I pull on her collar and push her across back to her seat. ‘It’s okay. It’s just a cat. It’s just Jess from next door.’
I pull away, lurching into Western Road and a cacophony of car horns and then I’m away, onto King’s Road, speeding along the seafront, past the Marina and on towards Rottingdean. I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t care.
I hold it together until I pull into the car park of The Downs Hotel in Woodingdean then, as I turn off the engine, I convulse so violently I’m jolted back and forth in my seat. Milly whines in distress as my teeth start to chatter but there’s nothing I can do but stare fixedly out to sea and wait for it to stop. After five minutes, maybe ten, the convulsions fade to shakes, then shivers and then disappear. I slump backwards in my seat.
James knows where I live.
The postcard, the slippers – they could be explained away as silly mistakes – someone too distracted to put a name and message on the card and a typing mistake that meant the slippers arrived at our house not somewhere further down the road – but the snow shaker? That was no mistake. He wants me to know he’s found me. And if he’s been watching us he knows Brian’s moved out and I’m all alone.
My hands shake again as I rifle through my handbag for my mobile phone. My thumb flies over the screen as I unlock it, select the phone icon and then tap 9 … 9 …
I stop, my thumb hovering over the screen. If I call the police they’ll think I’m having another episode and ring my doctor. That’s what happened the last time. But I was wrong to call them then. I genuinely was ill. Why else would I have believed that James was living in the shed at the bottom of the garden and sending me coded messages via wet laundry and dead birds?
With two taps of my thumb the 9s disappear.
I select Brian’s number instead.
It rings then—
‘Hello.’ His tone is curt.
‘Brian, it’s me. Listen—’
‘No, you listen, Sue. I meant what I said yesterday. You either go and see the doctor or our marriage is over.’
‘But Brian something terrib—’
‘Are you going to see the doctor, Sue?’
‘No, but—’
‘Then I’ve got nothing further to say to you.’
The phone goes dead.
I dial my husband’s number again. This time it goes straight through to voicemail.
‘Brian, it’s Sue again.’ I pause to steady my breathing. ‘I know you’re angry but this is important. Really important and I need you to come home as soon as possible. When I got home from seeing Charlotte this morning I … no, wait … there’s something I need to say first. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for what I said last night. Keisha explained to me why Charlotte sent her that message and it was … well, I can’t begin to apologise for—’
To save this message press 1. To leave a new message press 2. To end the call press 3.
2 … 2 … 2 … I stab at the number. What just happened? Why couldn’t I leave a message?
‘Hello Brian, this is Sue again. I tried to leave you a message but I got cut off and I’m not sure you got it so I’ll try and keep this quick. I’m sorry about last night. I’m so sorry. What I said was horrible. It was worse than that. It was unforgiveable and I don’t blame you for walking out. I wasn’t thinking clearly because James has—’
To save this message press 1. To leave a new message press 2. To end the call pr—
I press the ‘end call’ button and the voice stops instantly. It’s no good. I’ll have to wait until Brian gets home. I stare at the phone. Who else can I call? Obviously not Mum. And I can’t ask Oliver to go back to the house with me because he’s back in Leicester and besides, I’d never risk his safety like that. I can’t risk anyone’s safety.
I rest my head on the steering wheel and close my eyes.
I don’t know how long I stay there, slumped over the steering wheel, but when Milly nudges my hand and whines I open my eyes and sit back in my seat.
‘It’s okay, girl.’ I stroke her woolly head. ‘I know what we need to do.’
Wednesday 20th December 1990
I knew it couldn’t last, the blissful bubble James and I had been living in since we returned from Prague. I knew he’d have to go and spoil it.
We’d been to Clapham to discuss the new play the company should do next and there was an argument between James and Steve about what they should do. The argument ended with James calling Steve ‘an arrogant little prick’ and storming out. We went back to mine and James wouldn’t speak to me. I lay wide awake in the dark, wondering if I’d done something wrong when James suddenly sat bolt upright in bed and looked at me.
‘How many men have slept here?’
‘Sorry?’
‘In this bed. How many?’
I sighed and rolled over. ‘I’m not having this conversation, James. We’re both tired. Let’s just go to sleep.’
‘How many?’
He was itching for a fight and there was no way I was going to let him have the satisfaction of me joining in. ‘None.’
‘Liar.’
‘Okay, one.’ I pulled the duvet up around me. ‘You.’
‘Bullshit.’ He gripped the edge of the duvet and ripped it away. ‘This mattress is probably soggy with other men’s spunk.’
I stared at him in shock. ‘That’s a vile thing to say.’
‘I’m not the vile one.’ He jumped out of bed and looked down at me, sneering. ‘And I’m never sleeping in this bed again.’
‘James!’ I pulled the duvet back over my breasts. ‘Stop being ridiculous. Come back to bed, for God’s sake.’
‘You stay in bed. I’m sleeping on the floor.’
‘James!’
I watched in astonishment as he marched up to my wardrobe, threw it open and pulled out an old camping blanket. He wrapped it around himself, grabbed a cushion from the armchair by the door and lay down on the floor with his back towards me.
‘James please.’ I inched towards the edge of the bed and reached out a hand. ‘This is ridiculous. You’ve slept in this bed loads of times and it’s never bothered you before.’