‘Yes,’ I say, realising that was her aim in getting Harry down. ‘I’ll give him a ring on Monday.’
Harry doesn’t stay long when he comes back to the house because he has a dinner in London. After he’s left, I spend a bit of time in my office. I still haven’t received an email from Layla. Is she seriously waiting for me to harm Ellen, to kill her? I slide open my drawer and reach inside, searching for the Russian dolls. I run my fingers over them, drawing a strange comfort from the feel of them. It’s almost as if they’re telling me not to lose faith, that everything will work out in the end. Then my fingers fall on the one with the smashed head and I withdraw my hand quickly. It’s strange that Ellen never asked me for the one she saw me with in The Jackdaw, has never asked if she can add it to her set of Russian dolls, like the one she received in the post. It stands next to the one she found on the wall, two twin sisters staring blank-eyed at me from the worktop.
By the time night falls, I can’t bear the silence any longer. I encourage Ellen to go up to bed and take out my mobile.
When can we meet? I ask. I don’t really expect her to reply because she didn’t to the last ones I sent her asking the same thing. But this time, a reply comes straight back.
Did you get the doll?
When can we meet? I ask again, ignoring her.
Did you get the doll?
Yes, I reply because there’s no point in going around in circles. When can we meet?
When you’ve done what you have to do
What do you mean? I ask, remembering Harry’s theory that the doll got damaged in the post.
You’ve seen the doll
A wave of fury takes hold of me.
It’s not going to happen, never! Goodbye Layla.
I throw my phone down on the sofa as if it’s become toxic. Somewhere along the way, Layla has lost her mind. What she’s suggesting, what she wants me to do, is madness.
I wait a while, then go quietly upstairs, hoping Ellen will be asleep. She’s in her usual sleep mode, one arm behind her head on the pillow, beautiful, desirable. Go on, a voice taunts. Get in beside her, prove that you love her more than Layla. After all, you’ve just chosen her over Layla. She stirs, half-opens her eyes, holds out her arms to me, smiling sleepily.
‘I’m going for a shower.’ I speak in a whisper, an encouragement to her to go back to sleep. Disappointment shadows her face and she drops her arms.
In the shower, I try to wash some of my shame away. But when I get out its stain is still there, making it impossible for me to get into bed beside Ellen.
I wander the house restlessly. My body aches with fatigue; I’ve barely slept in three days. In the sitting room, I lie down on the sofa, hoping sleep will take me. Something digs me in the back and I realise it’s my mobile, from when I threw it down. I don’t want to check my emails, I don’t want to find one from Layla, I’m not ready for another of her ultimatums. But maybe it will be the message you’ve been waiting for, says a voice, the one that will give you a time and a place, the one that will tell you the Russian doll with the smashed head was a joke. So I check my emails and find one from Layla.
YOU HAVE TEN DAYS
FORTY-ONE
Layla
There was something about smashing the little doll’s head that was strangely satisfying. My own head felt better after, and I wondered if maybe I’d smashed the voice out of it, the one that kept dragging me back to the past, taunting me with visions of how things could have been. But I’d only quietened it because, after a few days of relative calm, it came back, driving me on, propelling me forward to an end I didn’t yet know.
Finn’s reaction to the Russian doll was predictable. Disbelief, anger, blunt refusal. I almost laughed at his last message, at the implication that he had any choice in the matter, as if his ‘Goodbye Layla’ actually meant something, actually meant that he was never going to contact me again, or read any more emails from me. Didn’t he realise that he was dancing to my tune and still had a lot of steps to learn?
I couldn’t keep him dancing forever though. The strain of keeping it together was beginning to tell on me. The voice began to intrude more and more and the effort of blocking it out made my head tired. I needed to impose a deadline. I couldn’t let Finn prevaricate indefinitely. It wasn’t good for him.
And it certainly wasn’t good for me.
FORTY-TWO
Finn
Reading Layla’s message, I prepare myself mentally for ten days of silence. I doubt she’ll be emailing me unless I tell her what she wants to hear and as I won’t ever be able to, I won’t be emailing her. At first, I feel lost – how am I going to last ten days without some sort of contact with her when a day without news is already difficult? But then disquiet sets in at what might happen once the ten days are up. Surely Ellen won’t be in danger from Layla? But what if she is? I feel torn between my desire for Layla and my desire to protect Ellen. Now, more than ever, I need to tell Tony. But I feel stuck in an impasse, unable to move. Maybe a ten-day silence will be a good thing. I’ll have time to clear my head, devote myself to Ellen, work out a strategy. We’ll go away for a few days and I might even begin to forget about Layla.
I go up to bed and when the sun wakes me early the next morning, I feel calmer than I’ve felt for ages. With the prospect of ten days’ respite from Layla’s increasingly erratic demands, I feel almost optimistic. I look at Ellen asleep beside me and feel a twinge of guilt at the way I turned my back on her last night. I wish I could make it up to her, take her in my arms, show her that I love her. But I can’t. And the thought that she might wake up and expect me to propels me out of bed.
I dress quietly and go downstairs.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ I ask Peggy, giving her a morning cuddle.
It’s one of those beautiful, still Sunday mornings when everyone is in bed and the only sound comes from the birds chirruping in the trees and the chickens clucking in the garden of a nearby house. I glance across at Mick’s house and see him standing at the window. I raise my hand in acknowledgement and when he waves back, I feel guilty that I haven’t made more of an effort to get to know him.
As I walk along the river, I think about where Ellen and I could go. I’ve never lost my desire to visit Lewis but when I suggested it to Ellen last year, she said it was the last place she wanted to go. I can understand why. It’s where she lost her mother, where she lost her father – even if that wasn’t such a great loss. It’s also where she saw Layla for the last time. Anyway, it’s too far. Perhaps we should just stay here; Simonsbridge is so beautiful at this time of the year. Why sit in a car for hours only to end up somewhere equivalent?
My sudden reluctance to go away niggles at me, urging me to be honest with myself instead of hiding behind a long car journey. The truth is shameful; in a hotel, I won’t be able to wait until Ellen is asleep before joining her in bed. My mood plummets. I call Peggy from the river, hating the person I’ve become, the person Layla has made me become.
The village shop opens at eight on a Sunday so I buy bacon and eggs along with the papers before heading home. As I approach the house, I’m struck by a terrible sense of déjà vu. Because there, standing on the wall, is a little Russian doll.
I cover the last few yards in a couple of seconds and snatch it up, putting it quickly in my pocket. I look up and down the road but there’s no one around. Remembering how I saw Mick standing at his window, I go over and knock on his front door, forgetting that it’s only quarter past eight in the morning.
He takes a while opening it.
‘Sorry,’ he says. There’s a bowl of porridge in his hand. ‘I’m in the middle of giving my wife her breakfast.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say, taking in his dishevelled appearance. ‘I’ll come back later. I just wanted to ask you something.’