The Other Ida Read Online Free Page B

irritation, her hands punching the air by her sides. She was whispering so hard her voice sounded raw as she began to chuck quilts and pillows onto the bed.
    â€œDon’t tell me what she would have wanted, don’t you dare. I can’t stand any of your fucking bullshit. Are you pissed? You’re slurring your words and you stink, Ida. You can sleep in here, wash your clothes, or throw them away. You can take some of Mum’s from the airing cupboard here. No drugs or booze in the house.”
    Ida laughed but she was taken aback.
    â€œYou never used to swear.”
    â€œWhat the fuck do you fucking expect? I’ve had it.”
    Ida smiled at her sweetly, her palms held up in mock defeat.
    â€œOh, fuck off, you big stupid cow,” said Alice.
    Ida roared with laughter. “Brilliant, Alice, you’ve surpassed yourself. You look like some Bournemouth High Street nightmare. Nice tracksuit by the way.”
    Alice took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway. “Get whatever you want from the kitchen. I can’t talk to you about this today. Go to sleep, you look terrible and you’re drunk.” She closed the door.
    Ida kicked the side of the bed. She usually loved conflict, excelled at it in fact and was angry with herself for the tracksuit thing, she’d been doing so well up ‘til then. She unzipped her boots, pulled down her shiny gym shorts, took off her damp jumper and threw them all on the floor. She had no knickers on – she rarely wore them – so stood in just her falling-to-bits bra as she looked around the room, feeling her squishy curved stomach with her hand. How did you even get a stomach like Alice’s? Why exactly would you want one?
    In the corner, to her right, was her mother’s old oak desk, piled with books and unopened post. Bills mainly, she imagined. She sat on the bed, unravelling the quilt her sister had thrown there, and took the things from her Tesco bag – a box of diazepam, Prozac, Marlboro reds, whisky, Wrigley’s Extra – and put them under her pillow. Then she reached for the pills, swallowed two, lay down, and stared at the ceiling. The streetlight from outside made an orange arc against the paper, and in the unfamiliar quiet she hummed to herself. Near the window a spider spun a web, and behind him a damp patch had made the wallpaper curl, revealing the edge of a rose petal pattern and causing her throat to once again itch with the taste of something she couldn’t quite place.
    It was so light, the bed was so near the floor, and the birds were singing so loudly, that for a second Ida assumed she was sleeping outside. She was cold, almost naked on top of the covers, her neck hurt and she found it difficult to stand.
    She picked up her cigarettes and wrapped herself in a sheet as she opened the door to the hallway and walked towards the kitchen, touching the chipped paintwork as she went. The walls were lined with pictures and photographs, dark frames from floor to ceiling, and a marble-topped table held bunches of white and yellow flowers among the dusty plants and handmade pots.
    The kitchen looked like it always had, long and dim and narrow with 1950s units and a quarry-tiled floor. It seemed older of course, far more decrepit, but Ida was pleased to see her mother had relented and bought an electric kettle. She put it on and opened a cupboard, searching for coffee, and codeine, if she was lucky.
    â€œIf you’re looking for pills I chucked them all away.”
    Alice was standing in the doorway, looking pretty and dishevelled in a fluffy pink dressing gown and a nightdress printed with teddies and hearts. The tracksuit wasn’t her pyjamas then, she actually wore the tracksuit out.
    â€œI – shit, you spoilsport, Alice.” She had been going to deny it but she’d never win that way. “Do you want a coffee? I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch – I didn’t have any money for the