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‘Brian?’ The sense of déjà-vu falls away as the faintest scraping sound reaches my ears. ‘Brian, is that you?’
I frown, straining to make out anything other than the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of my heart, but the house has fallen silent again.
‘Brian?’
I jolt back to life, as though the switch in my brain has been flicked the other way, and I pull my hands out of his sweatshirt.
The hallway carpet is warm and plush under my feet as I inch forward, pausing every couple of seconds to listen, as I head towards the kitchen. The smell of bleach fills my nose and I realize one hand is covering my mouth, the scent of disinfectant still fresh on my fingers from cleaning the bathroom earlier. I pause again and try to slow my breathing. It is coming in small, sharp gasps, signalling a panic attack, but I am no longer afraid that my husband has come back to retrieve a forgotten briefcase or a lost house key. Instead I’m scared of—
‘Milly!’
I’m almost knocked off my feet as an enormous Golden Retriever bowls down the hallway and launches herself at me, front paws on my chest, wet tongue on my chin. Normally I’d chastise her for jumping up but I’m so relieved to see her I wrap my arms around her and rub the top of her big soft head. When her joyful licking gets too much I push her down.
‘How did you get out, naughty girl?’
Milly ‘smiles’ up at me, tendrils of drool dripping off her tongue. I’ve got a pretty good idea how she managed to escape.
Sure enough, when I reach the kitchen, the dog padding silently beside me, the door to the porch is open.
‘You’re supposed to stay in your bed until Mummy lets you out!’ I say, pointing at the pile of rugs and blankets where she sleeps at night. Milly’s ears prick up at the mention of the word ‘bed’ and her tail falls between her legs. ‘Did silly Daddy leave the door open on his way to work?’
I never thought I’d be the kind of woman who’d refer to herself and her husband as ‘Mummy and Daddy’ when speaking to a pet but Milly is as much a part of our family as Charlotte. She’s the sister we could never give her.
I shut Milly back in the porch, my heart twisting as she looks beseechingly at me with her big, brown eyes. It’s eight o’clock. We should be strolling through the park at the back of the house but I need to continue what I started. I need to get back to the cloakroom.
The contents of Brian’s pockets are where I left them – strewn around the base of the coat stand. I kneel down, wishing I’d grabbed a cushion from the living room as my knees click in protestation, and examine my spoils. There’s a handkerchief, white with an embroidered golfer in the corner, unused, folded neatly into a square (given to him by one of the children for Christmas), three paper tissues, used, a length of twine, the same type Brian uses to tie up the tomatoes in his allotment, a receipt from the local supermarket for £40 worth of petrol, a mint imperial, coated with fluff, a handful of loose change and a crumpled cinema ticket. My heart races as I touch it – then I read the title of the film and the date – and my pulse returns to normal. It’s for a comedy we went to see together. I hated it – found it rude, crude and slapstick – but Brian laughed like a drain.
And that’s it. Nothing strange. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing incriminating.
Just … Brian stuff.
I sweep his belongings into a pile with the side of my hand, then scoop them up and carefully distribute them amongst his pockets, making sure everything is returned to where I found it. Brian isn’t a fastidious man; he won’t know, or care, which pocket held the change and which the cinema ticket but I’m not taking any chances.
Maybe there is no evidence at all.
Charlotte didn’t squeeze my hand when I asked if her secret had anything to do with her father. She didn’t so much as twitch. I don’t know what I was thinking, imagining she might respond – or even asking the question in the first place. Actually I do. I was following up a hunch; a hunch that my husband was betraying me, again.
Six years ago Brian made a mistake – one that nearly destroyed not only our marriage, but his career too – he had an affair with a twenty-three-year-old Parliamentary intern. I raged, I shouted and I screamed. I stayed with my friend Jane for two nights. I would have stayed longer but I didn’t want Charlotte to suffer. It took a long time but eventually I forgave Brian. Why? Because the affair happened shortly after one of my ‘episodes’, because my family is more important to me than anything in the world and because, although Brian has many faults, he is a good man at heart.
A ‘good man at heart’ – it sounds like such a terribly twee reason to forgive someone their infidelity, doesn’t it? Perhaps it is. But it’s infinitely preferable to life with a bad man and, when Brian and I met, I knew all about that.
