‘And what about Daisy, and Catherine? I know you love them too. Don’t do this to them. Don’t let Daisy’s father be this person. Please, Sam, please…’ My voice gives way, no more than a rasp now, my throat burning.
I sit there in silence as the seconds pass. After a minute, maybe two, the shadow under the door disappears and again I hear footsteps, but I can’t work out which way they are going. Has Sam gone back to the kitchen or towards the front door? I daren’t open the door to see, daren’t move from my position on the floor, petrified that at any moment I will feel the slow press of the door against my back, and there will be nothing I can do. So instead I sit there motionless and shivering as hour after hour passes, leaning against the door, my back throbbing with pain, occasionally uncurling a leg to stretch away the stiffness. I once fell asleep on the floor in this room when Henry was a baby. At the time he’d never slept longer than two hours at a stretch, but that night he slept from midnight until 5am, at which time I jerked awake in a panic, frozen and stiff, to find that he had rolled onto his front for the first time ever. With his face turned away from me, all I could see was a bundle of blankets in the gloom and I was utterly convinced for a few seconds that he had stopped breathing, smothered to death while I lay beside him.
Tonight though, there will be no sleep. I keep my silent vigil until the grey morning light begins to seep under Henry’s train-patterned curtains and I see him stirring. We can’t hide in here for ever, so I stand up and go over to the bed, lie down next to him, feeling the warm, solid mass of him in my arms.
‘Is it breakfast time?’ he says sleepily, curling his arm around my neck.
‘Yes. Yes, it is. Jam toast?’ I ask, in as normal a voice as I can muster, every word like swallowing broken glass. ‘Shall we have it in your bed, as a special treat?’
He smiles widely and releases me, starting to arrange his cuddly toys in preparation for breakfast. I stand up and walk towards the door. I pause with my hand on the handle, wondering what awaits me on the other side, whether this is the moment where Henry’s life is changed for ever, irrevocably ruined. Very slowly I push the door open into the silence and peer to my left down the hall in the half-light. The kitchen door is slightly ajar. I look right, towards the front door, which is closed. The flat looks the same, yet it feels entirely different. It’s no longer safe, no longer my home. I don’t know what’s lurking around the corners, hiding in the shadows.
I walk down the corridor, hesitating just before I reach the sitting-room door. Taking a deep breath, I swing around through the doorway. It’s empty, exactly as I left it. I do the same with my bedroom, the pristine still-made bed irrefutable evidence that last night really happened. Next is the bathroom: also empty. From the doorway I can see my face in the bathroom cabinet mirror. My skin is sallow and there are dark shadows under my eyes, which are spidered with red. Something moves behind me and I spin round, my heart hammering, but there’s nothing there: just the flickering of the sunlight through the bathroom blind reflected on the wall behind me.
I tiptoe down the hall towards the kitchen. My breathing is laboured and I wonder what damage has been done as I try to inhale and exhale as quietly as I can. As I reach out to open the kitchen door a sudden noise makes me gasp and jump back, but seconds later I recognise it as the sound of the wisteria rattling against the French windows in a gust of wind. With a surge of bravery I thrust the door open. The wine bottle and two glasses sit abandoned on the table, and the chair I kicked still lies on its side on the floor. In the dawn light, the room is full of shadows, but Sam has gone.
I pick up the chair with shaking hands and pour the wine from the glasses down the sink. As I do so, I hear a noise coming from the hallway. Oh God, no. I dart out, every inch of me in fight mode, but it’s just Henry coming out of his room and heading for the bathroom. I breathe deeply, gathering myself; then while he’s in there, hurry to the front door and double lock it, putting the chain on for good measure.
Back in the kitchen, I fill the kettle, take bread from the breadbin and put it in the toaster; assemble butter and jam, plate and knife, all the while staring at my hands as if they belong to someone else.
When Henry’s toast is ready, I take it along with my phone and a cup of tea into his room. I climb into bed beside him, careful not to disturb the breakfasting bears.
‘Thank you, Mummy,’ Henry says with his customary graveness.
‘You’re welcome,’ I say, sipping my tea and pulling him close. I am thankful beyond measure that he has no idea what happened here last night, but his innocence, his blind faith in the happiness of his own life, and mine, breaks my heart this morning.
I tap away at my phone, stumbling over the keys, as he painstakingly tears his toast into small pieces, giving one to each bear. A few minutes later my phone buzzes, and even though I know Bridget won’t be messaging me any more, my stomach lurches in response.
Twenty minutes later, as I stand at the sink rinsing toast crumbs from tiny plastic plates, the doorbell rings. I advance slowly up the hall, wiping my hands on a tea towel.
‘Who is it?’ I say with difficulty, my voice hoarse.
‘It’s me,’ she calls.
I stumble to the door, fumbling with the chain, my fingers slipping on the locks. Finally I get it open and there is Polly, her hair wild and unbrushed, still in her pyjamas with her oversized Puffa coat over the top. She takes in the pallor of my skin, my bloodshot eyes, the faint marks on the sides of my neck.
‘Oh my God,’ she says, and takes me in her arms. My legs give way beneath me and I crumple into her, sobbing with relief, finally able to let go.
Chapter 41
2016
The frosted grass crunches under our feet as we walk through Dulwich Park in the winter sunshine. Henry holds tightly to my hand, as he has done ever since we heard the news. I’ve only told him that Daddy has had to go away for a bit, the words sticking in my throat, but he seems to sense there is more to it, and hasn’t asked me for any details. He’s been asking about his sister though, so I am trying to screw up the courage to arrange a meeting with Catherine. I suspect we’ve got a lot in common.