Bad Little Girl(52)

‘And something to eat, too.’ Lorna held up the bag with the sandwiches. ‘They’re soaked.’





20





The Tiffin Bar was an unprepossessing cement cube with a mural painted on the sides and back, a sunset, with leaping dolphins, now peeling and scabrous. Pressed against the window was a large artificial Christmas tree, and fairy lights were strung about the counter. There was only one other customer: a blonde woman in sunglasses, hunched over her phone. A wet Labrador dripped onto the lino beside her. The hush was oppressive – you could even hear the tap tap of the woman’s nails on the table, the panting of the dog. Without a word or a glance at each other, Lorna and Claire began to back out, but just then a woman emerged from the kitchen, so they took the table nearest the door, smiled fixedly at the laminated menus, and, both suddenly nervous, squeezed each other’s fingers.

‘It’s all right,’ Claire whispered, not really knowing what she meant. ‘It’s OK. You just order whatever you’d like.’

‘Can you do it for me?’

‘Of course.’

Tap tap tap went the woman’s nails. The dog snuffled and, from behind the counter, the radio was suddenly turned up a little louder. Claire and Lorna relaxed, sagged against the Formica seats, and giggled.

‘That was weird!’ said Lorna. ‘Wasn’t that weird? I got all shy.’

‘Well, I suppose – oh, I don’t know. We’re all a bit shy sometimes, aren’t we,’ Claire answered shakily.

Lorna peered at the woman with the dog. ‘She looks weird.’

‘Shhhh!’

‘She does though. Look at her boots.’

Claire gave it a few seconds. The woman was wearing fringed, wedged cowboy boots in clashing green and turquoise. Skinny jeans, slightly baggy at the knees now, were stuffed into the tops. She’d put her phone down and was reading a hardcover book with moons and rainbows on the cover – Women Who Run With the Wolves: A Goddess’s Guide to Life. Claire smirked, immediately felt guilty, and put on a serious face for Lorna.

‘I think she looks very individual.’

The dog perked up, and lumbered over to them. Lorna immediately put out her hand to it, making a clicking sound in her throat, but the woman, without looking up, called it back sharply, and the dog about-turned, sighing, and curled up in its puddle again.

‘Now then, what will you be having? Hot chocolate, on a day like this?’ The waitress beamed at Lorna. Lorna stared at the tabletop.

‘Yes, two hot chocolates. And, cheese sandwiches,’ said Claire.

‘You’ll want a hot meal? On a day like this?’ The waitress’s forehead puckered; she seemed concerned. Claire caved.

‘Yes, yes that’s a much better idea. L— Lovey? What would you like?’

‘Chips and egg,’ muttered the girl.

‘And for me too. And some bread and butter?’

The waitress smiled, collected their menus, and on the way back to the kitchen, stumbled against the Labrador, now stretched out in the aisle. Its owner looked up. She had a handsome profile, if a little haggard. the skin just beginning to wattle about the neck. Her ringed fingers snatched at the dog’s collar and pulled it further towards the table. Words were exchanged, but Claire couldn’t tell if they were friendly or not, and when the waitress left, she saw the woman poke the dog firmly in the chest with one pointed boot. Her voice was louder than the radio.

‘Stay there nicely, or no cuddles!’

It was a silly voice, thought Claire; a voice designed to carry . . . a voice that thought it was musical, but instead rang with all the beauty of cheap jewellery. As if she’d spoken out loud, the woman suddenly looked straight at her. Claire blushed, and smiled. The woman flashed her teeth back, and shook her head.

‘Dogs! Worse than children! Oh, except your little one, I’m sure she’s a delight! Aren’t you, Missy?’

Lorna kept her eyes stubbornly on the tabletop. Claire could see her jaw clenching.

‘She’s a little bit timid of dogs, that’s all. A little shy,’ Claire apologised.

‘Oh, she couldn’t be with Benji! No-one can be, he won’t let them, will you? Will you?’ She poked at the disinterested dog. ‘Go and trot over there, Benji, and make friends with that lovely little girl!’

Lorna stared wildly at Claire. ‘Tell her to stop talking to me!’ she muttered.

Claire stroked her head with one hand and warded off the dog with the other.

The woman shrugged. ‘All right. Benji, come here. Come here, I said!’ And the dog, who had advanced only a couple of inches, lay back down, relieved. The woman ostentatiously turned her back on them, and took up her book again.

Claire and Lorna ate their food, the coldness emanating from the woman with the dog preventing them from speaking to each other. Stupid of Claire to make a fuss about that dog; the woman might remember her from that, and that would make her remember Lorna. Claire watched the girl squirt ketchup in the yolk of her gelatinous egg, then sop white bread in it. Something would have to be done about her table manners, as well as her eating habits. All that junk food crammed into the cupboards back at the house. At the supermarket, Claire had been weak; she’d made Lorna stay in the car, alone, while Claire shopped, because it wouldn’t do for anyone to see them together in such a crowded place, with cameras and everything. She’d compensated by buying all the sugary rubbish that Lorna loved; but she couldn’t go on living on Pop-Tarts and bags of crisps. Her skin was sallow, the nose overlaid with tiny pinprick blackheads. No ten-year-old should have bad skin. But then, once the weather was better, once she got some sun, and got used to eating fruit . . .