Emily Barr - The Sleeper

‘Is that cashmere?’ I ask. She laughs.

‘In my dreams. It’s H and M faux-cashmere, ordered from the internet. How are you? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’

Suddenly I wish I had cycled here, like she does.

‘A coffee would be great. Thanks. If I didn’t have the car, I’d have loved something stronger.’ I hand her the Tupperware box of brownies.

‘Yeah, that’s why I offered to meet you in town. But that’s fine. Coffee it is. And brownies? Thanks.’

I follow her into a kitchen that is homely and warm, and not at all as tatty as the house’s exterior would imply. The floor, throughout, is battered wooden boards, and the kitchen is dated but lovely.

‘I like your Aga,’ I tell her. She pushes her hair back from her face.

‘It’s not a real one. It’s electric – essentially it’s an electric oven disguised as an Aga – but yes, it looks good. In fact, I’ve got some mince pies in it. I hope you like them.’

‘Of course. Thanks. You can’t not like mince pies. Is your boyfriend at home? Laurie?’

She pours hot water into a bizarre contraption made of two plastic cylinders, and starts pressing them together over a jug.

‘He’s miles away, I’m afraid. It’s a shame – he’s such a homebody normally, but he’s had to go and do a duty family visit. You know. Christmas. His family are … complicated.’

‘Tell me about it. It took me years to realise that everyone’s family is complicated. I always thought it was just me. Then I realised that when you scratch the surface, there’s no such thing as normal. Or at least, to be weird is to be normal.’

‘That is definitely true. I’m just glad I managed to stay home while he’s gone visiting. Me and the cats.’

‘You’re not alone for Christmas, though, are you? What about your family?’

‘Oh, I don’t really speak to them much. They live in Putney, but I haven’t been for years, and they don’t come here either. But no, Laurie’s going to be back late tonight. I won’t be on my own. I can’t wait to hear the taxi at the top of the lane. It’s only at this time of year that he ever goes anywhere, and that’s just because it’s inescapable.’

She takes an oven glove and crouches in front of the Aga, producing a tray of mince pies with a flourish that, I sense, ends the conversation. I want to ask about her family. I am intrigued by the fact that she never speaks to them, not least as I wonder whether Olivia and I are ever going to exchange a single word, ever again. I want to know what that will feel like.

Instead I say, ‘Bloody hell, Iris! Home-made ones! That must have taken you hours.’

She smiles. ‘I love it. I’m incredibly good at making pastry. Cold hands. If I ever feel the need to move to Paris or somewhere, I’d be able to get an apprenticeship in a bakery. Other people might be good at maths or brilliant at, you know, particle physics. But I’ll generally be able to beat them at jam tarts.’

‘And people will always want jam tarts.’

‘That’s true. Come the Apocalypse, I’ll just have to assemble some flour, fat and fruit, and I’ll be able to barter sweet pastries and get the essentials.’

She hands me a mug of coffee, and puts my brownies onto one plate, and her mince pies onto another. The mug is wide and chunky, with a design of roses on the side. She is using a matching one, though I notice that hers is chipped on the rim.

‘That must be a relief,’ I say, picking up the brownie plate and following her along a dark passage to a sitting room with French windows that look out on a bare but well-tended back garden. The grass is short, the beds turned over and free from weeds. ‘I mean, knowing what you can do when society collapses.’

She gestures me to a big comfy chair, and sits down on a sofa, moving a copy of last Saturday’s Guardian magazine. A cat materialises from thin air and settles itself on her lap. ‘You can stay, Desi,’ she tells it maternally, ‘but not if you try to lick my mince pie, OK? But you’ll be all right too, Lara. You know how to build a house. You’ll be the most popular woman in whatever remains of the world.’

‘I’ll build you a house in exchange for anything you’ve baked,’ I offer. ‘These mince pies are amazing.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I can’t really build, though. I’d have to have a gang of workers to boss around.’ I think about it. ‘And no one’ll even need planning permission, will they? There’s a significant part of my skill set, redundant.’

‘No – you’ll be fine with the bossing around. You’ll be the queen before you know it.’

‘Does that mean I can instruct other people to reinvent electricity rather than attempting to do it myself? That’s good.’

I look around. The room is pretty, and I can see all sorts of traces of Iris’s and Laurie’s lives in here. I can deduce that one of them reads thrillers and the other reads literary fiction. They buy the Guardian , but mainly on Saturdays. Judging by the matching dark rings on the coffee table, they both drink red wine. There is a little, real Christmas tree by the window, decorated mainly with silver baubles, and with an angel perched precariously on the top that looks as if it were made by an artistic community in Guatemala, but there are no presents under it. There are only two Christmas cards on the mantelpiece, and I bet if I looked at them I would see they were from Iris and Laurie to each other.

‘This place is lovely,’ I tell her. ‘Don’t you get bored?’

‘No.’ She curls her feet up under herself. ‘I guess I’m boring. We’re both incredibly happy like this.’

I feel the familiar yearning, the one I am intently ignoring every moment of every day. I shut it away, again, and focus on the reason for my visit. I am not just obsessed with Guy: I am deeply uneasy in a way I cannot speak of without sounding mad. I almost want to confide in Iris.

‘You know what,’ I say, hesitantly. ‘This might sound weird, but can I have a little tour of your house?’

She looks at me. ‘Really? It’s not very interesting, but you can if you want. If you don’t mind it being boring and messy. Why? You cannot possibly have any sort of professional interest in this place.’

I sigh. ‘I can’t help myself. I like looking at buildings. I’m converting an old warehouse right now. Into flats and a wine bar. I love making a place like this look different in a way no one could possibly imagine.’

She stands up. ‘OK. Even though we rent it, tell me what you’d do if we owned it and had unlimited money. To make it into an amazing home.’

With our coffee mugs in hand, we walk around the house. There is, it turns out, very little to see. A door from the sitting room leads into a dining room with a heavy table and some books and paperwork piled on it.

‘I work here,’ Iris confirms. ‘This is the scene of the dreaded proofreading.’

‘It’s a nice room. You could do a lot with it. Great natural light.’

She stands at the window. ‘It is nice, isn’t it? Cold in winter, since the wood burner’s next door, but not as cold as it would be if this were a real winter.’

I walk to the window and stand next to her.

‘Yes, the drizzly winter of the south-west. Wouldn’t it be lovely if it was all blue skies and bright sun and snow out there? With icicles and cracked puddles. Like, I don’t know. The Himalayas, or something.’

We both contemplate the drizzly scene.

‘It’s twelve degrees all year round,’ she says. ‘Still. At least it’s green.’

I smile. ‘That’s something. Yes.’

Apart from a tiny bathroom, I have seen all the downstairs. Upstairs there is a bedroom that is clearly Iris and Laurie’s, with the duvet pulled back and men’s and women’s clothes scattered around. The second, smaller bedroom is where I want to be.