‘Signing my life away,’ I joke, and I sense Alison stiffen beside me.
Sean laughs and says, ‘Signing up for life, more like,’ and I look at Matthew, who seems so jolly tonight. I think, Everything might be all right – if we can overcome what I know now.
What lay behind the door.
My timer goes off, and we all go through to the dining room. The soup is very salty, and I apologise, but no one else seems to really notice. They chatter on about this and that: Matthew’s kids, their godchildren, holidays yachting and skiing. I mostly just listen. I’ve never been on a ski in my life.
Quiet little mouse. A safe bet.
I feel very thirsty as I clear away, and I wheel the hostess trolley in with the casserole and the new potatoes, feeling like the impostor someone said I was, didn’t they? But I feel quite woozy.
At some point during the main course, I start to feel really very odd, as if my head is too heavy for my neck and my eyelids are weighted down.
I stop eating and just watch the others, almost falling asleep, and then I hear Alison mention Kaye, and I say loudly, ‘Oh, Kaye, the amazing Kaye of the unmoving face – she’s wonderful, isn’t she?’
‘Jeanie, really.’ Matthew frowns. ‘Not now.’
They all look at me, and their faces are blurry and going in and out of focus, like the circus hall of mirrors. I start to laugh, and then I can’t stop, and then I think, Oh, God, I’m going to be sick.
‘Are you all right?’ Alison asks, and I wonder why she’s frowning.
And then I pass out.
Forty-Five
Jeanie
7 April 2015
8 a.m.
* * *
I wake in the bedroom alone with the worst headache I think I’ve ever had.
I can barely remember last night, but I know without doubt I have disgraced myself.
Matthew didn’t come to bed last night. I think he said I needed space – but I also think, really, it’s space of a different kind he means.
I lie here, sick and mortified – and, frankly, scared. I don’t understand what the hell’s happening.
* * *
8.45 a.m.
* * *
‘What the fuck did you take?’ Matthew asks before he leaves for work, his jaw almost rigid. ‘More of that Xanax crap? You were talking complete gibberish you know. It was so bloody embarrassing – and I really needed it to go well.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I feel utterly wretched in every way. ‘I swear I didn’t take anything.’ But why do I feel this awful? ‘Honestly. It might just be the same bug Kaye and Scarlett have.’
‘Maybe,’ he says grimly. ‘Whatever it was, we need to talk properly at the weekend.’
He leaves without a backwards glance.
He’s right though. We absolutely do need to talk. There are a few things I need to say to him too.
* * *
10 a.m.
* * *
When I stop feeling quite so terrible, I haul myself out of bed to see if Frankie’s here, but he’s off visiting Jenna. Luke’s gone to school; at least I don’t have to face his embarrassment too. I vaguely remember his worried face last night at the foot of the stairs as I was carried up to bed.
My head pounds.
So.
I go back to the room that I looked in yesterday, which is now not locked any more – although Matthew doesn’t know that.
It is like a shrine.
Cupboards of clothes. A flouncy white dressing table of perfume and make-up. Antique prints of old nursery rhymes on the walls: ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’, ‘Mary, Mary Quite Contrary’, ‘Little Bo Peep’. One’s missing, a lighter square on the wall where it must have hung.
‘Sing a Song of Sixpence’ – the queen is in the parlour, eating bread and honey.
Matthew’s Queenie.
Why did Matthew not just say he couldn’t bear to get rid of Kaye’s stuff? That that’s why the mirror still hangs out there on the stairs too? That hideous mirror that reflects how I don’t fit in every time I pass it.
He couldn’t bear to move on, so he must have left it all there. Complete. And yet broken. Incomplete.
I stagger downstairs to get some water. The post is on the mat; I scoop it up as I pass.
A postcard to Frankie from his mate Saul, who’s travelling round Thailand. A few more bills for Matthew.
And another letter to Lisa, from HMRC – only this time there’s a full name on the front of the envelope.
Lisa Daisy Bedford.
In my bedroom, I ring Matthew. When he doesn’t answer, I leave a message.
‘Who is Lisa Daisy Bedford?’ I ask urgently. ‘And why didn’t you tell me what was in the spare room? Why have you still got all Kaye’s stuff?’
He texts me later.
I won’t be back tonight. I’m meeting Sean in town. I’ll stay there. We need to talk properly when I’m back tomorrow. I got another email. PS Stay out of that room please.
He doesn’t answer either question.
All right.