Outside, under the pergola the rose bushes are beginning to flower, cream for Dewei and lemon for Mai, but behind the pergola, almost hidden from view, are Richard and Lisa. Deep in conversation. He is waving his hands, and she is frowning and, even through the double glazing, I can hear the sounds of raised voices. Lisa turns, stalks back towards the kitchen and I see tears sliding down her cheeks.
I press one palm to the window, one against my chest. What has Richard done? What has he said? I think about Mai and Dewei. The babies I lost. The babies he lost us. He raises his face to the window. Our eyes lock and his face has a strange expression. Of hate? Of nervousness? I back away from the window. Exhausted with the emotion of everything. Trying not to overthink but knowing I will. I can. I do. Panic nestles under my skin, ready to break free.
The front door slams. An engine thrums. Tyres squeal.
I race down the stairs.
Lisa has gone.
33
Now
I wake with a jolt. The baby crying in my mind. I’m scrunched in the rocking chair in the nursery. Outside, the sun is slipping beneath the rooftops and the sky is streaked red and gold. My earbuds are still in and I press play on my phone to listen to the recording once more. Resting my head back on a cushion I begin to rock, staring at the ceiling for so long black specks swarm into my vision. I can’t believe I have dozed. I had burst into the kitchen demanding to know where Lisa had gone; the silence did little to alleviate my panic and I asked again. Louder this time.
‘Where is she?’
‘On her way home, I expect,’ Richard had said.
‘But she was supposed to stay the night. She didn’t even say goodbye?’ I stared hard at him.
‘You said you had a migraine. She probably thought it was the right thing to do.’
‘Nick?’ But his response was a shrug and, exasperated, I had huffed my way upstairs and punched out a text to Lisa asking her to call. But my phone lay still and silent. My eyelids grew heavy as I dug my toes into the carpet, pushing myself back and forth, the crinkly rabbit on my lap, listening for the burst of life on my phone. Sleep must have claimed me.
I massage my neck and tilt my head from left to right before padding over to the front window and peering out of the curtains. Richard’s car is gone, and I am reassured to see Nick’s car still there. Is he having an affair? What did Richard say to Lisa? Why did she leave? Thoughts crowd in on me. I feel I am standing on the brink but on the brink of what I do not know.
My forehead dips until it’s resting on the cool glass.
Again.
It’s all falling apart again.
Nick didn’t come to bed last night and breakfast is strained. His eyes are glued to his mobile, thumbs tapping against the screen, and jealousy curdles as I wonder who he is talking to. My toast is overdone. Crunchy. I spread a thick layer of honey and bite into it, letting the sticky sweetness trickle down my throat, forming a barrier against the accusations that bubble and rise.
Nick leaves the table still fixated on his phone. He mumbles goodbye, and there’s an empty space on the top of my head where his kiss should be. It seems incredible that only four months ago we were the happiest couple I know. I can’t carry on like this. I think perhaps we should go for marriage counselling before we end up like Clare and Akhil. I don’t know how she copes without a father for Ada.
The house feels too big. Too empty. Rain lashes against the windows. I pull my cardigan tighter around me. It’s hard to believe that yesterday I was wearing shorts. Lisa’s phone goes straight to voicemail when I ring again. She’s probably at work. I can’t shake the way her face seemed to hollow as she talked to Richard, the colour that drained from her lips. I rattle off a text:
Please let me know you are okay.
And the second I put the handset down I snatch it up again to check for a reply, even though it hasn’t beeped.
I’m edgy. Unsettled. I pace the kitchen. There’s nothing to clean.
My mind is busy. I switch the radio on to Classic FM and soothing music fills the air, Vivaldi, I think. The raindrops seem to patter out the melody. I splay the charity’s admin over the kitchen table. This is my favourite room. Usually I find it calming watching the birds swinging from the feeder outside the window, the light streaming through, turning the tiles a warm apricot. Sometimes I can almost imagine a dog snoozing by the French doors, body angled to warm in the sun. I always wanted a Labrador. Perhaps this is the right time. We could go on long walks, the wheels of the pram scrunching through orange autumn leaves, the smell of damp earth, the puppy straining at the lead. The image is so chocolate box perfect it takes a second to realise what has pulled me back to the kitchen. There are no muddy wellies and damp raincoats, collections of conkers in a bowl on the sideboard, just polished floors and uncluttered work surfaces.
The landline is ringing.
‘Hello.’ I am annoyed at the interruption. ‘Hello?’ My tone is sharper now. I wait. Listen. There’s breath, soft and light.
‘Who is this?’ With the handset to my ear I stride to the front door. Pull the handle to make sure it’s locked. It all speeds towards me. The phone calls. The wreath. The broken car window. I’m losing control again and everything I want seems so close and so far away.
You mustn’t tell, Kat. I hear the words, sharp and clear, but I know they are part of the memories fighting to break free of the locked box I have kept them in for so long. I slam the handset back in its cradle as though I am slamming the lid of the box down, but when I try to seal it back up, it springs open again. There is the familiar tightening of my chest. The feeling of lightness. My knuckles are almost blue as I clutch the hall table while the world rocks around me. I’m okay. There’s a noise. A text. It’s Lisa.
Sorry, Kat.
I press dial but her phone is switched off. I sink to the bottom stair and drop my head onto my knees. What is she sorry for? For leaving yesterday? Or something else? Something worse? I text, asking her to call me and chew my lip so hard I wince.
I’m shaking now. I haul myself to my feet. I can’t allow myself to think anything will go wrong. I can’t lose another baby. I won’t. I’m going to finish the books for the charity. I’m going to be normal. I know I sold some raffle tickets at the rehearsal yesterday and I lift my handbag from its hook, unzipping it to find the stubs. There’s not much in my bag and immediately I see my purse is missing. I rummage through the make-up, tissue packet, throat sweets, hairbrush but I can’t see the flash of purple leather. Kneeling on the carpet I tip the contents out but it’s definitely not there. I close my eyes, retracing my steps. When did I last have it? I remember seeing it when we got to rehearsal and I dropped my keys into my bag, but was it there when I took them out again?