‘Can I pop in and see Henry?’
I recognise the yearning in his voice from all those lonely every-other-weekends, and push open Henry’s door for him. The Thomas the Tank Engine nightlight casts an unearthly blue glow, and I stand in the doorway, watching as Sam kneels by the bed. As usual Henry has got too hot and taken off his pyjamas, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Sam strokes the soft, silky skin on his back, and Henry shifts but doesn’t wake, pulling Manky closer to his face.
Sam’s face is closed as he comes back into the hallway, but I know how painfully aware he is of the price he has paid, not getting to do this every night. But then, it’s a price I have had to pay too, because I don’t get to do it either every other weekend plus the weeknight when he is with Sam. I hand Sam his coat and as I do so, my hand brushes his and I feel a jolt of electricity that tingles throughout my body. The moment hangs between us, hot and threatening. I can tell he’s about to say something that he won’t be able to take back, and although part of me wants to hear it, I know that if I do, all the work I’ve done in the past two years will be wasted. I snatch my hand back and the jacket falls to the floor. He stoops to pick it up and as he does, I slip past him and open the door, letting the cold air stream in.
‘So, it was good to see you.’ I lean forward and kiss him briskly on the cheek, leaving him with nowhere to go in terms of trying to kiss me. If he is bewildered at the sudden change of pace he hides it well.
‘Take care, Louise. And let me know if… you know.’
‘Yes, I will. Good night.’
I practically push him out of the door, closing it firmly behind him. Back in the kitchen, I lean against the worktop, hugging myself tightly because there is no one else to do it for me. I’m the only one who can take care of me, and I vow to do it better in the future. As the wind rattles the French windows, I stare out through the glass, but I can see nothing except my own reflection.
Chapter 33
2016
My flat doesn’t feel the same any more. It used to be a safe haven, my refuge from the world. I don’t feel safe here now though. I used to be thankful for Marnie, my upstairs neighbour, a woman in her fifties who seems to do nothing but go to her unspecified work, come home and go to bed. She’s only a few metres above my head, but I hear practically nothing from her. When Henry was a baby and I paced the floor with him as he screamed, night after night, squirming in my arms, I thought she might come down and complain, but nothing. Now I would find it reassuring to hear footsteps creaking overhead, the sound of dinner being cooked, television being watched, friends coming over for a drink. But Marnie remains resolutely silent.
I can’t stop turning last night’s encounter with Sam over and over in my mind. I know I didn’t imagine that moment between us at the door, and most of me is thankful that I didn’t give in to it. But there is a tiny part of me that wishes I had allowed myself the relief of sinking back into him, of being held by him, soothed by the comforting familiarity of his touch. I give myself a shake, forcing myself to remember how things really were between us, especially at the end. I did the right thing. I can’t put myself back two years.
Esther has called a couple of times today but I ignored it and she hasn’t left a message. I’ve also had a call from DI Reynolds. I didn’t answer that one either, but she left a voicemail asking me to ring her at my earliest convenience. If I don’t call her back soon she’s going to turn up here, armed with her questions and her indefatigable thoroughness. I know it’s inevitable that I will have to speak to her again, but I’m trying to put it off as long as I can.
I’m scrolling unseeing through my emails at the kitchen table when the doorbell rings. I consider for a few seconds simply not answering it, but when it rings again, I walk slowly down the hallway, feeling almost resigned to whatever waits on the other side.
‘Oh,’ says Esther, looking down at my attire. Despite my best intentions, I’m back in the stained tracksuit bottoms and sweatshirt. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, pulling the cord on the tracksuit bottoms tighter to stop them falling down. I’m relieved not to be facing Reynolds, but on the other hand I feel a vague unease. ‘What are you doing here? How did you even know where I live?’
‘Serena Cooke?’
Of course. My alter ego; the one who wanted to make a will.
‘I figured you’d given your real address. It’s too hard to think of a fake one on the spur of the moment.’
‘Right.’ We stand there for a moment, each unsure of the other’s next move. ‘Do you… want to come in?’
The kitchen is still a mess, but this time I can’t be bothered to apologise, let alone tidy up.
‘Tea?’ I ask, moving some old newspapers off one of the chairs.
‘Yes, please.’ Esther hangs her coat and bag neatly from the back of the chair before sitting down. There’s an awkward silence while we wait for the kettle to boil. Once we are both seated, mugs in hand, I wait for her to tell me why she’s here.
‘So I spoke to the police again,’ she begins. ‘Have you, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘So did they show you?’
‘Show me what?’ Oh God. I know what is coming.
‘The necklace. Maria’s necklace.’
My mind scrabbles around for the next lie, vacillating between telling her the police didn’t show me, or saying they did but I hadn’t realised it was Maria’s, but somewhere in between the two the elastic band inside me snaps and my face crumples into hot tears.
Esther puts out a hand and touches my arm gently. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Is it… the messages? Have you had any more?’
I get up from the table and take a piece of kitchen roll from the side to blow my nose.
‘Don’t be nice to me. Don’t feel sorry for me. It’s all my fault. Did you tell them… the police? That you thought it was Maria’s necklace?’
‘Yes,’ she says, her face puzzled. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘No. I didn’t want them to connect me and Sophie to what happened to Maria.’
‘But… surely they already knew you were all connected when you told them about the Facebook page?’
‘I didn’t tell them about that either.’ My face flushes with hot shame, my blood running thick with all the things Esther doesn’t know. ‘Did… did you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she says, bewildered.
So it’s over. Reynolds knows. Tim will be getting a call soon, no doubt, and it won’t be long before they come knocking on my door. With a heaving swell inside, I realise this is where it all starts to unravel.
‘Well, I assumed you’d already told them,’ she goes on. ‘And didn’t they find the messages from Maria anyway? On Sophie’s computer?’