It was the summer of 1993 and we were both living in Athens. I was a TEFL teacher and he was a widower businessman chasing a big deal. The first time Brian said hello to me, in a tatty tavern on the banks of the river Kifissos, I ignored him. The second time I moved seats. The third time he refused to let me continue pretending he didn’t exist. He bought me a drink and delivered it to my table with a note that said ‘Hello from one Brit to another’ and then walked straight out of the pub without a backward glance. I couldn’t help but smile. After that he was quietly persistent, a ‘hello’ here, a ‘what are you reading?’ there and we gradually became friends. It took me a long time to lower my barriers but finally, almost one year to the day after we first met, I let myself love him.
It was a warm, balmy evening and we were strolling beside the river, watching the lights of the city flicker and glow on the water when Brian started telling me about Tessa, his late wife, and how devastated he was when she lost her battle with cancer. He told me how shocked he’d been – the disease had progressed so rapidly – and then how angry, how he’d waited until his son was staying with his granny and then he’d smashed up his own car with a cricket bat because he didn’t know how to deal with his rage. His eyes filled with tears when he told me how desperately he missed his son Oliver (he’d left him with his grandparents in the UK so he could fulfil a contract in Greece) but he made no attempt to blot them away. I touched his face, tracing my fingers over his skin, smudging his tears away and then I reached for his hand. I didn’t let go for three hours.
I push open the door to Brian’s study and approach his desk, instantly feeling that I have intruded too far. I wash my husband’s clothes, I iron them, some of them I buy, but his study represents his career – a part of his world that he keeps distinct from family life. Brian is a Member of Parliament. Saying it aloud makes me so proud but I wasn’t always that way. Seventeen years ago I was bemused when he’d rail against ‘Tory scum’, ‘class divides’ and ‘a failing NHS’ but Brian wasn’t content to sit on society’s sidelines and moan. When we returned to the UK from Greece, still flushed with happiness from our impromptu bare-footed wedding on a beach in Rhodes, he was resolute. We’d settle in Brighton and he’d start a new business – he had a hunch recycling would be big – and then, when it was established and making a profit, he’d run for Parliament. He didn’t have so much as an economics O-Level but I knew he’d do it. And he did.
I never stopped believing in him, I still do in many ways, but I am no longer in awe of him. I love Brian but I can also see only too well how vain and insecure his career choice has made him. Flattery goes a long way when you’re approaching your mid-forties, sixteen stone and balding – particularly when the person doing the flattering is young, ambitious and works for you. Brian has changed since Charlotte’s accident. We both have, but in different ways. Instead of our daughter’s condition bringing us together we’ve been forced apart and the distance between us is growing. If Brian’s having another affair I won’t forgive him again.
I take another step towards my husband’s desk and my fingers trail over the brushed silver frame of a black and white photograph. It’s of Charlotte and I on a beach in Mallorca, taken on the first day of our holiday. We’ve still got our travelling clothes on, our trouser legs rolled up so we can paddle in the sea. I’ve got one hand raised to my forehead, protecting my eyes from the sun whilst the other clutches our daughter’s tiny hand. She’s staring up at me, her chin tilted, eyes wide. The photo must be at least ten years old but I still feel a warm swell of love when I look at the expression on her face. It’s pure, unadulterated happiness.
A floorboard in the corridor squeaks and I snatch my fingers back from the photograph then sigh. When did I become so neurotic that every creak and groan of a two-hundred-year-old house sent me catatonic with fear?
I look back at the desk. It’s a heavy mahogany affair with three drawers on the left, three on the right and a long, thin drawer that sits in between. I reach for the brass handle of the centre drawer and slowly ease it open. Another floorboard squeaks but I ignore it, even though it sounds closer than the last. There’s something in the drawer, something handwritten, a card or letter maybe and I reach for it, being careful not to disturb the mounds of paperclips and rubber bands on either side as I attempt to slide—
‘Sue?’ says a man’s voice, directly behind me. ‘What are you doing?’
Sunday 4th September 1990 (#ulink_67770d7c-a54e-5e8f-8754-d388328f95b1)
James and I had sex.
It happened on Saturday night.
He called me in the afternoon and the first thing he said was ‘I’ve barely slept for thinking about you.’
I knew exactly how he felt. I hadn’t stopped thinking about him either. I’d woken up on Saturday morning with the most terrible feeling of dread that I’d never see him again. I was convinced I’d said something unforgiveable on Friday night and that, in the cold light of day, he’d realized that I wasn’t the woman for him after all.
So sure was I that, when James rang and said he couldn’t stop thinking about me, I was totally floored.
