The Liberation of Alice Love - Abby McDonald [40]
She eventually picked up, putting one hand to her ear to block out the noises. Whoever had converted the warehouse had failed on soundproofing—that was clear.
“Hi, Flora
“Hey!” Flora exclaimed with her usual high-pitched enthusiasm. “Where are you right now?”
“At Cassie’s.” Alice perched on the very edge of her bed. The single, fold-out bed, with approximately two feet of space on every side.
“Fab! Want to grab some lunch? I have to go check on an exhibition space in Notting Hill, but I could pick you up on the way.”
Alice paused, reluctant to give up her vision of a restful weekend. Alone. “I did have plans…” she semi-lied.
“Oh.” Flora’s voice fell, but she quickly recovered. “That’s no problem. We could catch up for drinks later this week. Make it a girly night out? Ooh, we could go to a day spa, and get facials and manicures and everything.”
“Perhaps?” Alice felt her guilt return. These exchanges with Flora were growing more frequent, but still they kept to the same familiar pattern. Flora longed for close bonding, Alice resisted, and guilt—or surrender—soon followed. Usually both. “I’ve been so busy with straightening everything out. I’ll call you,” she promised.
“OK,” Flora agreed immediately, as always. “See you later!”
Alice hung up and returned to her file. She’d made quick work of cataloging Ella’s presence, managing to plot out her daily movements in an alternative calendar to compare with Ella’s stories. Still, there were large gaps still taunting her, whole weeks that there were no ATM withdrawals or debit charges, or anonymous transactions marked only by number sequences or a business name. It was those that Alice was focused on deciphering next. Who knew what revealing information lay behind a fifty-two-pound payment to R. Jenkins Services or a hundred-and-six-pound charge at 32 Westbourne Gardens?
Suddenly, there was a loud slamming noise. Alice emerged from her room to see the outline of two fleshy bodies pressed up against the glass brick wall of Cassie’s room, writhing with particularly forceful passion. Wonderful.
She reached for her phone again, averting her eyes. “Hi. Flora? It turns out I can make lunch after all.”
“Oh, fantastic! I won’t be long at the gallery, I promise. And then maybe we could go shopping…” As Flora exclaimed her unbound enthusiasm, Alice’s gaze drifted back to her file. Westbourne Gardens? That was near Notting Hill, wasn’t it? Well, at least she could multitask.
“That’s great, Flora,” she interrupted. “Pick me up in half an hour?”
***
Even though the sky threatened cold drizzle at any moment, Alice waited out on the front curb rather than linger in the flat a moment more. Nonetheless, she thought she could hear the faint echo of moans through the windows above—or maybe they were just haunted echoes in her imagination. Either way, her relief at escaping was tempered somewhat when Flora arrived not in a taxi but behind the wheel of a sporty silver convertible. Alice gulped. Flora had finally passed her driving test last year on what must have been her seventh try, but even so, she suspected it had more to do with the torrent of tears Flora unleashed after failing her three-point (or, in that case, seven-point) turn rather than any real driving ability.
“Don’t mind all this stuff,” Flora greeted her cheerfully, reaching over to clear some canvases from the passenger seat. A bouncy pop hit was playing on the radio, and a jeweled diamanté bunny rabbit dangled from the rearview mirror. Alice clambered in, looking around to find what looked like a career’s worth of work piled in the back of the tiny car: a mass of pastel landscapes, dreamy garden scenes, and delicate still-life prints, miniature copies of Flora’s vast creations.
“I have to consult with the curator before we install the real paintings,” Flora explained, yanking the gearshift into position. Alice noticed with trepidation that it was a manual transmission. She lunged