‘I suspect I’ll pay at some point in some way, but thanks for the offer anyway.’
*
Phoebe thinks hiding under her covers will save her. That I will see she has tried to shut out the world by curling up under her seaside-scene duvet and will respect the gesture; I’ll leave her alone.
She’s ignored my knock on the door, as I expected she would, and so I entered anyway. At the windows, on five individual threads hang the leftover crystal butterflies she strung together for the kitchen. They catch the light as they gently twirl, throwing small, glancing patches of colour on the walls and making the whole room look as if it is dancing. I don’t often come in here. I’ve tried to respect her privacy, trusted her not to have crusty, moulding plates and cups, to sort out her own laundry, to keep things tidy for herself not because I want her to. I do often sit outside her room, waiting for her to fall asleep and whispering ‘I love you’ into the wooden door, hoping it’ll transfer into the air inside the room and will diffuse into her mind as she sleeps.
I never had any privacy, I was never allowed any secrets, nothing I did went without scrutiny and I never wanted that for Phoebe. I wanted more openness, a closeness between us that I never had with my mother.
‘You can cut that out, too,’ I say to Phoebe as I sit on her office chair and swivel it towards the bed. ‘There’s no hiding from this right now, Phoebe, so I’d appreciate it if you would sit up and talk to me.’
The drive home had heated up my blood until it was boiling over when I stormed through the door. I kept seeing Joel’s face, so still and peaceful, threaded with the agony of his last moments too; I kept experiencing the moment when I lost feeling in my fingers and that bowl of blackberries fell from my hands; I kept remembering seeing reporters outside the coroner’s court, waiting for me as I went to the first day of the inquest and I had to tell the taxi driver to drive on because I couldn’t cope (I knew Fynn and Joel’s parents would be waiting for me but I couldn’t do it). I kept thinking what a mug I’d been to give her so much space, when time was ticking away and the threat from my stalker, Joel’s killer, seemed to be intensifying. I haven’t heard from her in two days. It scares me, unnerves me that she is out there, and I can’t go to the police because I’m trying to spare Phoebe. And Phoebe has been making decisions without bothering to tell me.
‘Phoebe,’ I threaten. Slowly her hands move under the cover to the top edge and she pulls the duvet down so I can see the chestnut-brown glow of her fourteen-year-old skin, the beautiful apples of her cheeks, the mini-me version of her small button nose, the set of her dark brown lips, the perfectly straight lines of her hair gathered into two pigtails.
‘So, you told Damien you were pregnant?’ I ask.
Her eyes, which had been defiantly glaring up at the glowing star-covered ceiling, widen in alarm.
‘Is he the father?’ I ask.
‘No!’ she says with disgust. ‘You know Curtis is.’ Lie. But I don’t call her on it.
‘Who else have you told?’
‘No one.’ Lie.
‘So why did you tell him?’
‘He asked because you’d already told Imogen.’ Lie.
‘I didn’t tell Imogen. I wanted to because God knows I need someone to talk to when my head is so wrecked, but I didn’t.’
‘You told Uncle Fynn, though.’ Deflection.
‘Yes, yes I did. I was in shock and I told him.’
‘See?’ she says.
‘See what? See that my daughter won’t talk to me? That when she does talk to me she lies to me? That I’m once again terrified of what’s going to happen next? Yes, I do see all that.’
She bunches her lips together and narrows her eyes as though trying to read something written about her on the ceiling above.
‘Why did you tell Damien you were pregnant?’
‘Because … I wanted to know what it felt like to say it out loud again. It doesn’t seem real sometimes and I wanted to know what it sounded like.’ Truth. At last some truth.
‘Have you decided at all what you think you might want to do? Because it sounded from what Damien told his mother that you’d decided to go ahead with the pregnancy.’
‘I never said that! I told him I was pregnant. And he said, “Oh, wow, I bet your mum’s really pissed” and that was it.’ More truth.