‘Absolutely,’ I said when he said he needed to see me ASAP. ‘If I jump in the shower now then hop on the tube I could be in Camden in—’
‘Actually I was thinking that we could meet for dinner this evening.’
What must he think of me – taking him literally like I had no life and no self-control? He didn’t laugh, thankfully, instead asked if I’d ever been to some fancy restaurant in St Pancras. I’d never heard of it and said as much, so James explained that it had come highly recommended by a friend.
Of course then I had another clothing dilemma (finally settling on my tried and tested little black dress) and was twenty minutes late as I walked in the restaurant at 8.20 p.m., trying not to ogle the stunning décor, the linen and crystal dressed tables and the immaculately turned out maître-d’ who was showing me to my table. James stood up as we drew near. He was dressed in a three-piece grey suit with a lilac cravat at his throat and elegant silver cufflinks at his wrists. I felt dowdy in my three-year-old dress and scuffed heels but, when James looked me up and down and his eyes widened in appreciation, I felt like the most attractive woman in the whole restaurant.
‘I can’t stop staring at you,’ he said after the maître-d’ seated me, handed us our menus and then left. ‘You always look beautiful but tonight you look,’ he shook his head as though dazed, ‘ridiculously sexy.’
I felt myself blush as his eyes flicked to my cleavage. ‘Thank you.’
‘Honestly Susan, I don’t think you have any idea of the effect you’re having on me, and every other man in the room.’
I thought that was a bit over the top but when my eyes flicked to the two men having a business meeting at the next table they nodded at me appreciatively.
‘So,’ James reached across the table for my hand as I drained my first glass of wine. ‘What do you like?’
I glanced at the menu. ‘The scallops sound nice.’
He shook his head and slipped his fingers between mine, sliding them back and forwards. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
I tried to swerve away from the question, to a more neutral conversation, but James topped up my wine glass and fixed me with that intense look of his.
‘I haven’t been able to get you out of my head all day,’ he said.
‘Me neither.’
‘I don’t think you understand.’ He tightened his grip on my hand and lowered his voice. ‘I only spent one evening with you but I haven’t been able to do anything because my mind and body have been craving you.’
I nodded, too shy to admit how many times I’d luxuriated in the fantasy of him lying naked beneath me.
‘It’s killing me,’ he continued, ‘sitting opposite you at the table, not able to touch you, not able to kiss you, not able to,’ his voice became gravelly, ‘fuck you.’
I didn’t look away. Instead I ran my hand over his, lightly tracing my fingers over the contours of his knuckles and whispered, ‘There are rooms upstairs.’
‘So there are.’ He smiled widely. ‘But now I know how much you want me, I’m going to make you wait.’
I squealed in protest but he shook his head, still grinning, and poured me another glass of wine.
‘Shall we order?’ he said. ‘The scallops look nice.’
The non-sexual mood didn’t last long and by the time our starters arrived, the air was blue. It wasn’t the sort of thing I’d normally talk about in a fancy restaurant but James kept slipping his fingers in and out of mine, I was circling his ankle with my stockinged foot and we were on our second bottle of wine and when he asked me if I’d ever had sex alfresco I was feeling bold so I admitted to sex in a tent, sex in a back garden after a party and a sandy attempt at oral sex on a beach. James listened to my stories, his eyes shining with excitement then urged me on, asking me if I’d ever indulged in S&M or role play, demanding I tell him what my favourite position was. I giggled as I told him that Nathan and I had messed around with silk scarves and handcuffs.
‘How about you?’ I asked after the waiter had placed our main courses in front of us. ‘What have you tried?’
‘Very little,’ James raised an eyebrow, ‘compared to you.’
He was smiling when he said it but there was a judgemental tone in his inflection that rankled me.
James noticed my change in mood immediately.
‘Oh Suzy.’ He grabbed my hand. ‘Suzy-Sue. Are you sulking? Darling, I was only playing. Look at me, please.’
I raised my eyelashes then laughed at the pouty expression on James’s face – an obvious imitation of my own.
‘I’ve been very naughty,’ he said, running his thumb over the back of my hand, ‘and I’ve done some terrible things but,’ his eyes glittered with promise, ‘not as terrible as the things I’m going to do to you.’
‘Is that a threat or a promise?’
He released my hand, cut into his steak and smiled. ‘Both.’
