‘This is ridiculous! Of course he doesn’t. And how could you think I’d not put my kids first?’
‘Plenty of women struggle to keep a marriage together,’ Arthur chipped in. ‘They don’t try and save face by kicking up a fuss and claiming he disappeared when he’s walked out.’
‘That’s rich coming from you! Weren’t you the one who told everyone Doreen left to become a bloody missionary in Ethiopia? I don’t recall you mentioning anything about you booting her out.’
His face flamed red.
‘And if Simon had done that to me, then why hasn’t he been in touch with you?’ I continued. ‘If he left me, he left you too.’
‘Did he leave a note saying why he went?’ asked Shirley.
I let out a groan. ‘You’ve not listened to a word I’ve said, have you? Let me spell it out for you: Simon did not leave. He has gone missing. The police are treating him as a missing person. What more evidence do you need?’
Shirley rose to her feet. ‘I’m sorry I have to ask this, Catherine, but did you do something to him?’
That threw me. ‘Like what?’ I asked, genuinely confused.
‘Maybe you had an argument that got out of hand, you might have hurt him, then panicked, I’m not saying you meant to, but . . .’
‘What, then I got the kids to help me wrap his body up in an old carpet and buried him in the garden? You’ve been watching too much Murder She Wrote.’
‘We deserve to know the truth! He’s our son!’ she growled.
‘He’s not your son, Shirley,’ I snarled back. ‘But he is my husband and it’s me and my children who are suffering the most. And how are you helping? By accusing their mother of murder? What kind of monster do you think I am?’
Their silence spoke volumes.
‘If he’s not dead, then he’s abandoned you,’ Shirley responded matter-of-factly. ‘And frankly, I’m not surprised.’ Ever her faithful lapdog, Arthur nodded in agreement.
‘I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner,’ she continued. ‘I’ve always said you can never repair damaged goods.’
Despite the cruelty of her words, it still took a glimpse of a bewildered Robbie sitting on the bottom stair listening intently as his mother was torn to pieces before I snapped.
‘Just leave!’ I bellowed, lurching towards Shirley and grabbing her by the arm. ‘Get the hell out of my house.’
‘Just tell us where he is!’ Shirley yelled as I grabbed her shoulder and shoved her out the front door.
Arthur shuffled awkwardly behind us.
‘Get out now!’ I screamed, and physically pushed them onto the path then slammed the door, locking and chaining it behind me. I took a moment to gather myself before approaching my son with my broken heart still racing.
‘Doesn’t Daddy love us anymore?’ he asked, brushing away stray blond hairs stuck to his wet cheeks. ‘Is that why he ran away?’
I wanted to slap his grandparents for putting that idea into his head. Instead, I knelt down, placed his hands in mine and looked him straight in the eye.
‘I promise you, Robbie, no matter where your daddy is or what has happened to him, he hasn’t run away. He loves us with all his heart.’
He peered at me cautiously, stood up and climbed the stairs. ‘You’re a liar,’ he said quietly as he retreated to the safety of his bedroom. ‘You made Daddy run away.’
I could just about take what Arthur and Shirley had said. But hearing my little boy doubt his mother for the first time in his life was crushing. I should have gone after him and tried to explain Simon hadn’t been driven away by anybody. But Arthur and Shirley had sapped my strength.
Instead, I poured myself another glass of wine, sat in the kitchen with my head in my hands and fought the urge to break every dish in the sink.
25 June
I knew by the way the orange vase on the sideboard vibrated that a police car was pulling up outside our house. Their engines had an urgent, distinctive throb I’d grown used to and one which made the joints under the floorboards rattle. Then the panic would creep up my spine, terrified of what they were about to tell me.
It was usually just an update on the investigation or to ask me yet more questions I couldn’t answer. But the visits that scared me the most were when they brought me plastic bags containing pieces of stray clothing they’d found strewn somewhere. A handkerchief, a hat, a sock, a shoe . . . the list of items for me to identify went on and on.
Each time, I barely spoke as I sifted through them, but nothing ever belonged to Simon. The officers tried to hide their frustration at each dead end, as a positive result would be one step closer to solving the case. But he wasn’t just a case to me: he was my husband.
And gradually the catwalk of the orphaned clothes petered out along with their visits.
30 June
James was eight, Robbie was five and a half and Emily was approaching four, and they showed no more understanding of our new life than their equally confused mum.
They barely let me out of their sight in case I vanished too. From behind the kitchen curtains, I’d feel three pairs of eyes glued to me, even when I walked to the end of the path to put the rubbish out. I constantly reassured them I wasn’t going anywhere, but they didn’t believe me.
Daddies were supposed to stay, and once they learned that wasn’t necessarily the case, they became worried that mummies wouldn’t always stay either. I hated myself for thinking it, but part of me wished I could have told them Simon had gone to see Billy when they’d asked. They might have made sense of that more easily. But it was more important than ever that I pretended to be the constantly upbeat parent, no matter how I really felt.
Emily was aware something had made her world topsy-turvy, but it didn’t seem to trouble her much. In fact, she loved the extra cuddles she received from our friends as they came to the house. It was difficult for them not to melt at the sight of her huge baby-blue eyes and goofy smile, especially when she’d point to a photograph of Simon on the sideboard and sing: ‘Daddy’s gone. No Daddy.’ I’d nod my head sympathetically, then distract her with Flopsy or a Barbie doll.
Robbie took it the hardest. He and our dog Oscar spent more and more time together, feeding off each other’s confusion. I’d well up watching them as they sat together in the back garden, staring across the fields, waiting for Simon to reappear like he’d been part of a magic trick that had gone horribly wrong. Each night when I put them all to bed, I’d leave Robbie’s door ajar so Oscar could sneak inside to sleep at the foot of his bed.
James was the spitting image of his father, from the brown waves in his hair to the sparkle in his green eyes and his infectious laugh. One night, he scattered his collection of white and brown seashells he’d found on the beach in Benidorm across his bedroom floor. His friend Alex had told him that if he put one to his ear and listened carefully, he could hear the sound of the sea.