by C J Morrow
‘Okay?’
‘No keys,’ I say.
‘I have your keys. Your mum gave them to me.’
‘How did… where did she get them from?’
‘Your handbag.’
‘My handbag.’ I knew Mum must have had keys, she’d collected clothes for me. I just didn’t realise she had my handbag, the one I had on that day. I shiver – someone has just walked over my grave.
Inside there’s post on the doormat, Stephen picks it up and adds it to the growing pile on the hall table. Robin wouldn’t like that, he never let the post hang around; it was always dealt with efficiently. Now it will be my responsibility.
I pick up the letters and flick through them, I’m not really seeing the detail. I’m looking for the one forwarded from work, I’m looking for the one with Mads’s handwriting on it. For your eyes only. It’s not here; I drop the post back on the table.
Stephen takes my hand and steps towards the sitting room. I freeze. I don’t want to go any further. I don’t want to stay. I want to leave, go back to Mum’s, go back to Sally’s, back to Stephen’s bedroom. I want to go home.
This is my home.
‘We can do this another day.’ Stephen steps back towards the front door.
I think of the funeral in eight days’ time, I think of Robin’s mother in Brazil. No one has told her that her son is dead.
‘No. We must find Robin’s mother phone number.’
The lounge looks just as it did the day of Mads’s funeral.
‘I was going to wear that one.’ I point at my maroon coat, folded neatly on a chair where Robin must have hidden it before he made me wear the black one.
Stephen gives a little shrug, he doesn’t say anything. What is there to say? Would we still have crashed if I’d worn a different coat?
‘Do you have an address book? Where would it be?’
I glance around the lounge, it’s minimalist and everything in here is Robin. The black leather sofas devoid of scatter cushions because Robin didn’t like them, the lamps and matching tables, the music system, the ultra-thin TV hung on the wall above the sound-bar, a selection of remotes neatly stacked on the unit that houses the Sky box. Everything chosen by Robin. Nothing of me.
‘Address book?’ Stephen prompts.
‘I didn’t have one. I have everything on my phone.’
‘Yeah. Me too.’
‘Where’s Robin’s phone?’ Did it survive the accident? Was it returned to us? Who would have it.
We wander through the dining room; I run my finger along the soft dust accumulating on the expensive John Lewis table. In the kitchen, everything is where it should be, tidy, minimalist. Robin. So little of me. How have I never noticed before?
We’re back in the hall and I notice for the first time that Robin’s study door is open. I stop and stare.
I step forward and stab the door with my hand and wait while it drifts open. I half expect him to be sitting at his computer.
Stephen, patient, respectful Stephen, waits.
‘You go in,’ I say eventually.
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Yeah.’
I step aside and let Stephen pass me. It’s wrong. No one should go in there. It’s Robin’s room, his private study.
‘His phone’s here.’
I’m still standing in the hall but I lean into the room. I can’t see anything. I must step over the threshold, violate Robin’s sanctuary. The first step is the hardest, then the spell is broken.
On his desk a neat pile of post, larger than the one in the hall. Mum, or maybe Dad, has been through this pile, looking for the letter they believe Mads sent to me.
Stephen holds up a plastic bag, inside Robin’s phone and keys, his wallet, his wedding ring.
I hear myself gasp. Stephen snatches Robin’s office chair and wheels it under me just as my knees give way, even my three-pronged stick won’t save me. He fetches me water from the kitchen, looks on with genuine concern in his eyes.
‘I’m okay.’ I’ve gulped half a glass of water. ‘It’s just the shock. You know. Seeing his things like that.’
‘Yeah. Sorry. I…’
I wave his apology away.
‘The phone’s flat.’
‘Let’s go now. Bring it with us. Charge it at yours.’
‘Do you want to bring anything else? More clothes.’
The prospect of going upstairs frightens me. I shake my head and get up. I want to leave. That’s all I want to do.
Stephen brings the plastic bag full of Robin’s personal effects and I sit in the car while he locks the front door.
