned back and swivelled around. He was angry with himself for opening the can: the worms were certainly wriggling out and all over him. He ran a check to see if there were any links between Mona Skinner and the others. He struck lucky: Mona Skinner and Helen Murphy had both served time together at the same women’s prison, had once lived in the same motel. Rooney stepped up the order to find Helen Murphy’s husband who now became his main suspect for real.

Rosie ate the spaghetti, waded through the garlic bread and, filled to bursting point, heaved herself onto the sofa. Switching on the TV, she paused briefly to watch the news, then flicked on to find a game show.

‘They’ve still not found that guy that bumped off that local fella. You know what always amazes me?’

Lorraine was washing up. ‘No?’

‘Well, you know when they put all these ads out for people to come forward if they saw anythin’? That murder happened weeks ago. How do they expect anybody to remember? I wouldn’t be able to remember if I saw a guy in a metallic blue car this morning, never mind weeks ago.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Lorraine said, wiping round the sink. ‘I was working on a case once, and we were up shit creek without a paddle, and then this boy was hypnotized and he gave not only the car’s registration number, but about four or five others as well.’

Rosie switched channels again. ‘I wouldn’t have that done, you know why? Because it means they always got you in their power.’

Lorraine sat down beside her, her mind miles away. She thought again about the wallet, the man who had attacked her. She was vaguely surprised that he hadn’t been traced yet. She closed her eyes, conjuring up a mental picture of him, the way he had picked her up at the roadside, how he had wanted her to give him a blow-job in a public place. She saw him as clearly as if it had been yesterday. She remembered his hands: long, thin tapering fingers. Had he worn a ring? She concentrated hard, no, she was sure he had no ring, but then she saw his cuff, his jacket sleeve, and the cufflinks. She leaned forward, frowning in concentration, and then shook her head. It was no concern of hers, she had enough to think about, and besides, the further removed she was from it the better.

The following morning Lorraine went off to the gallery, pausing on the way to buy a newspaper. The headlines shrieked in big bold letters: POLICE HUNT SERIAL KILLER. Sitting in the gallery, she read the entire article, then folded the paper. It seemed almost comical that Captain Bill Rooney should be heading the investigation. From her own past experience with press releases, they had trouble on their hands. She could tell they were covering up, the old phrases they all used to churn out about ‘making headway’, ‘confident of an arrest’. But the biggest giveaway was the police request for any member of the public having further information to make contact. It meant they had zilch.

The buzzer sounded and a flushed, excited Art rushed in, carrying a small gym bag ready for his workout next door. ‘I think, my dear, I just made a killing. Last night I had a friend over who knows a big dealer out of New York. He saw the new stuff and went ape-shit! He’s back tonight and he’s not just interested in one or two but the whole show!’

Lorraine was genuinely pleased as it also meant more money for her. Art had promised that as soon as business picked up she would get a better wage. He danced around, checked the mail, and then said he would be next door if anyone wanted him.

She took another look at the canvases hanging on the walls, still not impressed with the daubs of colour and squiggles that the new Art discovery had supplied.

Later, Nula dropped by. She put her arms around Lorraine. ‘You know, I think you’re looking even better. As soon as your hair grows a bit more, ask Didi to style it — she’s an artist. She can colour as well — she does mine, and she does Holly’s—’ She froze, and covered her mouth. ‘Oh, God, I forgot.’

‘There’s a big article in the paper this morning, and a photograph.’

Nula looked at it. ‘She was much more beautiful than that, a real stunner. You know, the cops have been out every night. Terrible for business, but they reckon this maniac only does whores, so everybody’s a bit uneasy. First time they came round, hardly any of us out, but you know business is business. And I doubt if he’d come our end of the street, we just have our usuals and a few that have been tipped off.’

Lorraine smoothed her skirt. ‘All the same, you two should look after yourselves. Take the vehicle registration of the johns you’re wary of — or better still, don’t go with them.’

