The Doll House. Phoebe Morgan

I walk carefully and quietly, trying not to wake Holly up, my feet tightening against the cold wooden boards. At the little stairway that leads up to the loft, I clamber upwards to the door, my mobile clutched in my hand, ready to activate the flashlight function.

      The first thing that strikes me is how much junk my mother keeps up here; piles and piles of our old things, schoolbooks belonging to Ashley, boxes of clothes bursting at the sides. I can see the purple trail of my old tie-dye trousers poking out from behind a ream of Sellotape, catch sight of a box containing what looks like our old art work. Misshapen clay lumps gleam in the dark.

      My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, and I make out more and more of my things, stacks upon stacks of boxes with my name on, boxes with Ashley’s name on. I reach for one of mine; pull off the masking tape and open it up. Just my old shoes, small pairs of trainers that wouldn’t even fit Benji. I start to open more boxes, another and another. Books, clothes. My old ballet things, a little plastic box full of sparkly nail polish. I was terrible at ballet, pretty good at manicures. There’s a collapsing old art project I made in year four, I don’t know why Mum’s kept it.

      I want to find the dolls. Beatrice was my favourite; she wore a red velvet dress and had long brown ringlets. She was beautiful. She must be here somewhere. There is a sudden sound, a scrabbling noise behind the walls, that makes me jump and catch my breath, pressing my hand to my heart. It must be an animal, a rodent hidden in the walls.

      As I stare around, something starts to become clear to me. At first I think I must be wrong and I begin to lift things up, push things aside. I find Ashley’s crumpled Brownies outfit, all our Christmas decorations. The red and green baubles glint in the flashlight. Something dislodges itself and a stack of old magazines starts to topple; I peer at them, expecting Dad’s back issues of Architecture Today, but they all look like Mum’s, fading copies of Women and Home. I’m trying to be quiet but my heart is beating a little too fast, my movements becoming quicker, frustrated. I don’t understand it. I must be wrong. Nothing of my father’s is up here.

      There are no boxes, none of his clothes. And after a further twenty minutes of searching, there is no doll house anywhere. It is as though it never existed.

9

       Kent

       Ashley

      Ashley’s mouth feels dry, fogged with wine. Holly has been surprisingly quiet in the night; she was up at two and again at four, but apart from that she has slept. The silence feels dreamlike, unreal. Ashley reaches across the bed for her mobile. Seven a.m. The numbers stare back at her. There are no missed calls and she feels something inside her loosen, relax a little. She dials the Barnes house. The phone rings and rings.

      James doesn’t pick up; she ends the call, lies staring at the blank face of her mobile. Yuck. She needs to brush her teeth.

      The bedroom door creaks open and she lifts her head. Her sister enters the room and Ashley immediately scoots over, bunching up the covers under her chin, making room for Corinne. She looks worried, as though she hasn’t slept much.

      ‘Budge over, will you?’ She glances into the cot. ‘Hol asleep?’

      Ashley nods, moves further along the bed, pulling back the duvet to let Corinne in. Her hair tickles Ashley’s shoulder as she wriggles in next to her and they turn towards each other, lying face to face like they used to when they were girls.

      ‘You all right? It’s really early. I thought you were Benji wanting juice.’

      Corinne frowns. ‘It’s the hormones. My schedule’s messed up; I can’t sleep, and when I do, I have nightmares. And I can never get comfortable.’ She sighs, shifts so that her back is to Ashley.

      ‘Oh, poor you.’ Ashley reaches out and rubs her sister’s back, feeling the proximity of the bones through the skin. When they were small she used to run her palm up and down Corinne’s little spine, count the humps as her sister slept beside her. It was fun sleeping in the same bed, cuddling up like sardines in a tin and drifting off to the sound of their parents chatting downstairs.

      ‘How’s the gallery going now? Did you get that new commission?’

      Corinne rolls over, spreading her arms out until she is flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. She reminds Ashley of a snow angel, the type they used to make in the Hampstead garden when they were children. Their dad had shown them how to throw themselves backwards, spread their arms wide, enjoy the cold thud of the ground beneath them.

      ‘No. Not yet, anyway. I mean, I hope I do.’

      ‘Has Marjorie mentioned it?’

      Corinne shrugs. ‘On and off. She’s not my biggest fan at the moment. I need to pull my socks up.’ She says the last phrase in a forced matronly voice and they both laugh.

      ‘There’s a new woman moved into our building,’ Corinne says. ‘Gilly something. Quite young, younger than me. She’s got a little boy, a toddler, she’s on her own.’

      Ashley waits.

      ‘I’m going to try to be friendly to her,’ Corinne says. ‘I have to, don’t I? I can’t be rude to people just because they’ve got what I haven’t.’ She looks as Ashley as though for approval, and Ashley feels a rush of love for her sister.

      ‘Oh, Cor. Yes, of course you need to try. But don’t beat yourself up. It’s normal that you feel this way, really, it is.’

      Corinne nods. ‘I know. But I can’t give into it, I’ve got to keep trying.’

      ‘You can do it,’ Ashley says. ‘You always were a determined person. Remember when we were little? You wouldn’t take no for an answer.’ She smiles. ‘Dad used to call you his little dictator.’

      Corinne laughs. ‘God, I’d forgotten that.’

      The alcohol from the night before is making Ashley’s heartbeat fast and irregular.

      ‘I can’t get hold of James,’ she tells Corinne. ‘I tried him just now and he’s not answering.’ She tries to keep her voice light.

      ‘Probably asleep. Or already on the way? I thought you said he was coming down anyway?’

      ‘I did. He’s meant to be. Said he had to work.’

      ‘Well, then, he’s working! Don’t worry, silly billy.’

      Ashley feels a bite of irritation. She swallows down her feelings, picks up her mobile and dials again. The line takes a while to connect and when it does it clicks on to their automatic answering machine.

      ‘James, Ashley and the children are unavailable to take your call right now. Please leave a message and we’ll call you straight back!’ Her own voice shrills out at her. God, she’s chirpy. She pulls back the covers, swings her legs out of the bed.

      ‘I should go and check on Benji. Want some tea?’

      ‘Just hot water, please.’

      Ashley stands up. She is gasping for a cup of Earl Grey. At thirty-nine, she can’t drink wine like she used to in her twenties. Not without consequences, anyway. As she leaves the room, Corinne says her name.

      ‘Ashley?’

      Corinne’s voice is high, as though she is unsure of what she is about to say.

      ‘What’s the matter?’

      She turns back towards the bed. Corinne sits up, pulls the quilt tight across her knees. There are bags under her eyes, purple in the dimmed light of the bedroom.

      Corinne stares at her for a few seconds as though about to say something, then seems to change her mind.

      ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Nothing. I’ll see you downstairs.’

      ‘You sure?’

      ‘I’m