The doorbell rang, breaking the already fractured image of this grand funeral slowly coalescing in Brenda’s mind. It was Mimis with the bill for his boiler work and as Brenda wrenched open Audrey’s front door he smiled and said: “That door wants planing.” Brenda watched as Mimis hovered on the doorstep without saying anything further. She wasn’t quite sure what he was waiting for, until she noticed the bill in his outstretched hand. Reaching for the envelop she said “thank you. I am sorry Audrey isn’t back yet”, and stayed still watching the man and out of nowhere wondering about the poetry thing. So she asked him. “Do you really write poems?” Mimis had never felt so excited in his life, but he was also gripped by an urgent panic. “Yes. No one else knows. At least, I mean you are the only one who knows. I don’t really talk about it.” Clearing his throat and shifting backwards down the step he smiled eyes wide and headed for his van suddenly energised that someone might actually consider him a poet instead of a boiler man. “Maybe I’ll bring you something to read”, he called over his shoulder. ”We could go to the park and I can explain them.” Explain them? Brenda waved half-heartedly and called a careful “yes, that would be nice” and wondering what’s to explain in a poem. And Mimis got into his van and drove off, a waving hand flung out of the window in careless farewell. Brenda, yet another bill in hand slammed the front door hard, left the bill in the kitchen and took herself slowly down the stairs to the basement. Lying in the dark she ran through the bills once again until she fell into a half-sleep, where Mimis’ bill grew into the size of a bedsheet. The details it showed in giant letters were fuzzy and feint, and the space at the bottom of the invoice was empty.

Mimis is indeed more than a boiler man, but being a boiler man has given his adult life structure and stability, quiet, a living. Being more than that might have carried some incipient risk. Ever since he came to London as a small child his life had been dramatic, and for Mimis drama was a normal part of his childhood. His English mother had died shortly after they moved to the UK from Thessaloniki. Hippies with their little boy and an adoring Yiayia and Papou in tow, his parents and grandparents had come to London in search not of drama but of calm. The loving couple willingly left behind the chaos and violence that had been their Greek reality for the chaos and confusion of London, with a foreign language and a little boy to raise thrown in for good measure. An English bride wasn’t really what Yiayia and Papou had wanted for their son, but life over death on a protest line was definitely preferable for all of them. And without her who knows where their lives in Athens would have taken them. Nowhere safe for sure. Their love for little Dimitrios was boundless. They cared for him through all the school plays and gatherings, and through their son’s working life driving a cab whilst framing ideas for ousting the generals in charge in Greece. He would share his ideas every evening over dinner, smoking, eating, and rattling conversations in noisy Greek. Mimis had tried to follow his father’s rants but his little boy Greek could not keep up. And the shouting made him anxious so he instead would put his head in Yiayia’s lap and wait for it to stop. When Papou died and his wife swathed herself in endless black and tears, Mimis feared she would soon follow. With only his dad and grandma, it was hard for Mimis to keep any connection to Englishness despite his successful disguise. He spoke flawless English but confused, vulnerable and excessively popular with the girls at his school Mimis’ spirit was Grecian. His schoolfellows gawped at those soft shining brown curls and his matchless eyes, the perfect complexion, olives and cream, those endlessly long eyelashes, his grace and muscularity. Excessively popular, excessively sensitive, uncertain and gullible. A broken heart at 17 was enough to leave him emotionally traumatised and wary, reluctant to interact with his schoolmates. Despite his grades, uni was out and instead he trained as a fixer of boilers, became superbly skilled at superficial chat and took no interest in any sort of commitment to any strangers. Mimis cared for his ailing father, looked after their house and after Yiayia died Mimis cooked pasticio and koulourakia for his dad. He followed Yiayia’s recipes from a broken book with pages marked and stained, persistent reminders of festivals and celebrations long since forgotten. The book was his connection to a life long gone but still vibrant and he always remembered that Greek Easter, like many other magics comes in its own time.

Brenda had been flattered, amazed that this gorgeous man, a man with a known reputation as a flirt in the village had shown even the slightest bit of interest in her. He had started politely, offering to drop the car to her once it was ready. “If you could give me a lift back, that would be nice”, as he flashed a smile and ran his hand through his shining black hair. It was probably the only time in his life that he would ever use the word nice in a sentence addressed to Brenda.