Nula cocked her head to one side. ‘That’s just what the cops told us.’

Lorraine smiled. ‘Well, make sure you do it.’

Nula opened her tapestry bag and took out a packet. ‘Give this to Art for me, would you? It’s just some more postcards, and our rent. See you soon.’

Lorraine put the packet in the desk drawer and was just about to shut it, when she noticed a thick wad of notes secured with just an elastic band. She looked to the door, then back to the open drawer. She took the money out and flicked through it. There was at least two or three thousand dollars. She held it a moment, tapping it in her hand, then replaced it.

About an hour later Art returned, pink from his workout, his bald head gleaming. He dropped his gym bag and fractionally adjusted a canvas.

‘You mind if I say something?’

He turned, and smiled. ‘Oh, you sounded so stern, why should I?’

‘There’s a lot of money in the drawer, Art, and it’s not locked or anything. Anyone could just walk in and take it.’

Art danced over and banged open the drawer. ‘I meant to put it in the bank this morning but I forgot and I didn’t want to leave it in the health club.’

Lorraine watched as he tossed the money into his gym bag.

‘Right, I have to go. Will you lock up, leave the keys with Hector next door?’ Then, pursing his lips, he delved into his pocket, dragged out his wallet, and started counting out ten-dollar bills. ‘Whoops... I’m a wee bit short. Can I give you the rest on Monday, darling?’

Lorraine flushed. ‘I need it all today, Art. I have to go somewhere this weekend.’ She couldn’t help but flick a look to the gym bag.

‘That belongs to a friend.’

She shrugged. ‘Monday will have to do.’

‘Okay.’ Art smiled. ‘Is that your paper? Have you finished with it?’

She passed it to him. He glanced at it and then held up Holly’s photograph. ‘I didn’t know her but she was a friend of Nula and Didi’s.’

He waltzed out, and the door slammed behind him. Remembering Nula’s package she hurried after him, only to see him driving away in a cab. She felt pissed off: she needed her money to buy a little something for the girls. She put the package away, then opened the drawer again, took it out and looked at it. Nula had said that her rent was in it; maybe she could just take out what she was owed and leave a note.

Lorraine eased open the package, pulling the Scotchtape away, making sure she didn’t rip the paper. As well as some postcards wrapped in a sheet of paper, there was a brown manilla envelope. She crossed to the kettle, and turned it on to steam open the flap. Inside was a big pile of notes. She was surprised by the amount — unless they were behind with their rent. She counted out sixty dollars for herself, and was about to replace the rest and reseal the envelope when she wondered if the postcards were meant for the gallery, so she opened the paper.

Lorraine sat down. She felt sick. It wasn’t that she hadn’t come across pornographic material when she was on Vice, but each of these was especially revolting because they featured Nula and Didi. Maybe if she’d been more together, she would have realized when she visited that they used their apartment for photographic work — there were certainly enough props. She sighed, looking intently at each disgusting picture, sad that Nula and Didi could subject themselves to such degrading acts, displaying their genitals, their heavy breasts. They featured together, just the two of them, on the first few cards, and then they were joined by various animals and masked figures, and on four cards a pretty sweet-faced blonde girl appeared, her face childlike but her breasts over-large and her curved body taut and firm. Her eyes unfocused, she looked as if she had been drugged, but Lorraine recognized her immediately. It was Holly. No wonder Didi and Nula had been so upset. They knew her because both had screwed her. If the cards had been just of Nula and Didi, even with Holly, Lorraine would perhaps have been less upset, but the rest showed obviously under-age boys committing homosexual acts.

Lorraine lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. She was no innocent — in fact, it was more than likely she herself had taken part in some perverted session in the past to make a buck. She paced the gallery and kept on returning to the postcards, picking them up and putting them down. She was uncertain what, if anything, to do. Her first thought was to send them to the police, let them sort it out — especially as they featured Holly. She asked herself if the girl’s murder could be connected to the pictures. She doubted it — it could just be coincidence. But one thing was for sure: Holly was no innocent and already on the game, so she would have been fully aware of what she was doing. Then Lorraine looked again. Had Holly been drugged? If so, had she been forced into the pornographic session against her will, or agreed to do it because she was drugged?

