One of the doors was in the corner diagonally across from the bed, and the other two were facing that one. She did not know which of them led to the outside world, and which just led into a cupboard.
Apart from these differences, though, it was astonishing the extent to which this room was like Susan’s, which had only ever existed in Bonnie’s mind, or so she had thought. It made her wonder if she had in fact been in this room before and had just forgotten, or half-forgotten.
The lack of curtains was rather strange, but it did not bother her too much. If the room was in the attic, it was not like anyone walking by could see in.
She wanted to sit up — she could see her cigarettes on the windowsill — but her limbs were sluggish. As she struggled up from the mattress, there was a knock at the door in the furthest corner of the room, and no pause before it opened and there was Sylvia, coming in with a breakfast tray.
‘Are you feeling any better?’ asked Sylvia.
‘Have I been ill?’ asked Bonnie. ‘Am I ill?’
‘You weren’t too good last night,’ said Sylvia, propping her up with pillows and setting the tray down on Bonnie’s lap: a glass of orange juice, a small plate of scrambled eggs, and a cup of tea. ‘You’ll want to stay in bed today. You’ll find your legs are weak, too weak to walk on just yet.’
Sylvia sat down next to Bonnie, and Bonnie ate. Her appetite was fine. ‘I don’t remember coming upstairs last night,’ she said.
‘No,’ said Sylvia. ‘But you seem much better now.’
‘It’s so strange being in this room,’ said Bonnie. ‘It’s a lot like the room in my story, weirdly so in some ways, although in other ways it’s different.’
‘In what ways is it different?’ asked Sylvia, frowning around at the room.
‘Well, there’s a clock on that wall,’ said Bonnie, ‘which isn’t there in my story.’ The clock, which had a big, round, white face, was on the same wall as the Cézanne.
‘You didn’t mention it in your story,’ said Sylvia. ‘That is true.’
‘And the Cézanne isn’t the right one,’ said Bonnie.
‘Isn’t it?’ said Sylvia.
‘And the room’s the wrong shape,’ said Bonnie.
‘Well I don’t see what anyone could do about that,’ said Sylvia.
‘It’s very strange though,’ said Bonnie, ‘that the room should be so similar, because as far as I know I’ve never been up here before.’
‘Well you obviously have,’ said Sylvia. ‘You’ve just forgotten. The subconscious is a powerful thing.’
When Bonnie finished her scrambled eggs, she picked up her teacup. The saucer and her empty plate, side by side like a pair of staring eyes, shared a design of black and white concentric circles. She turned to look again at the pack of cigarettes on the windowsill. ‘Would you mind passing me my cigarettes?’ she asked.
‘You must not smoke,’ said Sylvia. ‘Let’s leave them there for now. Your room, by the way, is at the back of the building; I couldn’t get you a sea view, I’m afraid. But you’ll be able to hear the seagulls.’ And Bonnie could.
‘Do you think I could have some curtains?’ asked Bonnie.
‘We’ll see,’ said Sylvia, taking the tray from Bonnie’s lap and standing up.
‘Could you ask the landlady?’
Sylvia smiled. ‘You get some rest now,’ she said, moving the pillows that were propping Bonnie up. ‘You’ll be feeling sleepy.’ She helped Bonnie to lie down again, and pulled the yellow blanket over her, up to her neck. ‘You close your eyes and have a little nap.’
Sylvia stroked Bonnie’s hair, slowly, the rhythm of it closing Bonnie’s eyes.
When Bonnie woke again, she saw, in the weak daylight, on the carpet by the door, the edge of a piece of paper, like a note that had been pushed through the gap at the bottom of the door.
She made an effort to sit up, but one leg was lying lifeless beneath the other and she had to lift it with both hands, holding it under the thigh. She hung the numb limb over the side of her bed and sat waiting for it to fizz back to life.
After a while, she tried putting her weight on her feet, looking down at the carpet, whose geometric design was reminiscent of an optical illusion. When she stood up, she felt fine, not especially ill nor very dizzy, although as she stepped forward, moving towards the door, she felt like one of those newborn foals standing, trying to walk, for the very first time. She bent down carefully and picked the piece of paper up, looked at one side and then the other, but it was blank — although there was, when she turned the paper towards the light and inspected it closely, the faintest suggestion of words there, the shadow of something that had been photocopied almost to oblivion. She put her hand on the door handle. She half-felt that if she opened it and looked outside she would find nothing but desert, and that if she walked through the doorway she would never get back inside again. She opened the door, and it felt unexpectedly light in her hand. It was not solid wood; it was a cheap hardboard door, but newly painted. Outside, there was an empty landing, and the top of a flight of stairs, the sight of which made her head swim. She felt blurry. She had in mind to go and look for Sylvia, but her legs felt both weak and heavy and she wanted to go back to bed. ‘Sylvia?’ she called. ‘Sylvia?’ She heard a noise and a door further along the landing opened.
‘Bonnie!’ said Sylvia. ‘You’re out of bed!’
Sylvia came to the door of Bonnie’s room and took her by the elbow, and Bonnie said, ‘Did you put this under my door?’
‘Put what under your door?’ asked Sylvia.
‘It’s some kind of note, I think,’ said Bonnie. She looked again at the piece of paper in her hand, and almost thought that she might be able to make out a message after all, but even as she looked, that hint of words dissolved, as a mirage dissolves.
Bonnie left the piece of paper on the desk near the door, and Sylvia walked her back over to her bed.
‘I need to go to the toilet,’ said Bonnie.
‘There’s a toilet just there,’ said Sylvia, indicating one of the doors that Bonnie had taken for a cupboard.
‘I wasn’t expecting an en suite,’ said Bonnie.
‘You have everything you need right here,’ said Sylvia. ‘You don’t have to leave your room for anything. I’ll look after you.’ Sylvia held out her arm, and Bonnie, in her nightie, took it. She crossed the room, walking the length of that complicated carpet, with her arm linked through Sylvia’s, as if this were her wedding day, as if Sylvia were giving her away.
‘Here we are,’ said Sylvia, when they reached the door.
Bonnie went in to use the toilet. There was no window in there so she switched on the light, and shut the door for privacy. ‘There’s even a shower in here,’ she said to Sylvia, through the closed door. ‘I could do with a shower, a bit later maybe. What happened last night?’ she asked. ‘It’s like one minute we were sitting downstairs and the next minute I was waking up here.’ She pressed the flush but nothing happened. She tried again. ‘The flush isn’t working,’ she said, but Sylvia did not answer. Bonnie turned on the tap but no water came out. ‘I think there’s a problem with the water,’ she said. ‘We ought to let the landlady know.’
Bonnie opened the door and looked out, but Sylvia was not there. Bonnie made her way back across the room to her bed. She sat down. A tapping sound at the window made her turn her head: a seagull had perched on the sill outside and was rapping on the glass with its beak. The gull appeared to be looking at her, but Bonnie could not tell whether it could really see her or only its own reflection. It flew away.