A couple of dates in the local pub, collecting her from work at the local council, and he knew he was almost there with this young girl. Her parents were dead and she lived with her Aunty and Uncle neither of whom ever smiled. He didn’t know if they liked him or not. It was hard to tell. Brenda never smiled either, except when she talked about the bloody civil service exam. That was the only worry for Luke, that she would go ahead and follow that path. It was a path that lead to too much power. Money for a start, she’d be earning but much as this tempted him it was easy enough to persuade her that all he wanted was to have her at home, to know that she would be there when he can home from work, to know that they would be together every evening, all weekends and that they could go on holidays together. “You know you’re the one for me, you do know that don’t you Brenda?” It had been in the Spread Eagle, his favourite pub because of its high ceilings and cheap sometimes flat beer. Brenda had remarked on the sticky carpets and Luke had nearly lost it but hid his anger with a slurp of beer and a glance at the dartboard. “Fancy a game of darts?” He had said, and although Brenda was rubbish at the game he couldn’t help but be impressed how fast she was at scoring, from the 501 start to the finishing triple 19, every shot was scored in a second. He liked that the other blokes playing were also impressed, at least at first he liked it. But then a muttered “You don’t wanna show off like that darlin’, no, you don’t do you?” And Brenda looked wide eyed back at her hero, who had won four games straight, and said “no, no of course not.” She took her time with the arithmetic that evening and always, whenever they were in the pub and she was watching Luke play darts with his mates.

From the short courtship to the sparse little wedding was a matter of weeks. They moved in with Luke’s Mum, a grey and rough handed woman who smoked even more than Luke did. She would patrol the house when they were both at work, leaving cigarette ash on their bed and in the bathroom sink. Brenda occasionally visited her Aunty and Uncle, but they were never much pleased to see her and Luke didn’t like it so she gave it up. Soon they bought the bungalow and on the day they moved in he told her “now everything changes, now it’s just you and me”. Brenda had beamed up at him from her unpacking, wordless and smiling with no idea that what he meant was anything other than romance. They’d managed sex once or twice at his Mum’s but it was all a bit hit and miss, mostly miss. Neither of them seemed competent, passion was largely absent and Brenda said sorry for getting it wrong. “It’s being here,” Luke had told her, “me Mum’s in the next room, puts me off a bit.” And he would try again before punching the pillow hard and rolling away. In the bungalow everything changed. Luke’s Mum wasn’t in the next room, he sometimes tried again, and he always punched Brenda hard before rolling away.

Dr Saltcake soon shifted the business’ focus to suit his abilities, real and imagined. As a retreat, Longbourne had much less need for staff, far fewer rules to follow and benefited from a fertile seam of wealthy women in need of respite from life. Dr Sandra Lockwith was the only member of staff he retained, figuring that her Americanness would be a value added extra of authority and a possible inducement for American clients. He was right in this at least and together they had build up a solid client base with many neurotic women, American and otherwise coming to Longbourne to heal, nurture their spirits, and generally laze about. Herbert likes women a lot and especially the wealthy ones, those happy to sit and listen to his stories and read his short fiction with uncritical and flattered eyes. He never shares his stories with Dr Sandra, nor indeed does he share much else, anxious that the moth holes in his past might inadvertently be spotted and trip him up. Thus the two of them keep a respectful distance at all times, so respectfully distant that the staff at Longbourne House are all convinced that they’ve been having a torrid affair for years.

Dr Sandra waited until Dr Saltcake finished his paragraph, unaware that he had merely been waiting for what he considered a suitably studious amount of time before noticing her. He raised his eyebrows and she smiled deferentially before being invited to give her weekly update on the upsells and other new business coming along. “… and Audrey Saxton will be leaving tomorrow and has asked for the car to take her home.” “Absolutely. Tell her yes and put a charge of £445 on her bill.” 

While Brenda and Audrey were busy navel gazing and some two days after Brenda had established herself in Audrey’s basement guestroom, at the shabby bungalow in Great Leigh a Ford Fiesta is parking wonky on the lane near the drive. It cannot be seen behind a large delivery van with Asda painted in bright and cheery green on its side. As they get out of the car social worker Renée Sagemill and district nurse Ann Apio observe a man standing almost upright. He’s leaning against the doorframe to pick up bags of groceries. As the Asda van pulls away, they as one move closer into the tall leylandii hedge to see what happens next. Luke Mordrake moved back and forth carrying many shopping bags into his house. He didn’t move with any particular nimbleness, but he was upright and moving. The wheelchair was nowhere in sight. The two women exchanged glances and continued spying on their client until all the shopping bags had been removed.

