Tiffany had answered with a shrug. The faceless middle-aged wives had never been her responsibility. She wished them no ill. She owed them no duty of care. They probably didn’t have great bodies, but they had great credit cards.
Her deal with Andrew was the only secret she’d ever kept from Vid. She wasn’t ashamed, and in all honesty she wasn’t even sure it was necessary, but every time over the years when she’d gone to open her mouth and share her story her instincts had screamed: Shut the hell up. Even her free-spirited Vid had his boundaries, and she didn’t want to find out what they were by crossing them.
So, no, she’d never felt shame about what had happened with Andrew, except for right now, as she stood in the rain holding an environmentally friendly bag heavy with free expensive school uniforms, watching his tired, disappointed, chunky-around-the-middle wife head back through the rain to her black four-wheel drive Porsche, because maybe the timing of this unexpected move to Dubai was a wonderful coincidence, but then again, maybe it wasn’t.
chapter seventy-one
It was because of the rain.
If only the rain had stopped, then Erika wouldn’t be standing here right now on a Saturday morning in her living room with the sound of her heart thumping in her ears, feeling like she’d been arrested, except the policeman was her own husband.
Oliver didn’t really look like a policeman. He looked sad and confused. She wondered if that was the same expression he’d got on his face as a child when he found the bottles of vodka and gin his parents had hidden around the house, before he stopped believing their excited promises about giving up. (They still made extravagant promises. ‘We’re doing Dry July!’ ‘We’re doing Sober November!’)
It had happened when she was out renewing her licence. She’d been in a good mood when she came home. She liked starting her weekend by ticking off those kind of day-to-day administrative tasks her mother had so often left undone: bills left unpaid, disconnection notices ignored, unsigned permission slips immediately lost in the maelstrom.
But then Oliver met her at the door. ‘We’ve got a leak,’ he said. ‘A roof leak. In the storeroom.’
They had a small storeroom where they kept their suitcases and camping gear and skis.
‘Well, that’s not the end of the world, is it?’ she asked, but her heart started to beat double-time. She had an inkling.
Oliver being Oliver, he’d got right onto it and had begun moving things into the hallway, and he’d come upon this old locked suitcase under a blanket. The suitcase was full, and he couldn’t think what would be in there. It only took him a second to find the only unmarked key in the drawer where they kept the keys.
See. If she really was her mother’s daughter, he would never have found the key.
‘So I opened it,’ he said, and then he took her gently by the hand and led her into the dining room where he’d laid out the entire contents of the suitcase in orderly rows, as if he were an investigator laying out evidence from a crime scene. Exhibit one. Exhibit two.
‘It’s just a silly habit,’ she said defensively, and to her horror she felt an expression like her mother’s creep across her face: a furtive, sneaky look. ‘It’s not hoarding if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘At first it just seemed like random stuff,’ said Oliver. ‘But then I recognised Ruby’s sneaker.’ He lifted up the runner and banged it against the palm of his hand so that the coloured lights flashed. ‘And I remembered how Clementine and Sam said they’d lost one of her flashing shoes. It’s Ruby’s shoe, isn’t it?’
Erika nodded, unable to speak.
‘And this bracelet.’ He held up the chain. ‘It’s Clementine’s, right? It’s the one you bought for her in Greece.’
‘Yes,’ said Erika. She felt a hot, itchy flush creep up her neck as if she were having an allergic reaction. ‘She didn’t like it. I could tell she didn’t like it.’
‘Everything here belongs to Clementine, doesn’t it?’ He picked up a pair of scissors. They were Clementine’s grandmother’s pearl-handled scissors. Erika couldn’t even remember the day she’d taken them.
She pressed her finger to Holly’s long-sleeved T-shirt with the strawberry on the front. Next to it was a tote bag with a picture of a treble clef: Clementine’s first boyfriend, the French horn player, had given it to her for her twentieth birthday.
‘Why?’ said Oliver. ‘Can you tell me why?’
‘It’s just a habit,’ said Erika. She had no words to explain why. ‘A sort of … um, compulsion. There’s nothing of actual value there.’
Compulsion: one of those solid, respectable, psychological-sounding words to nicely wrap the truth: she was as mad as a hatter, as crazy as a bedbug.
Oh, she’d slept with enough crazy bedbugs in her time!
She scratched the side of her neck.
‘Don’t make me throw it away,’ she said suddenly.