‘It’s not my business,’ she said aloud. She was angry with herself for opening the package. It changed everything. If she sent the contents to the police, they would question Nula and Didi. They might come to the gallery, too. Art was involved, so she would also be questioned — by Bill Rooney. So much for feeling safe and secure. The thought of having Rooney barging into her fragile existence made her feel weak. She was caught, trapped first by stealing the wallet from the man who had attacked her, and then because, as it turned out, it wasn’t his wallet after all but Norman Hastings’s. She even remembered the dead man’s name, could picture his face on his driving licence. ‘What a fucking mess!’

Lorraine lit another cigarette, sat at the desk propping her head on her hands. She steadied herself. She knew the wallet was of no great importance to the investigation. More to the point, and this she knew, too, was that her attacker had been in possession of it. It was obvious he had to have taken it from Hastings’s body. If the newspaper reports could be relied on, and Hastings’s body had been discovered in his own car, then it was surely the same vehicle driven by the man who had attacked her. So it meant that all the time she was in the shopping mall car park, the dead man had been in the trunk of the car.

The officers who had come to the apartment had been trying to trace her, but had never returned. Were they still looking for her? She swore, wishing she had kept the newspaper, but she was certain there had been no mention that the police were looking for anyone seen in Hastings’s car that afternoon. She had given them a good enough description, they even repeated it in the paper, so they must be taking it seriously. There was nothing else she could do.

‘This is all I fucking need!’ she said aloud, as she stubbed out her cigarette, immediately lighting another. Her neck felt tense, her whole body was strained. She began taking everything out of the drawer — leaflets, notes, letters — without knowing what she was looking for. There was no diary, and nothing of any particular importance. She flicked through the supposed sales ledgers, noting the prices Art had paid for his canvases. They were all low. According to the sale-or-return memos, most of the paintings she had presumed sold had been returned. She started to replace the papers, and then stared hard at the money and the photographs.

‘Shouldn’t open people’s private property.’

Lorraine gasped. She hadn’t heard him return — the buzzer again! Picking up the photographs, Art began to shuffle them, stacking them, clicking them against the desk as he straightened them to stuff back into the envelope. ‘I’ve been watching you sifting through my desk. What were you looking for?’

Lorraine flushed. ‘I don’t know.’

Art replaced the photographs, folding the envelope into a tight packet. ‘Well, Lorraine, did they turn you on?’

‘No, no, they didn’t.’

‘Takes all kinds, dear.’

‘I suppose it does...’

Art unzipped his bag, tucked the photographs inside. ‘I only came back because I felt bad about not giving you your money. Lucky I did. I’d forgotten Nula was delivering these.’

Lorraine moved out from behind the desk, gesturing to the gallery. ‘This is all a front, isn’t it? A sham.’

Art glanced around. ‘Not all sham, dear. Sometimes I sell some, but I’ve been ripped off so many times, I keep it on as a kind of pastime. Maybe one day when I’ve made enough dough I’ll be able to find some real talent. This stuff is from Venice Beach, I buy it for peanuts.’

Lorraine shook her head. ‘The porn sells, does it?’

Art looked at her, his eyes so enlarged by his glasses that they seemed like a gargoyle’s. ‘How else do you think I’ve been able to stay open? I have regular customers, you met most of them. In fact, if I recall, you called them.’ He picked up the cash and peeled off a fifty-dollar bill. ‘Here, it’s a bonus.’

Lorraine didn’t take it. ‘The pictures of Holly, the girl who was murdered...’

‘What?’

‘There are pictures of Holly.

Art shrugged. ‘Well, they won’t bother her, will they?’