At first he hadn’t missed her but as he unpacked the many bags looking for something he could eat, Luke was beginning to wonder where Brenda was and why she didn’t answer his messages or calls. His memories of that wet night were hazy, but he knew she’d left before dark and that she wasn’t there when he woke up next morning stiff and cold on the sofa. He’d started by shouting for her, then calling out more gently in his sweetest tones. When that didn’t work he rose cautiously from the sofa, fearing some trick and after half an hour’s painful hobbling around the place had decided she was gone. He made himself a cup of tea, squeezing the tea bag with his thumb against the side of the cup, pressing as hard as he could, watching the dribbles forced reluctantly out. He pictured pressing under her eyes to force the tears and maybe blood too. He pictured pressing her cheeks to force open her mouth so that he could spit into it. He pictured her pressed and broken and he smiled a spiteful smile.

The day was his he decided, his to do as he liked, without bothering with her, without the strain of thinking up new transgressions, new excuses for her punishments. By the time Brenda was wrestling with the Asda app at Gatwick airport he was showered and had changed his clothes. He microwaved a steak and ale pie and mash and settled in front of the television with his cigarettes and a lager. She didn’t come when he called for another, or the next time. Nor did she come to empty his ashtray or bring him a cup of tea and some biscuits. She didn’t come, so he found his phone, plugged it in to charge and sent another abusive message, with many more to follow. Drunk and angry he told himself, “stupid fuckin’ cow’s gonna cop it. Bitch.” It never occured to him that Brenda might have gone for good. He told the television once again what he would do to her when she came back. The television said “he’s the man hoping to strike it, he’s having a word with his captain” and Luke spat back. “I’ll bloody strike it, no word with no captain”. And lost in the game for a few minutes he hears the television say “touch from Lampard was of an accurate nature” and says back “… be more than a fucking touch, the cunt”. Luke watches and the television draws him in and he forgets about Brenda. But when the game is over and their chatting about who did what and something about maintaining a position and through a drunken animation he saw Brenda when he first met her. She’d brought her old banger to the garage for its MOT and Luke saw straightaway that passive anxiety, her innate fear of everything and her fascination as she watched him roll out from under the car, lying there looking up at her both of them wide eyed, but only one of them thinking, this might be the one. He wanted a wife. He was bored of all the girls wanting him, wanting him different, wanting more, wanting. He wanted an old-fashioned woman, a woman who would look after him, not expect too much, not believe that there was anything real behind those oh so male shoulders, the bulging thighs and his musky scents.

Somewhere south of Great Leigh Audrey was having a similar sort of heart to heart chat with herself. The nurses at Longbourne House had started easing up on the pain killers and were teaching Audrey how to move her portly person around on crutches. It wasn’t easy but it was easier though more painful without the morphine. After this morning’s little session, Audrey was recovering with a big fat book. “Well Audrey, how are we today?” Audrey looked up from Our Mutual Friend and noted that Dr Sandra Lockwith could do with some help in the clothes department. “We?” she said, pushing her borrowed glasses down her nose and looking over her shoulder. Dr Lockwith pasted a pretend smile of appreciation under her nose and clasped her hands together, bouncing them slightly on her abdomen and mustering all her persuasive skills. She couldn’t upsell this patient on a medical basis, that was certain. Her doctor’s qualification is based on a ten week course in women’s healthcare from Santa Monica College ten years ago. It wouldn’t stand up to any sort of orthopedic question. It would have to be something more subtle.

“Audrey, you are clearly still not yourself are you?” she said, as she perched herself on the edge of the library desk. “Perhaps we should consider another few days at Longbourne for you? I mean for your state of mind, your confidence, self-assurance, you know. You’ve had a nasty experience. I am sure we can come to an arrangement that would ease the transition back to the outside world? Hmmm? ” This last accompanied by a vague wave in the direction of the tall windows and the sweep of the South Downs glittering in the bright morning light. Audrey followed her arm and smiled. “Not particularly user friendly to a woman in my position, that particular outside world now is it?” Dr Lockwith ignored the sarcasm, looked down at her lap and sighed a sympathetic sigh that only just masked her annoyance. This wasn’t going anywhere. “Are you sure? You really should think about it?” Audrey stared back at her, keeping the rictus in place. “Is leaving us after just a few short days, really the best thing? Why not stay on through the weekend?” Audrey’s eyes were staring fixedly back at Dr Lockwith whose usually steely nerve was starting to turn molten under Audrey’s gaze. “Are you certain you will be able to manage in London, on your own?” she weaseled. Audrey was by no means certain that she would be able to manage in London or anywhere else. But she knew that the American Express bill would soon be arriving and that at the moment there was no possibility of paying it, which meant there could be no chance of extending her time at Longbourne House without the ignominy of being found out. And besides, she knew she had to face the mess. The time for quiet avoidance was ebbing fast away and now that Angus was buried it was time to collect all that she knew about their finances, and work out how best she could burn it all down and start again.

