‘If you dare touch me again, I’ll scream until I’m sick.’
Barry reeled back, and Mira was also aghast by her reaction, mortified by its childishness.
‘I’ll call down when the bath’s run. I’ve booked the March Hare for seven.’ The quietness of his delivery spoke volumes about how wounded he was.
The door clicked closed. She was not in the mood for their Friday-night date at the pub to celebrate their twentieth-fifth wedding anniversary. A pint and a pie were what Barry had wanted to mark the occasion. All she wanted was to immerse herself in the album until she had finished ridding it of all unhappiness.
As she sat opposite Barry on the small round table by the roaring fire, they avoided mentioning their fight. He was a little withdrawn, but the traditions of their anniversary played out like clockwork. She sipped fizzy wine. He supped a pint. They ate chicken pie and chips and reminisced about their small registry-office wedding on the edge of town, followed by a jolly knees-up at a pub similar to the one they sat in now.
While she smiled and pretended to be taken back to the charming moments of their wedding day twenty-five years ago, all she could remember was her guilt. How fraudulent she had been in that ivory suit, how sick she had felt when she promised to be true to him in her vows, how much she had been shamed by Jesus Christ’s face looking down on her from his cross. She had not been true to Barry. She had married him on false pretences and she had prayed to God the Almighty to forgive her for wanting to hide her sins from the man she loved. She hoped that this new start, this handsome marriage, could help her to move on from her failures, from her shabby past, from the unendurable agony of letting her firstborn go.
The memory of her baby had to be lost and forgotten about; undisclosed, therefore unreal.
‘Here’s to the next twenty-five,’ she said, holding up her flute.
Twenty-five years of marriage had not been long enough to forget. She was still a fraud. Time had not been a healer. But that was her cross to bear. The guilt, the secret, the white lies were part of her life, just as breathing was. Barry was the only good thing to have ever happened to her and she had been willing to make personal moral sacrifices to keep him.
He clinked her glass and pushed his spectacles – whose lenses had darkened in the bright pub – up his nose. ‘Blimey, in twenty-five years, we’ll be seventy-five.’
‘Can always rely on you for a cheery thought.’
‘You don’t think we’ll get lonely in our old age, do you?’
‘As long as I go first, I’ll be fine,’ she grinned.
‘I’ll bump you off then before I’m about to croak.’
‘Good plan. There’s nobody else who’ll miss me.’
They looked deep into each other’s eyes for one long-held moment, acknowledging their bond.
‘It’s a shame we’re not closer to your Deidre’s Harry. Being around the young ’uns keeps us young, so they say, or not as sad about getting older, I wouldn’t wonder.’
‘Goodness gracious, I’m grateful we’re not closer to Harry. He’s the kind of child who puts you off children.’
But Mira knew what he meant. He was referring to their own childlessness. He would always test her on their anniversary, just to check that nothing had changed.
When Barry shared his Eeyore-morose fears or philosophies on life, Mira enjoyed the power she held to snap him out of it.
‘I don’t regret a thing about us, Barry,’ she said, putting both her feet on top of his boots as though she was a child about to dance on his feet.
‘I know. Me neither,’ he said, beaming. ‘We’re a good team, just the two of us.’
Last year, and on the many years before it, this similar conversation had left Mira feeling warm and comfortable. She had never wanted another child, and had been thankful that Barry had been unwavering on the subject. Their agreeable match had given her all the nurturing and fulfilment she needed. This year, however, her mind darted straight to Rosie. Her sweet, new little confidante, who made her feel like singing and dancing when she was with her, and ever so young again.
She couldn’t wait for the morning to check for the blue bucket. She hoped that the little accident with the hot chocolate hadn’t scared her away.
Chapter Forty-Three
TOP SECRET
* * *
Dear Mummy,
* * *
I had the most embarrassing day ever. The doctor told me to stand there in front of her with my pants and vest on and then she looked all over my legs and arms and my TUMMY and asked me why I had that bruise on my arm. What a dumb doctor. How could I remember when I got that bruise? The nurse took a photo of it, like she’s going to put it on Instagram. My arm! Imagine? BORING.
* * *
We are doing parables at school this week. It is really hard but I have made up a brilliant one – smiley face emoji – that I’m going to do for homework. It is about a girl who lies. I’m only going to show Granny Helen. Not you.
* * *
Uh oh, I think I can hear her coming upstairs. She always checks on me when she goes to bed. She goes to bed so early. If she is a grown-up why is she going to bed so early? It’s so annoying. Better go.
* * *
Rosie
* * *
P.S. No time.
Chapter Forty-Four
‘Hi, everyone!’ I cried, dumping my bag on the floor, kissing Rosie and Noah on the head as they were bent over their homework.
‘Hi,’ they mumbled.
‘Hi, darling, you’re early,’ my mother said, the only one to raise her head from the homework sheets strewn across the kitchen table. ‘Good day?’
‘The usual,’ I sighed.
How could I describe to my mother how hard the week had been since my arrest. The swiftness of the changes to our family life had been hard to grasp. The adjustments felt like a whirlwind that I was caught up in, rather than an ordered plan.
The noises and bustle of life outside home had become almost unbearable. While I tolerated work, signed contracts, held conferences, I longed to be back home, cocooned with my mother, who had settled into our life with surprising grace and pragmatism – she had always been good in crises.
I continued hoping that something would shift soon, that Rosie would break down, but she hadn’t and we were stuck in a surreal holding pattern, loitering above reality. Each day, like another bead on a string that was tied to the dreaded fourth of December.
Endlessly, I second-guessed what was going on behind the scenes of that police station, what picture DC Miles was building of our family from the outside-in, from information gathered from a series of professionals whom we barely knew. There was Dr Peed – whose name had never failed to make us giggle – whom we saw twice a year when the children had a verruca or tonsillitis. Mrs Brewer, Rosie’s form teacher, whom we met once a term for ten minutes to discuss her excellent grades. Miranda Slater, who had probably disliked me on sight.
I only ventured out locally if I absolutely had to, driving whenever possible, with my hood up or sunglasses on, hoping I wouldn’t bump into anyone; I’d had a bad experience on the high street at the beginning of the week.
It had been Tuesday evening and I had been nipping in and out of the chemist for some iron pills, when I spotted Charlotte’s mother coming out of the beautician’s two doors down. She sported a coat with a real-fur lined hood, which made me feel cross with her way before I remembered why I wanted – needed – to avoid her. Unfortunately, it had been too late. Our eyes had met. There had been no time to duck into a shop or change direction. I slowed down, and instantly my face flushed and my mouth dried. I put a chewing gum in my mouth, ready for the inevitable.