When she emerged, Marj had moved over to the bench and was half-dressed. The lower half, Emma noted, as she stood in front of the mirror checking her own appearance. The new shirt hung stiffly from her shoulders; the fabric inflexible as she raised one hand to pat a stray lock into place. All black didn’t suit a 70-year-old with a pale complexion and greying curls. Tomorrow, she would apply red lipstick to brighten the canvas. Marj remained silent, so Emma quickly left the room.
What a relief to find Marise standing in front of her locker, slipping on ballet flats. ‘Hi there, Marise.’
‘Emma, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. We met a while back in the staff room.’
‘That’s right. Ted was there, too.’
Emma nodded, unsure what to say next.
‘I’ll just go and change. Wait for me here. I won’t be a minute.