“The thing is Dr Lockwith, I really do feel ready to tackle my own life again. This place has done me a power of good and I am ready, almost, to leave.”  Sandra Lockwith wasn’t about to give up, but determined as she was on her upselling mission she recognised in Audrey’s faux pasted smile that she was beaten. Audrey oozed oily smooth confidence blended with an air of slight impatience. It discouraged further challenge, so Dr Lockwith looked down her long nose and sucked in her lower lip mute and acquiescent. The combination of underbite, missing lower lip and size nine nose combined to give her the impression of a mountain goat. And she dresses like one Audrey thought to herself, returning to her book.

“Well,” said Dr Lockwith to Audrey’s bowed head with a sigh, “you know best what’s best for you” and tweaking her smile ever so slightly held out her hand. “I am going to be away for a few days, so I shan’t be here to wave you off”. Audrey looked up, took her hand and returned the smile with a couple of tweaks of her own, mostly to display her perfect teeth. “I am sure all will be well” she called to Dr Lockwith’s retreating back encouragingly. She almost believed it herself.

When she relayed the conversation to Dr Herbert Saltcake later in the morning, Dr Lockwith was tempted to ask Herbert for any medical reason as the basis for encouraging Audrey to extend her stay. Dr Lockwith trusted Dr Saltcake’s forty years in clinical practise for all medically important decisions. As she watched with fondness his quiet reading of the Lancet, she marvelled at their mutual trust and understanding. She has never asked dear Herbert about his qualifications and medical experiences in Africa. And he has never asked her about what happened in America, perhaps for similar reasons.

Dr Herbert Saltcake is a real doctor, except that he is a doctor of philosophy, rather than of medicine. Years spent in Africa working for an NGO exposed him to more than he expected of illness and disease, and his aptitude for medical diagnosis although only a well polished act, was enough to convince many of his colleagues and their patients that he could be a doctor. And so it was, a habit growing easily and unchecked on fertile ground. His actual expertise was in medieval accounting and financial history, a topic that was surprisingly useful when his brother left him a nursing home. The annoying thing was, that the nursing home was a vibrant and successful enterprise that demanded Herbert’s return from Africa. This in fact turned out to be quite convenient, Herbert having managed to embroil his handsome self in a number of risky relationships, including one with a real doctor who was wanting to get to know him better. So he left and pitched up at Longbourne as Dr Saltcake, legitimately so, but not quite.

Somewhere south of Great Leigh Audrey was having a similar sort of heart to heart chat with herself. The nurses at Longbourne House had started easing up on the pain killers and were teaching Audrey how to move her portly person around on crutches. It wasn’t easy but it was easier though more painful without the morphine. After this morning’s little session, Audrey was recovering with a big fat book. “Well Audrey, how are we today?” Audrey looked up from Our Mutual Friend and noted that Dr Sandra Lockwith could do with some help in the clothes department. “We?” she said, pushing her borrowed glasses down her nose and looking over her shoulder. Dr Lockwith pasted a pretend smile of appreciation under her nose and clasped her hands together, bouncing them slightly on her abdomen and mustering all her persuasive skills. She couldn’t upsell this patient on a medical basis, that was certain. Her doctor’s qualification is based on a ten week course in women’s healthcare from Santa Monica College ten years ago. It wouldn’t stand up to any sort of orthopedic question. It would have to be something more subtle.

