A Game For All The Family Read Online Free

Berlin. Discussing the Ellen situation with him can wait.
    Worries are pack animals as well as cowards: too flimsy and insubstantial to do much damage alone, they signal for backup. Pretty soon there’s a whole gang of them circling you and you can’t push your way out. Stuff the lot of them , I think as I cross the wide black and white tiled hall on my way to the kitchen. I’m lucky to be happy and to have this amazing new life. I don’t have much to be anxious about, certainly not compared to most people. There are only two points of concern in my current existence: Ellen’s odd behavior, and—though I’m ashamed to be obsessing about it still—the house by the side of the North Circular. 8 Panama Row.
    I’ve dreamed about it often since the day we moved, dreamed of trying to get there—on foot, by car, by train—but never quite making it. The closest I got was in a taxi. The driver pulled up, and I climbed out and stood on the pavement. The front door of the house opened, and then I woke up.
    I pick up the phone and say, “Hello?,” remembering Alex’s pretending-to-be-serious insistence that we must all from now on greet anyone who calls with the words “Speedwell House, good morning/afternoon/evening.” “That’s how people who live in big country piles answer their phones,” he said. “I saw it on . . . something, I’m sure.”
    Our new house’s solitary phone is not portable. It’s next to the kitchen window, attached to the wall by a curly wire that makes a plasticky squeaking sound when pulled. Finally at the age of forty-three I have a big, comfy sofa in a kitchen that isn’t too small, and I’m unable to reach it to sit down when I make or answer a phone call. I have to stand and look at it instead, while imagining my legs are aching more than they are. My mobile can’t help me; there’s no reception inside the house yet. Coverage seems only to start at the end of our drive.
    “Hello,” I say again.
    “It’s me.”
    Not Alex. A woman whose voice I don’t recognize. Someone arrogant enough to think that she and I are on “It’s me” terms when we aren’t. It should be easy enough to work out who, once she’s said a few more words. I know lots of arrogant women, or at least I did in London. Arrogant men, too. I hoped never to hear from any of them again.
    “Sorry, it’s a terrible line,” I lie. “I can hardly hear you.” How embarrassing. Come on, brain, tell me who this is before I’m forced to reveal how little this person matters to me. Alex’s mum? No. My stepmother? Definitely not.
    “It’s me. I can hear you perfectly.”
    A woman, for sure. With a voice as hard as granite and a slight . . . not quite lisp, but something similar. As if her tongue is impeded by her teeth, or she’s speaking while trying to stop a piece of chewing gum from falling out of her mouth. Is she disguising her voice? Why would she do that if she wants me to recognize her?
    “I’m sorry, this line is appalling. I honestly have no idea who I’m speaking to,” I say.
    Silence. Then a sigh, and a weary “I think we’re beyond lying by now, aren’t we? I know you came here to scare me, but it won’t work.”
    I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at it. This is absurd. I’ve never heard this woman’s voice before. She is nobody I know.
    “This is a misunderstanding. I don’t know who you think you’re speaking to—”
    “Oh, I know exactly who I’m speaking to.”
    “Well . . . lucky you. I wish I did. I don’t recognize your voice. If I know you, you’re going to have to remind me. And I’ve no idea what you mean, but I promise you, I didn’t come here to scare you or anyone else.”
    “I’ve been frightened of you for too long. I’m not running away again.”
    I lean my forehead against the kitchen wall. “Look, shall we sort this out? It shouldn’t take long. Who are you, and who do you think I am? Because whoever you think I am, I’m not. You’re going