My mobile rings. I realise I’m fixating on his stuff because it’s the only thing that’s bound to bring him back at some point. It’s not lost on me that his stuff might mean more to him than I do.
It’s Sally. I stare at her name and freeze. That comment still stings. Dry, ambitionless John, who has done the same admin job at the Civic Centre since he left school. John, who only ever talks about house prices, and who rarely has an opinion on anything, but suddenly he has opinions about Justin. The thought of talking to Sally fills me with a terrible dread. I have never dreaded my friend before. It’s the strangest feeling to have.
I listen as she leaves a message, her softly lilting North East accent filling the room. ‘Hiya, Alice. Look, just wanted you to know that I’ve been thinking about our lunch today and, well, there’s some things I wish I’d said differently. I think I was just shocked, so things came out wrong. Of course, it’s not like I have any right to be, compared to you. I hope you’re not cross. I regret saying John never trusted him. It was tactless, or something.’
I am riveted to her words. John never trusted . . . That isn’t quite what she said before.
‘Anyway, give me a ring whenever you want to talk. If you still want to talk to me, that is. I’m here for you. You know. Always. Okay? Let me know as soon as you get any news.’
When she rings off, the hollowness returns. I go back into the kitchen to find something to do, to force away the small stampede of panic that starts up in me again. I stare into the fridge, but it’s still empty as I forgot to get any groceries on my way home from work. I haven’t even got any bloody milk. On the counter there’s a neatly stacked pile of takeaway menus, but the thought of going through them, having to make a decision – curry over Chinese, over pizza – is more than I can be bothered with. I walk back into the sitting room, typing as I go. I’m not cross. X. Because I’m not – not really. My text whooshes off into the ether.
I perch on the arm of the sofa. I catch sight of our answering machine. The little red light is flashing. Very few people call us on our home line any more. I get up and press play. Justin’s mother’s voice fills the silence. ‘Hi!’ I hear her say. She sounds tentative. The line crackles, then goes dead. Brie usually rings Justin on his mobile if she only wants to talk to him.
We have never been close. Not through my lack of trying. I was never close to my mother, so I quite liked the idea of having a good relationship with Justin’s. She has never shown much interest in me, though. Sally once said there are those mothers who welcome their son’s choices with open arms (in Sally’s case), and others who only have eyes for their boys. Justin’s relationship with his mother has frankly always been a bit mystifying to me. The midweek dinners, every Wednesday. Brie phoning her son whenever she has man problems, sometimes at 2 a.m. When the three of us were together and Brie was telling us a story, it was only Justin she would look at. Though I do feel sorry for her. She was only the age I am now when Justin’s dad died. Justin said he had a profound sense of wanting to protect her, even though he was just a little boy. He took it upon himself to try to fill the gap his dad had left. I remember him saying he could stand his own unhappiness but not his mother’s. It was all a little intimidating for a future daughter-in-law. I felt a little cowed by her, by their closeness. So no, I’d be no more inclined to ring her in a crisis than break my own kneecaps with a hammer. But if anyone will know what’s going on with Justin, it will be Brie.
The second message is her, too. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I think my other phone died. Anyway, just ringing to see how the honeymoon was. You’ll be well and truly back to reality now. Hope your flight home wasn’t too tiring. You’ll be at work today. Anyway, hope you are both doing fine. Call me when you’re settled again.’
She doesn’t know.
My stomach turns, though I’m not sure it’s from hunger. I go and lie on the bed, and try to will the feeling of a meltdown away. I must nod off, because suddenly I am jumping at the ping of my email. It’s dark when I open my eyes, and the lights from the Tyne river twinkle through our huge, uncovered windows. I peer at the clock. Three a.m.
Justin is a shitty sleeper. I can imagine him emailing in the middle of the night when he’s at his lowest ebb. It’s going to be him, and he’s going to say, Look, I’m sorry! I don’t know what came over me! Can I come home? Can we pretend this never happened?
But it isn’t Justin. It’s an old pal from Uni who works in Athens. Her idea of keeping in touch is copying me in on unfunny jokes, chain invitations to recipe swaps and YouTube videos of spaniels who polish glass doors and empty the rubbish.
I am fully awake now, though. Before I can talk myself out of doing it, I find the last text message he sent me and begin typing.
Talk to me. This is not fair. There’s nothing you can tell me that’s going to hurt me more than I already am.
But I’m not so sure it’s true.
I stare out of the window, aware of the long darkness, and the slightly jagged rise and fall of my breathing. A moment or two later, Justin is typing a reply.
FIVE
Evelyn
December 18, 1983
The newspapers were full of the story. Six people dead. Seventy-five injured. Mark was seated at the opposite end of the polished walnut dining table, with only his large hands visible around the expanse of the Sunday Times.
‘The bloody IRA rang the Samaritans thirty-seven minutes before the blast! They warned them they were going to do it! So no one seems to know what took the police so long! Murderers! Daring to bomb Harrods on a Saturday right before Christmas! When will this reign of terror end?’