‘You need to know that Laura’s a very popular member of the team and a big fundraiser for us,’ Janine said. ‘If it wasn’t for her, we’d be struggling to stay open.’
I felt deflated. She didn’t care. I shook my head, grabbed the recording device and stood up to leave. ‘So you’re willing to overlook what she’s done because she brings in money? I knew this would be a waste of time.’
‘Ryan, wait,’ Janine replied and rose to her feet. She looked up towards the security cameras again, lowered her voice and then spoke quietly into my ear.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LAURA
I picked up a photograph of him on his wedding day. It was positioned so that he could see it from whatever angle he lay at.
He was a much better-looking groom than his wife was a bride. Judging by the age of the wedding car parked behind them and the style of dress she and her bridesmaids wore, the black-and-white picture in the rose gold frame was probably close to six decades old. It had faded a little, but the love between them as they held each other’s gaze for an eternity was still crystal clear. Now as Ryan’s grandfather lay asleep in the bed behind me, he bore little resemblance to the stocky, grinning man that the camera had captured so long ago.
A day earlier, I’d sifted through dozens of photographs of faculty members on Effie’s school website until I found a picture of Ryan. He’d taken photos of my son and me in the lounge area of Henry’s home without me even noticing, but how had he gained entrance? I showed Ryan’s image on my phone to two of the brainless receptionists, and one immediately recognised him.
‘That’s Peter Spencer’s grandson, isn’t it?’ she began. ‘I think he’s called Robert or Ryan or Richard or something.’
Neither enquired as to why I wanted to know, and after thanking them, I headed towards Henry’s wing, then took a diversion towards the geriatric care unit, walking along sticky, lino-clad flooring and through bleach-scented air until I reached another reception desk. I claimed to a nurse with a foreign accent that Mr Spencer was my uncle. She didn’t ask me for identification and pointed me towards Room 23. I made a mental note to complain to the management about the lackadaisical security later.
Moments later, I loomed over a vulnerable old man, too poorly and weak to protect himself. All it might take was a firmly held pillow over his face to free him of the prison his body held him in. He might not be suicidal but I’d be giving him just as much mercy as I did my candidates.
I glanced around his sparsely decorated room and flicked through the clothes hanging in his wardrobe, stopping at his one solitary suit. I assumed it would only be worn again when they lowered him into the ground. Photos on the shelves were of what I guessed were his children and grandkids. Then I spotted one of Ryan on his wedding day, and Charlotte by his side in an off-the-shoulder, white lace dress. It was already a dated look. I picked it up to get my first proper look at her. She was more attractive than her voice had suggested; she was slimmer and taller than me. Even if she hadn’t stepped from a clifftop, their marriage wouldn’t have survived. She was too far out of his league to have stayed for long.
If Ryan had been allowed a peek into his future, I wondered if he’d still have married her, knowing what she’d do to him. I know I’d have still married Tony, despite everything that followed.
Our wedding had been a small affair, at a church in the village of Weedon, near to where he’d grown up. We were young, both only in our early twenties at the time, but I’d never been more sure of anything in my life.
The purpose of a wedding isn’t just to commit to each other, it’s also to bring two families together. Only I wasn’t able to deliver my side of the bargain. Tony’s ushers had to direct guests towards both sides of the aisle, so it wouldn’t look weighted in favour of the groom. His mother tried to fill my mum’s shoes by helping me to get ready in the morning. And when I held his father’s arm as he walked me up the aisle, it brought home to me just how alone I was.
All day, when I should have been grinning from ear to ear, I just wanted it to end. It was a constant reminder I had nobody but my new husband. At the reception, when distant members of his family asked where my mother and father were, I’d have to keep telling them my parents were dead. I’d been forced to explain the same thing to everyone, from the wedding-dress shop owner to the florist, the driver of my car, and the restaurant manager arranging the top-table seating plan.
I had no relative to run my plans past, and my bridesmaids were girls I worked with who I barely knew but who were too embarrassed to decline when I asked them. Everything about my wedding was a compromise.
The best I could do to feel my parents’ presence was to wear my mum’s engagement ring and offer Tony my dad’s watch. I was close to tears when he accepted. I didn’t tell him I’d actually bought them at an antiques shop in the nearby village of Olney. I wanted a sense of nostalgia, even if it was someone else’s nostalgia, not mine.
A silver watch lay unclasped and stretched out across Ryan’s grandfather’s bedside table. The inscription on the back read: To our son on his wedding day.
How sweet, I thought. Back then I’m sure it had cost his parents a small fortune. I slipped it into my pocket, along with the batteries from his TV remote control.
I left the room, then paused. I turned around and went back inside, closing the door quietly behind me.
I listened carefully to the old man’s lungs as they struggled to take in air. His breath was wheezy and crackly, too weak for asthma and more likely to be emphysema. The poor bastard really was going to be better off dead.
The call came out of the blue, but it couldn’t have been more welcome. I stubbed out my cigarette on the footpath when a number I recognised flashed across my phone.
‘Oh, my darling!’ I began, and closed my eyes, thrilled and relieved to hear from Effie. It had been a week since I’d surprised her at their new house. I’d since texted the number I’d memorised from the display on Tony’s dashboard and given her mine, hoping she’d want to open the lines of communication between us, which might, in turn, encourage Tony to do the same.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m okay,’ she replied hesitantly.
‘Are you sure about that? You don’t sound it.’
‘Could we . . . would you . . . like to meet up?’