‘What can I do to help?’ I ask her. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you come to a decision?’
‘No!’ she snarls. Contempt. Because I’ve stopped shouting at her, because I’ve stopped being scary and unapproachable, she’s back to contempt.
‘Fine. OK,’ I say. It hurts at my core that she thinks of me like this, that I’m not good enough for her to want to talk to any more. That she can sit in the kitchen and tell her great aunt something but not me. I will not cry in here with her about this. ‘Well, you know where I am if you want to talk.’
She snorts her derision.
‘But Phoebe, we’re going to have to go back to the doctor’s soon. I know it freaks you out, but you need to decide if you’re going to start on the folic acid and we’ll need an early scan to check everything’s OK, or if you’re going to have to make another type of appointment. Whichever choice you make, just remember I’ll support it a hundred per cent.’
Her eyes angle themselves to the left of the ceiling as she attempts to block out the annoying sound that is her mother.
‘Here’s your phone,’ I say as I stand, and leave it on her desk. ‘Oh, and by the way, I’m going down to call Mr Bromsgrove to let him know you’re going back to school tomorrow. You and Zane are both going back tomorrow.’
‘But—’ she says.
‘You’re going to school tomorrow and we’re going back to me taking you for breakfast club and picking you up after homework club.’
‘But—’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing. Fine.’
*
Lewis is silent for a while when I tell him that Phoebe is coming back to school in the morning. Then says: ‘If you think it’s best.’
‘I think it’s best she doesn’t sit around doing nothing,’ I reply.
‘Has she decided what she—?’
‘Not that she’s telling me. She also says she hasn’t told anyone else about it. What about Curtis, has he?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘I’m not fooling myself that it’s going to stay a secret for much longer, especially if she starts having symptoms soon, but I think it’s best to be keeping up with school as much as possible.’ I sound like a proper parent, there. Firm and decisive, not scared and confused.
‘I agree,’ he says. ‘Erm, hang on.’ I sense movement and I realise Lewis is moving, probably taking his phone elsewhere to get some privacy.
I walk the distance to the small shelf in the corridor, and hook the phone between my chin and shoulder so that I can leaf through the most recent post to have been delivered. Another unstamped cream envelope sits among the bills and fliers and circulars that have been pushed through our door. Another connection from the woman that ruined my life.
‘Hi, sorry about that,’ Lewis says, giving me a start. I hadn’t realised how hard I’d been concentrating on the expensive envelope in my hands. I release my phone from its position on my shoulder, hold it to my ear in one hand, the letter in the other.
‘Hi,’ I reply.
‘I … erm … Can I see you?’ he says. ‘Just you.’
My response is to exhale at length.
‘I don’t do this very often, Saffron. It’s unfortunate the circumstances we’ve met under, but I’d still like to see you.’
I should say no. Instead I say, ‘How did your wife die?’
If someone had said that to me after I’d asked them out, I would hang up. Honestly, it’s such an unnecessary intrusion. There’s no reason for me to ask that except to maybe prod him where his question has prodded me, to get him to consider it’s not as simple as saying yes or no.
; Lewis is silent for several minutes, they tick by loudly as I wait for a reply or for Zane and Aunty Betty to return from the shop with our fish and chips dinner.
‘I should go,’ I say. He doesn’t want to answer and he shouldn’t have to.
‘No, no, don’t go. She died of cirrhosis of the liver. Alcohol related. Very difficult all round.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Is it guilt that’s stopping you from saying yes?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I mean guilt about how he died? Do you feel responsible?’
It’s obvious I’ll feel guilty about the possibility of dating someone after Joel, but less obvious that I will feel guilty about how he died, too. And I do. It’s a type of guilt that stirs the constant vat of sickness at the bottom of my stomach; the mixture of bile and desolation that never goes away, no matter how many times I throw up. I don’t say that to anyone because they will tell me it’s not my fault, that I shouldn’t blame myself, that it was his killer who was responsible, not me. They’ll say all those things and they’ll have no idea what they’re talking about.
