‘What happened?’
I spin round. Keisha is standing in the doorway, a cellophaned bunch of daffodils in her hand.
‘Sorry, Mrs Jackson.’ Keisha half smiles. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought I’d pop in so I could …’ Her expression clouds as she looks at Charlotte. She shakes her head. ‘… It doesn’t matter.’
She slips into the room and sits opposite me.
‘I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,’ she fixes me with her dark eyes, ‘but what were you saying about Charlotte’s dad?’
I look away. ‘Nothing.’
‘Really?’ There’s an amused tone to her voice. ‘Because I could have sworn you were on about the porn.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The porn,’ she smiles as she says the word, ‘that Charlotte saw on her dad’s computer.’
‘What porn?’
Keisha shrugs. ‘Charlotte said her laptop crashed when she was messaging a friend so she used her dad’s instead. The porn just kind of popped up and—’
‘On Brian’s computer.’
‘Yeah.’ She tries to hide her smile with her hand.
‘Keisha.’
‘Yeah?’
I fight to suppress the nausea rising in my stomach. ‘Keisha, did Charlotte call you K-Dog?’
‘Everyone does.’
‘Charlotte texted you,’ I say slowly as the room tilts and I struggle to maintain eye contact with the young woman sitting opposite me. This can’t be real. This conversation can’t be happening. ‘She sent you a text saying her dad was a pervert?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Because she found porn on his laptop?’
‘Yeah, she really freaked out, totally over-reacted.’ She laughs and my blood turns to ice. ‘She said she wanted to leave home and everything. It was only a bit of porn, for Christ’s sake not—’
‘And she never confided in you that her dad was abusing her or being inappropriate, sexually speaking, with her in any way?’
‘God, no.’ She looks horrified. ‘Of course not. Charlotte adored her daddy. She was always going on about how he was going to save the world from global warming or something. She would have told me if he’d touched her.’
I stare at her, too stunned to respond. I’m relieved and horrified in equal measures. Relieved that there’s such an innocuous explanation behind Charlotte’s text and horrified at the accusations I leveled at my husband. An image of Brian’s hurt expression flashes before my eyes and I jolt back in my chair. What was I thinking? What have I done?
‘Mrs Jackson? Mrs Jackson, are you okay? Would you like me to call a nurse?’
Keisha is still talking to me but I can’t get my mouth to form words.
‘Water then?’ I hear the creak of a chair, the glug of water as it leaves the jug then a sploshing sound as it’s poured into a glass.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says as she presses it into my hand. ‘I shouldn’t have told you about the porn. You’re shocked. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘No.’ I take a sip of water. Swallow. ‘I’m glad you told me. Really. It’s cleared something up but …’ I search her dark eyes, ‘… you didn’t drop Charlotte’s phone through our letter box, did you?’
‘Charlotte’s mobile?’ She shakes her head. ‘No. Wasn’t me. I don’t even know where you live. Are you sure you’re okay, Mrs Jackson? I don’t mind going to get a nurse if you’re feeling a bit faint or something.’
‘No, thank you.’ I hand her the glass of water and force a smile. ‘I’m fine, honestly. I just realized I made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.’
I cry all the way home. I cry when I stand outside the hospital and dial Brian’s mobile. I cry when I get his voicemail and I cry when I try the office number and Mark tells me he’s in a meeting. And when I start the engine tears roll down my cheeks without stopping as I drive down Edward Street, past the Pavilion, up North Road, down Western Road and up to our house. I’m still sobbing as I unlock our front door. Then, on my doorstep, I spot a snow shaker showing Prague’s Charles Bridge and I stop crying.
And scream.
Sunday 17th December 1990
The last month or so with James has been hideous. We’ve had more ups and downs than a rollercoaster and I’ve seriously considered leaving him more than once. I’m starting to feel like he can’t bear feeling happy and that, whenever things are going well between us, he has to sabotage it by saying or doing something really hurtful.
For example, after we’d been to see Shakespeare in the Park (I actually squealed when he gave me the tickets, I’ve always wanted to go) we were walking through Regent’s Park, hand in hand, laughing about the size of Benvolio’s codpiece, when James saw me glance at a man who was jogging past us. I barely registered him but he shot me a smile and then he was gone.
‘Fucked him, have you?’ James said.
Just like that. Out of nowhere. I told him he was being ridiculous and then we got into an argument where James claimed that I was flirtatious – apparently I was making puppy dog eyes at the actor playing Mercutio when they took their final bow. I told him he was being stupid. He got really defensive then, said it was just like me to lord it over him that I had a university degree while he didn’t and if I was so up myself maybe we should just split up so I could go out with someone more educated. He was sick of saying sorry to me and that he felt like he was walking on eggshells around me, having to worry about what he said and maybe we should just split up. That was it, I burst into tears. I couldn’t believe we’d gone from laughing and holding hands to being on the verge of splitting up over nothing.