The beach is deserted except for the occasional dog walker and diehard hiker. I am panting from my attempt at a run – sweat, rain and hair product trickle down my cheeks, into my mouth. A pain shoots up my hamstrings because I didn’t warm up properly. My head pounds bluntly from lack of sleep and the fact that Sally and I got through three bottles of wine last night and woke up this morning like two cats, sleeping head to head in the middle of my sitting room floor.
I feel like I’m swimming from relentlessly going over the same story, and from booze; Sally told me I was mad to do anything other than call in sick to work, and sleep it off. Instead of continuing along the beach, I turn toward the parking area, deciding to call it quits. The rain is coming down hard. I try to walk fast, listening to the rhythm of it threshing my Gore-Tex jacket. The battleship-grey tide steadily beats the shoreline, and one or two seagulls sit cowering on the sand.
I am drenched and shivering when I push the car into gear, even though it’s far from cold. I am disorientated, blank in my head. But I realise I’m not going home, like I thought. Instead, I load the satnav and find the address from yesterday.
Turn left, then follow the road for two miles . . .
I try to listen to music, waiting for the next instructions. Anything to bring my heart rate down, and stop the belting of blood between my ears. There is a traffic jam once I get back on to the main road – an accident, by the looks of things. I don’t know how to divert and take an alternative route. I remember the banana in my handbag, dig for it, rip the peel back and push it into my mouth as I tremble. I stuff it down in a few seconds flat, gulp the bottled water and make a sharp turn right.
At the next junction, turn left.
Turning down the street, I see there are fewer cars than yesterday. Of course. A work day.
Louisa’s voice. Justin is working from home . . .
I trot down the path quickly this time. Bang on the door. Someone is bound to be in there. I bang, and bang, and bang, and bang until my knuckles sting.
The neighbour’s door opens. The sleepy head of a tall young man looks out. He squints into the daylight, clearly not properly seeing me. ‘Can I help you?’ An accent. The strong h.
‘Who lives here?’ I ask him, without any mind to my attitude or manners. ‘Do you know them? What are their names?’
He musses his curly brown hair, and pulls a bit of a pained, bewildered face. ‘Name?’ he repeats, as though he’s never heard that word before.
‘Of the man and woman who live here? Your neighbours.’
‘Man?’ He shrugs, shakes his head. ‘No man.’
He bends down, and I watch what he’s doing, noticing the long, thin, darkly hairy legs, and the emerald-green bed shorts. He removes something – a sticky note – that has attached itself to his foot.
‘What do you mean, there’s no man?’ I ask, when he stands up. ‘Isn’t there a man who lives here? A couple?’
‘Maybe.’ He shrugs again, looking slightly amused, as though he thinks we are playing some sort of strange game. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know. Sorry . . .’ Then he goes in and closes his door.
I knock a couple more times, but there is nothing. No sign of life. When I am back in my car, I reach into my pocket for my phone. Sally was right. I packed his bags for a reason. There is no point in them just sitting in the middle of the floor.
I have packed your stuff up. Please come get it this week. Or it goes to charity.
To my surprise, less than two minutes later, he replies.
Friday, 7 p.m.
TWENTY-FIVE
Evelyn
London. 1983
Her mother had left her some money. Plus, she had her income from journalism. She didn’t need to take anything from Mark. Evelyn wrote down on paper her net worth divided by the number of years she might live to get a rough idea of what they’d have to exist on, excluding anything Eddy might earn. She calculated that if they lived frugally, there would be enough to see them through the rest of their lives.
Eddy didn’t earn much, but they didn’t need much. And besides, what was expensive was her lifestyle, not necessarily life itself. She had never been attracted to Mark purely for the money. His parents’ stately home certainly hadn’t made him more appealing, only less self-made. She hadn’t gone to London to meet a prince, become a princess and live in a castle, much as Eddy might joke.
The flat would be the hardest material thing to leave. Admittedly, she was fond of it. While the bricks and mortar of it cost a disproportionate fortune, they were really paying for its proximity to Kensington Palace Gardens; to shops and cafés, flower stands, theatres and the parks of London’s West End. She had decorated it with great care, surrounding herself with the paintings, ornaments, cabinets and rugs that would give her timeless pleasure.
The dogs. The horses. She would miss them, but she would get a dog back home. Maybe once she became closer to April, the little girl could help her choose a pet. She had thought a lot about April and the kind of stepmother she would be. She would never disrespect Laura, or try to be another parent. At most, she hoped that she could be a positive role model, and one day they might be friends.
In one of his letters, Eddy had left her his phone number. He had made a note of the best time she could ring him, when his wife would not be there. She watched the clock, then took a large chance and dialled. He answered on the second ring.
His happiness sounded so heartfelt, like something specially prized that no one but she could have given him.
‘I’ve been thinking, you have to do it first,’ she told him. ‘You have the most to lose, by far. So before I turn Mark’s world upside down, I need to know that you are as able as you seem to think you are of looking your wife and daughter in the eyes and telling them that you’re leaving them for me.’
‘You still doubt me, don’t you?’ She could hear his frustration.
‘I don’t doubt that you want to do it, Eddy. I just don’t know if you’re as steely as you’d like to think you are.’