“Audrey, you are clearly still not yourself are you?” she said, as she perched herself on the edge of the library desk. “Perhaps we should consider another few days at Longbourne for you? I mean for your state of mind, your confidence, self-assurance, you know. You’ve had a nasty experience. I am sure we can come to an arrangement that would ease the transition back to the outside world? Hmmm? ” This last accompanied by a vague wave in the direction of the tall windows and the sweep of the South Downs glittering in the bright morning light. Audrey followed her arm and smiled. “Not particularly user friendly to a woman in my position, that particular outside world now is it?” Dr Lockwith ignored the sarcasm, looked down at her lap and sighed a sympathetic sigh that only just masked her annoyance. This wasn’t going anywhere. “Are you sure? You really should think about it?” Audrey stared back at her, keeping the rictus in place. “Is leaving us after just a few short days, really the best thing? Why not stay on through the weekend?” Audrey’s eyes were staring fixedly back at Dr Lockwith whose usually steely nerve was starting to turn molten under Audrey’s gaze. “Are you certain you will be able to manage in London, on your own?” she weaseled. Audrey was by no means certain that she would be able to manage in London or anywhere else. But she knew that the American Express bill would soon be arriving and that at the moment there was no possibility of paying it, which meant there could be no chance of extending her time at Longbourne House without the ignominy of being found out. And besides, she knew she had to face the mess. The time for quiet avoidance was ebbing fast away and now that Angus was buried it was time to collect all that she knew about their finances, and work out how best she could burn it all down and start again.

“The thing is Dr Lockwith, I really do feel ready to tackle my own life again. This place has done me a power of good and I am ready, almost, to leave.”  Sandra Lockwith wasn’t about to give up, but determined as she was on her upselling mission she recognised in Audrey’s faux pasted smile that she was beaten. Audrey oozed oily smooth confidence blended with an air of slight impatience. It discouraged further challenge, so Dr Lockwith looked down her long nose and sucked in her lower lip mute and acquiescent. The combination of underbite, missing lower lip and size nine nose combined to give her the impression of a mountain goat. And she dresses like one Audrey thought to herself, returning to her book.

“Well,” said Dr Lockwith to Audrey’s bowed head with a sigh, “you know best what’s best for you” and tweaking her smile ever so slightly held out her hand. “I am going to be away for a few days, so I shan’t be here to wave you off”. Audrey looked up, took her hand and returned the smile with a couple of tweaks of her own, mostly to display her perfect teeth. “I am sure all will be well” she called to Dr Lockwith’s retreating back encouragingly. She almost believed it herself.

When she relayed the conversation to Dr Herbert Saltcake later in the morning, Dr Lockwith was tempted to ask Herbert for any medical reason as the basis for encouraging Audrey to extend her stay. Dr Lockwith trusted Dr Saltcake’s forty years in clinical practise for all medically important decisions. As she watched with fondness his quiet reading of the Lancet, she marvelled at their mutual trust and understanding. She has never asked dear Herbert about his qualifications and medical experiences in Africa. And he has never asked her about what happened in America, perhaps for similar reasons.

Dr Herbert Saltcake is a real doctor, except that he is a doctor of philosophy, rather than of medicine. Years spent in Africa working for an NGO exposed him to more than he expected of illness and disease, and his aptitude for medical diagnosis although only a well polished act, was enough to convince many of his colleagues and their patients that he could be a doctor. And so it was, a habit growing easily and unchecked on fertile ground. His actual expertise was in medieval accounting and financial history, a topic that was surprisingly useful when his brother left him a nursing home. The annoying thing was, that the nursing home was a vibrant and successful enterprise that demanded Herbert’s return from Africa. This in fact turned out to be quite convenient, Herbert having managed to embroil his handsome self in a number of risky relationships, including one with a real doctor who was wanting to get to know him better. So he left and pitched up at Longbourne as Dr Saltcake, legitimately so, but not quite.

“Coffee and poetry.” Brenda said rather pointlessly. “That’s nice”. Awkward and feeling ashamed at the confusion of her own thoughts and emotions she retreated to the armchair that had been her refuge when she first arrived at Audrey’s house. “Is the boiler fixed?” Mimis smiled over the machine, and opening the cupboard above it took out a jar of gleaming coffee beans and filled the hopper. “This is a nice machine” he said admiringly.” “Yes. It’s fixed” he added and Brenda feeling that she really ought to ask said “what was wrong” before realising that she really shouldn’t have asked this since she was supposed to be Audrey who would know why she had called in a boiler repair man. “There was a blockage,” he said and then continued “the scrimble cocks and whisnoskles were …” At least that is what Brenda started hearing before she glazed over. The coffee machine was working its magic and Brenda in fascination handed Mimis a mug and the sugar bowl. “I’ve made enough for two.” Brenda has never been very fond of coffee but having only ever had the instant sort, that’s probably unsurprising. Mimis handed her a halfful mug, she sipped and coughed a little and “just wait until you get the taste” he said and Brenda blushed.