‘Do you?’ I reply.
‘Yes. I wish she’d loved me enough to give up drinking before it got to that point. I wish I’d managed to make her see what she was doing to Curtis when she was still drinking when she was ill. I wish that I’d been strong enough to take Curtis and leave so he didn’t have to be exposed to the end of her life being like that. I feel very guilty.’
‘OK, yes. We can meet up at some point, soon.’
‘Is tonight too soon?’
‘Yes,’ I laugh, ‘that’s far too soon.’
‘Well, let’s not leave it too long, OK?’
‘OK. Bye, Lewis.’
‘Bye.’
I slide my finger under the flap of the envelope, bracing myself for what it’s going to say. Her missives don’t frighten me, they are better than trying to break into the house or costing me nearly two thousand pounds in new tyres and call-out expenses, and nonsensical explanations to my family.
All there is in the envelope is a photograph.
That Day
My fingers are numb, my body is numb, my entire being is suddenly without air. There are a dozen little splattering thuds of blackberries falling onto the ground, there’s a crash of a white ceramic bowl hitting a white ceramic tile.
The photo lies on the maple-coloured floorboards of our hallway. It’s been taken by a mobile phone so the quality isn’t brilliant: the image is fuzzy, slightly blurred, but it’s clear enough to show me what I need to see.
Phoebe and Joel, standing talking in the outside car park at the very top of Churchill Square shopping centre on the day he died.
XXXIV
That Day
‘I’ll see you later, Babes, I’d better get going. If I drop the car off early enough I should be able to get it back early.’
‘OK,’ I called from the bedroom. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what this extra special pressie you’re going to buy me is?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
The front door clicked shut and, wearing my dressing gown, I threw myself onto the bed. Joel had done the school run for a change and I could avoid getting dressed until the mood took me. For the first time in ages we both had the day off, so I could do as I pleased. What I pleased was to do nothing.
Seconds later, the front door opened and shut again, and I heard Joel take the stairs two at a time, not bothering to kick off his shoes.
‘What did you forget this time?’ I said, a laugh at his forgetfulness at the back of my throat.
‘To kiss you goodbye.’ He pressed his cold lips against my neck and sent that familiar, delicious shudder through me. ‘See you later, Babes.’
‘See you later.’
*
Phoebe and Joel stand close together, only visible from the waist up. He has his hands up, his fingers spread apart as he talks to her. Probably telling her off, reminding her that she’d promised not to do that again after the last time, but unable to do so without the look of absolute adulation he had for both his children on his face. They drove him mad but he couldn’t do proper angry when it came to them. He’d try, but it’d end with him wanting to make it all better, smooth things over because he’d know whoever it was didn’t mean it. He was rubbish at discipline so had to leave it to me.
Phoebe is in her grey school uniform, she has bunches that I put in that day because at that time I still did her hair for her: she sat on the floor between my legs while I manipulated her beautiful locks into hairbands or plaits or twists. In the picture she’s doing big ‘sorry’ eyes at Joel, knowing he’ll be OK with her, he’ll sort it out with the school, will write a note saying he forgot he had to take her out for an appointment; knowing he’ll tell me and stop me from screaming at her.
I drop to my knees, pick up the photo. Joel. This is how he was that last day. He was meant to come back to me. He had errands to run, his car to pick up, a present he wanted to buy for me. He was meant to come back and we’d cuddle up in the living room and watch something on television while talking. Or maybe do bubbles in the garden without that disapproving gaze of our children. He was meant to come back to me.
‘See you later, Babes.’
‘See you later.’
I saw him later: still, immobile, forever gone from me. But he couldn’t see me. And he’d never see me again.
This murderer has a photograph of him from that day.
The letters, the break-in attempt, the tyres … all of them pale into insignificance against this. She has something of him that I’ll never have and she is using it to needle me.