Back at Stephen’s we plug the phone in and wait while it charges enough for us to switch it on. It takes about ten minutes, but it has been flat for weeks now. We watch it fire up together and wait for the home screen to show; a black screen waiting for a password.
‘Is that right?’ Stephen’s face screws up in puzzlement.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never really looked at Robin’s phone. We tend,’ I correct myself, ‘tended to keep our phones to ourselves.’
‘Okay.’ Stephen doesn’t try very hard to keep the judgement from his voice.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘What?’
‘Your face. The way you said okay.’ I’m annoyed.
‘I just think it’s odd. That’s all. Don’t you?’
‘Never thought about it.’ That’s true, I haven’t. Robin was a private person in many ways and I respected that.
‘Did you never share photos or funny videos or stuff like that?’
I think for a moment. ‘No. Not with Robin. Only with Mads.’ And even then, not in a long time. We used to take photos and send them to each other while we sat side-by-side on Mum and Dad’s sofa. ‘Actually, that reminds me, I’ve got Mads’s phone too. It needs charging. It’s upstairs.’
‘Don’t suppose you know the password?’ Stephen has Robin’s phone in his hands and is stabbing away at the number keypad.
‘No.’
‘Okay, let’s try some obvious ones, date of birth, his and yours, that sort of thing.’
We try a few combinations but nothing works and I’m starting to despair.
‘We should have looked through the desk drawers. He might have stuff in there.’ I lean back on Sally’s sofa and sigh.
‘I’ll just do a few random numbers.’ Stephen starts stabbing away.
‘Four numbers, how many combinations? Must be thousands. You’ll never get it.’ I get up and lumber upstairs to retrieve Mads’s phone.
Stephen is still stabbing numbers into the phone when I return.
‘Any luck?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I hope you’re writing them down so you know what you’ve tried.’ I can see that he isn’t.
‘I’m going through the numbers methodically.’
‘Right.’ I plug Mads’s phone in. ‘This is hopeless. Is there anywhere we can take it to bypass the password?’
‘Don’t know.’ Stephen puts the phone down and sighs. ‘I’ll Google it in a minute.’
We’re pinning all our hopes of finding Robin’s mother’s contact details, on getting access to his contact list. I hope we’re not wasting our time.
‘Maybe we should have switched his computer on and had a look on there.’ I wished I’d thought of that when we were at my house.
‘Do you know the password for that?’
‘No. Maybe it doesn’t have one.’
Stephen looks at me over the rim of his cup and raises his eyebrows.
‘Here,’ he says, passing his phone to me, ‘you Google it while I try a few more combinations.’
‘Password?’
‘Guess.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You do. It’s always been the same, Etty.’
‘I don’t know. Just tell me.’
‘You know it.’ He’s laughing now.
I type in 3889 and it opens immediately, the numbers equating to the le
tters.
‘E-T-T-Y.’ I laugh. ‘You’re so predictable.’
‘Yeah. And so should Robin be.’ Stephen’s brow furrows as he has another go at Robin’s phone. ‘Urgh,’ he groans. ‘I thought that might be it.’
‘What?’
‘I put Etty in his too.’
‘He never called me Etty. He hated that you did.’
‘Did he have a pet name for you?’
‘No.’ I think about that, Robin never called me anything other than Juliette.
‘Got it,’ Stephen says, holding the phone up.
‘What? What was it?’
‘6237.’ He looks sheepish. I don’t know why.
‘That’s random.’
‘Yeah.’ Stephen offers me a smile. I can see he’s trying to keep the pity out of it but he’s so transparent his emotions always show on his face.
Stephen’s phone is still in my hand and has returned to the locked screen. I look at the numbers for a long time, trying to work out the significance of 6237. Finally, it dawns on me.
‘M-A-D-S. It’s Mads.’ I gasp and put my hand up to my mouth. I can’t believe it.
‘It could be anything. Probably coincidence.’
‘You tried Mads though, didn’t you?’
Stephen looks down and mutters into his lap.
‘What made you try that? Why?’
He looks up and shrugs. ‘Just a guess.’
‘Why? Why Mads? What does it mean?’
‘Shall we look through the contacts?’