How we managed to check in, make it upstairs in the lift and operate the door mechanism to the room with our clothes still on, I have no idea because the second the door slammed behind us we tore at each other’s clothes, ripping off shirts, dresses, stockings and underwear. The sex was fast, furious, animalistic and over quickly, so desperate was our desire to fuck. We lay in each other’s arms, sweaty and panting for all of ten minutes before James rolled me onto my side, his erection pressed against my lower back, and fucked me again. At some point in the night we had sex in the bathroom. We were supposed to shower together to get clean but the lure of the water, the soap and two slippery bodies was too much. By the time we collapsed onto the bed again, the sun was peeping through the curtains.
‘I feel like I’m in a dream,’ James said, tracing his finger down my forehead, along my nose and resting in the dip of my cupid’s bow. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.’
‘I know.’ I stroked his arms, wrapping my hand around the contour of his bicep, cradling the muscle in my palm. ‘I can’t believe this is really happening.’
‘It is.’ He leaned towards me and kissed me tenderly, then parted my lips with his tongue and kissed me again, harder this time, his hand on my breast. Seconds later he was on top of me again. It must have been after six before we finally fell asleep.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_511e42df-8880-5cea-a28a-1f3b5ae2a00d)
‘What?’ I snatch my hands from the drawer and spin around to face my accuser. ‘I wasn’t doing anything. I was just looking for—’
‘Got you!’ The tall, auburn-haired man standing in the doorway points and laughs uproariously. ‘Brilliant! You should compete in the Olympics, Sue. I’ve never seen anyone jump so high!’
‘Oli! You frightened me half to death.’
My stepson laughs again, his freckled face lighting up with amusement. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist.’
I force a smile but behind my back my hands are shaking. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at university?’
‘I was. Am. Sort of.’ He adjusts the weight of the rucksack he’s wearing on one shoulder and smiles. ‘Field trip in Southampton. I thought I’d drop in and see Dad en route.’ He peers around the study. ‘I’ve missed him, haven’t I?’
‘By about twenty minutes. He’s in London today.’
‘Damn.’ He casts another look around, hoping perhaps that Brian will magically materialize, then looks back at me and frowns. ‘You okay, Sue? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m fine.’ I push the drawer closed and cross the study. ‘Honestly.’
Oli’s eyes dart over my face, trying to read my expression as I approach him. ‘How’s Charlotte?’
I sigh, deflating as the air leaves my body. I’ve been so pumped on adrenalin searching through Brian’s things that now I’ve stopped I feel drained.
‘She’s …’ I want to tell him the truth – that Charlotte is no different than she was yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that but he looks so worried I lie instead. His exams are coming up soon and he’s worked so hard. ‘… She’s looking a little better. There was more colour in her cheeks yesterday.’
‘Really?’ His expression brightens again. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘It’s … progress.’
‘And has she, you know, shown any signs that she might wake up?’
‘No, not yet.’ The secret’s the reason she’s still asleep, I know it is. Maybe once I know what it is I’ll understand why, and then I’ll be able to help her.
‘Something … something … music,’ I hear my stepson say.
‘Sorry? What was that, darling?’
Oli smiles the same indulgent smile I’ve seen a hundred times since Charlotte’s accident – it’s the one that says it’s okay for me to be away with the fairies, considering what’s happened. ‘Music. Have you tried playing Charlotte her favourite songs? It works in Hollywood films.’
‘Music.’ She adored Steps and S Club Seven and their ridiculously catchy tunes and simple dance routines when she was a toddler but that was years ago. ‘I haven’t bought her a CD for years. It’s all MP3s and downloads these days, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you know what she likes?’
‘No idea.’ He shrugs. ‘Lady Gaga maybe? Jessie J? Doesn’t everyone under the age of sixteen worship her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Or you could check her iPod to see what her highest rated or most frequently played songs are.’
‘You can do that?’ I make a mental note to find Charlotte’s iPod.
‘Or maybe ask one of her friends?’
‘Yes, yes I could,’ I say but the suggestion makes me frown. There’s been an outpouring of teenaged concern on Charlotte’s Facebook page – lots of ‘luv u m8’ and ‘gt wl sn
♥’ – but I haven’t heard so much as a peep from the two most important people in her life – her boyfriend Liam Hutchinson and her best friend Ella Porter. How could I have failed to notice?
Oli glances at his watch. ‘Shit. I didn’t realize the time. I’ve got to run. Next time I’m down I’ll pop in to see Charlotte.’ A shadow crosses his face. ‘Sorry I haven’t been there for her more. Life’s just been really—’
‘I know.’ I put a hand on his forearm. ‘You’ve got a lot on your plate. The best thing you can do right now is study hard and make us all proud.’