If I saw this woman right now, I think I could probably kill her.
XXXV
I’m searching for the perfect punnet of blueberries.
I spent a lot of time in bed last night going through my notebook and writing things down, making notes of recipe ideas, foods I could combine, to find that perfect blend.
My scrawlings – manic and wild, many, many crossed-out words, many underlined, lots of bad doodles – were my way of suppressing the photo in my head. I had to stop myself from seeing that picture. I’d hidden it less than two feet away from me, but it still felt as if it was in my hand. I could still see the captured lines of my husband’s face in his final few hours. I was still experiencing Phoebe’s mollified smile, a smile I haven’t seen since before that day. Every time the image became clearer in my head, the faster, harder, I would write.
What I came up with was something with blueberries. They’re about to come into season, so the ones on sale will be imported meaning they’re either firm and tangy or soft and oozing with subtle sweetness – either way, the right ingredients can wash it away or enhance it. That something else will be soft apricots.
I was convinced by the time I fell asleep, anxious because I’d managed to resist silencing what was macerating me inside in the usual, familiar way, that this flavour combination would be it. It would be the flavour that I could put in my mouth and would remind me of what life tasted like before I lost Joel.
After dropping Phoebe at school – with firm instructions that if she wants to keep her phone, computer and ability to live in our house not under lock and key she’s to wait for me to pick her up tonight – I’ve done a bit of a haphazard shop. I went for the jars first – small, squat jars each with a bright orange rubber airtight ring and wire-hinged lid – that I will have to sterilise either on the stove or in the dishwasher. Then I had to hunt around to find some fair-trade vanilla pods, and then I went for sugar. I’m going to make blueberry and apricot jam without pectin so it was a toss-up between sugar and honey but the sugar won. I picked up butter on the way back to the fruit and veg aisles (virtually at the entrance to the store, where I probably should have started), searching for the blueberries. I’ve got lemons, and the apricots, which are soft and furry-skinned but not enough to set my teeth on edge like peaches do. I’ve seen some blueberries
but they’re not organic. The ones I need for my jam have to be organic. They just have to be.
‘I thought it was you!’ Imogen says behind me. ‘I kept looking over and thinking it must be you! But then it couldn’t because you should be at work! But it is! It is you!’
Imogen often speaks in exclamation marks. In short, should-bescreamed sentences. It’s actually quite irritating. Or is it that since the announcement of Phoebe’s pregnancy, I’ve stopped being the numb woman who dropped the blackberries and I can feel again? The mute button has been lifted and I am experiencing life again. And life is painful. Since the photo last night, when I’ve had to make a gargantuan effort to be normal for the children, the world also seems to be loud and full of exclaiming people like the woman behind me.
‘Imogen! Hi!’ I say as I revolve to face her. I am doing it too, I am sending shards of pain into my ears, scraping agony across my skin.
‘So! What are you doing here during the day?’
‘Working from home, apparently!’ I continue in my masochistic falsetto and hold aloft my wire basket. (Frankly, Kevin can swivel. I almost told him that, but instead said I’d get more done at home and if he wanted this urgent report – that his assistant director of operations should have done but didn’t because it was beyond his capabilities – it was best I wasn’t in the office.) ‘Cooking from home would be more accurate, though! I need to do something calming before I knuckle down to work!’
Imogen nods sagely. ‘I know what you mean! I’d imagine the hormone levels in your house are pretty high at the moment!’
Did I always have so much Imogen in my life? I wonder idly. She was at my house, then dinner, then the phone call, then showing up at my work and now this. I’ve had contact with her at least five times these past seven days. In the last eighteen months it hasn’t been a problem, she’s been such a help, but at what price? Since Saturday, I’ve been asking myself if I actually like her that much.
‘I can’t believe you’re going to be a grandmother!’ she says suddenly, excitement infused in every word.