‘Maybe the police would be interested, though.’

He pursed his lips. ‘I don’t see why, she was obviously enjoying herself and nobody forced her. In fact, I didn’t even know the girl.’

‘Who takes the photographs?’

He sighed, hands on his hips, then looked back at Lorraine. ‘None of your fucking business. Now, let’s just forget this, shall we?’

She stared at him, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. ‘Why don’t you make it worthwhile for me to not make it my business?’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. You’ve got under-age kids on those pictures — so pay me. And... like you said, it’s not my business.’

Art hesitated. He picked up the money, seemed to weigh it in his hand before he made the decision. He threw it at Lorraine. ‘You know what my big problem in life is? I trust people. I make friends with people, I give them a break, and they always fuck me over it. Take it, you scrawny, ungrateful bitch!’

She picked up the money and stuffed it into her pocket. As she reached over for her cigarettes and lighter, Art gripped her wrist. ‘Just one thing, sweetheart. I want you to sign for that cash, just as a safeguard for me. Just in case you want to rap about me and—’

Lorraine released her wrist and rubbed it. He was strong and he had hurt her. ‘You’ll never see me again, I promise you that.’

Art didn’t speak another word. Lorraine signed for the money, walked to the door, opened it, and the buzzer shrilled. She turned, a half-smile on her face. ‘You should get this fixed, you know, Art.’

As the door closed quietly behind her, he kicked at the desk. He was — and always would be — a shit-head when it came to sniffing out people.

Lorraine did some shopping. She was feeling quite high and kept on touching the thick wad of notes in her pocket. She bought two dolls for her daughters, some cans of paint, brushes and a small wardrobe. She bought some tights, underwear, a shirt and, finally, a nightdress for Rosie. Laden with goods she caught a taxi home.

Rosie’s jaw dropped as Lorraine staggered in. ‘Jesus Christ! What did you do? Win a lottery?’

Lorraine laughed. ‘We sold four paintings and this is my bonus!’

Rosie peered at the cans of paint. ‘Who’s gonna do all this, then?’

‘You and me!’

Rosie snorted, but by now she was busy unwrapping her gift. She took out the white cotton nightdress. ‘Oh, wow! This is pure cotton, and it’s new!’

She saw two boxes. ‘What’s this, shoes?’ She opened one, and looked at Lorraine. Wow! I might act like a mental nine-and-a-half-year-old, but...’

Lorraine took back the box, closing the lid. ‘They’re for my daughters.’

‘So you made contact, then?’

Lorraine walked out without answering. She had left more bags piled outside on the steps and yelled for Rosie to lend a hand. Jake arrived, unannounced, and was immediately recruited to carry in the rest of the paint, trays and rollers. He began to wish he hadn’t dropped by as he was cajoled into shifting furniture to clear the room ready for painting. He promised to return later in the evening to help out some more. Lorraine didn’t say goodbye — she was carefully putting the two doll boxes under a cushion in case they got damaged.

She and Rosie had a snack and then, draped in old nightdresses Rosie was now prepared to throw out, set to work. After seeing the way Art, Didi and Nula had transformed the gallery, Lorraine imagined it would be easy, but she had underestimated the threesome’s expertise. By the time Jake reappeared they had covered only one wall.

He and Lorraine finished the main room and by the time they had pushed all the furniture back into place, it was after midnight. Jake promised he’d return in the morning so they could start on the kitchen and maybe get around to the bedroom.

Lorraine showered and combed the flecks of paint out of her hair. It was good to feel so tired — it meant she didn’t have to think over what had happened during the day. She felt stiff from painting, and her back ached, but when she flopped onto the sofa she was too tired even to work out what she was going to do the following morning. She had a bus schedule, a street map of Santa Monica; she had even decided what she should wear. The two dolls were packed in a carrier bag: one blonde the other dark-haired. She didn’t think about the future, about having to find alternative work. Tomorrow, seeing her daughters, was all that mattered.