Out on the terrace they stood side by side watching birds barrelling their ways to roost. Mimis quiet and Brenda suddenly awash with shame and guilt, aware that she couldn’t keep on lying. Had to stop the lying and tell someone. Tell him. “I’m not really Audrey Saxton you know. I’ve never even met her. I am a burglar I suppose. Not a proper burglar you understand. I’m still here you see, and burglars go off don’t they, with the stuff, I mean, they take what they’re stealing away and I haven’t gone away you see. But I shouldn’t really be here at all. But Audrey is away. She’s in hospital but I’ve never met her. I had nowhere else.” This sudden uncontrolled outpouring came from a very deep down somewhere, welling up from the depths of Brenda’s stressed brain, and she started to cry. “I’m so sorry, I am really so sorry. Please don’t tell anyone.”

Mimis, reeling slightly and understanding that he would be at this job a little longer, stayed speechless sipping on his coffee for comfort, hearing the blackbird’s shrill and frantic goodnight cries. Brenda found herself doing the same, snot oozing its way into the cup before she could swipe it away with her hand. She turned to him, snot and coffee neatly smeared to one side of her nose and said “I know I’ve done wrong, but I really didn’t mean to.” The wide open eyes, the brown coffee moustache plus snot, the imploring gaze held Mimis quite still. He was somewhere between fear and confusion and concern and tenderness. This mad woman might really be a burglar who tried to murder Audrey, for all he knew. She might be even Audrey deranged and off her head on pills. What should Mimis do with this curious tale? “What’s your name then” he said, “if it isn’t Audrey?”

Brenda looked at the floor and mumbled her name. “… and I haven’t any money and Audrey will come back next week. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you not to come to fix the boiler.” This was sounding slightly more normal, and although he couldn’t quite work out what pattern to put the various details into, he said  “Right. Well that’s ok because I can just leave a bill. You don’t need to worry about it. Audrey will be back, the boiler’s fixed and you’re staying here, looking after the place for her”. Put like this, it sounded almost rational and Brenda managed a tiny smile and a sniff “is that really alright? I am telling the truth, really I am”. Mimis put his arm on hers retracting it almost immediately as she recoiled. “Shall we go indoors and if you like we can talk.” Then he added, “I’m really a poet, not a boiler man. This is just a job.” And as he said it Mimis remembered that the poet thing was his own private secret. No one except his Papou knew about Mimis’s poems and Papou was dead.

But he didn’t tell Brenda this.

After Mimis left, Brenda went down to her basement room and watched television for six hours, wide awake and not in the least bit hungry. She tried but failed to marshall the facts of her situation, finally falling asleep instead. Brenda woke with a panic to the sound of her own snores and once again tried to marshall facts. They were these:

She hadn’t really stolen a car because the car was parked outside the house of its rightful owner. She wasn’t a criminal because she hadn’t stolen anything, well not much, and hadn’t broken into someone’s house, not really because she’d used a key.

And if she wasn’t a criminal, who would arrest her and why? This was a serious worry because without police company Brenda did not dare to return home to Great Leigh.

When she eventually dozed off again, it was to the sound of Mimis’s voice and an image of blue feet. In the morning she switched on her phone and waded through the torrent of messages. The last few were from the woman at social services who coordinated Luke’s appointments. Brenda deleted them. They looked like the same messages as yesterday she pondered. Her thoughts went back briefly to Luke who was at that moment having an awkward conversation with the nice ladies from social services.

And anyway, she was living another life, someone else’s life: the Ocado delivery, the telephone calls and the word gym in the Filofax for Friday. All of these little reference points brought back hinted memories of her own other life, the life before Luke, the life working at the local council after school as a cleaner, the life that promised a career when she left school. And she remembers the life of the woman who’s been faking it for years, all to benefit a bully. The morning light filtered down hitting the mirror and casting long shadows on the primrose yellow carpet. With a deep sigh Brenda got up and stared at herself in the mirror. And looking in the mirror what does she see? How should she grasp this wonderful chance to be someone else for a little while? And where is Audrey?