‘What made you try Mads?’
‘Just a feeling. Nothing really.’
‘I don’t believe that. Why Mads? What made you even think of her name?’ I’m starting to feel hot and uncomfortable now. ‘Say something. Tell me.’
‘No evidence. Really. Just a feeling.’
I lean over and push him, urging him to speak.
‘I’m sorry, but I never liked the way he looked at her. He watched her too closely.’
As he says it, a horrible sinking feeling envelops me.
Eighteen
‘We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?’ It has such a familiar ring to it.
‘Similar,’ Stephen says, quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You had your suspicions.’ He leaves the words hanging in the air.
‘I don’t remember, so tell me.’ I’m annoyed with him, I’m frustrated by my own poor memory, I’m horrified by what I think might have happened between Mads and Robin.
‘After Mads died you started having suspicions about Robin and Mads. You said it fitted with her never being at home when you visited.’
‘Did I have any evidence?’
‘No.’
‘It doesn’t fit. I always dropped Robin off and picked him up. I even saw him kissing that girl on the doorstep that time, didn’t I?’ I dropped him off before six, I picked him up before ten, was there enough time for him to see Mads? What about the nights when he tutored from home? Was Mads visiting him then? His need for frequent bedclothes changing makes me wince.
‘You said it was just a feeling.’ Stephen sighs. I wish he wouldn’t do that.
‘And what do you think?’
‘That’s not fair. You know there’s never been any love lost between me and Robin.’
‘Yes. Well. That aside. What do you think? What’s your gut feeling?’
‘Same. I think,’ he mutters before flicking through Robin’s phone.
‘Have we fed each other’s suspicions to justify our own actions?’ I’m thinking aloud but it’s a valid question for Stephen. If Robin’s been unfaithful, it’s perfectly acceptable for me to commit adultery as well. Isn’t it?
‘Maybe.’ He looks sheepish and that’s how I feel too. But underneath that I feel agitated. What the hell made me think Robin was doing anything - I shudder at the thought – with my little sister? ‘Then there’s the password to his phone.’ Stephen adds.
‘Just a bunch of numbers.’ I’m defending Robin; he can’t defend himself.
‘And letters.’
‘Let me see that phone.’ I hold my hand out and Stephen passes it over. While we’ve been talking it’s locked itself again. I type in the numbers, the numbers that translate to the letters that spell MADS. I feel sick. I start to flick through the contacts, I find Mads’s mobile, but that’s not unreasonable; my little sister is Robin’s sister-in-law. ‘There’s no history of messages or calls between them.’ I feel relieved.
‘WhatsApp?’
‘Not listed as a WhatsApp contact.’ I feel almost smug. ‘Perhaps I was just being paranoid, or…’
‘Yes?’
‘Justifying our affair by thinking vile things about my husband.’ That is plausible, so horribly plausible that I feel nauseous and ashamed.
‘Yeah. Probably.’
‘You don’t think so?’ I’m annoyed with Stephen, it’s as though he wants us to find something vile out about Robin.
‘I don’t know what to think. You were the one who said it to me, I never said it to you, not first anyway.’
‘But you’ve always suspected it?’ How dare he?
Stephen doesn’t say anything, but gets up and heads for the kitchen, leaving the door open behind him. I hear him filling the kettle, switching it on, the clank of cups and spoons. When he comes back he’s carrying a tray, he lays it down on the coffee table without a word.
‘You said Robin groomed me.’ My accusatory tone fills the room.
Stephen gives me a quizzical glance over his coffee cup.
‘When I was in hospital, you said he groomed me.’
‘Yeah. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Is it what you think?’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’
‘It is what you think. Isn’t it?’
‘You were young, you were easily swayed. He was attractive, even I could see that, especially then, when he was younger. What would he have been then? Our age, now?’
‘Yeah.’ Robin was twenty-eight, just as I am now. I think about my feelings for Robin, I was consumed with love for him. He was all I thought about, morning, noon and night. He was all I ever wanted. I was sixteen. ‘I don’t think he groomed me,’ I snap. ‘I was over the age of consent.’
‘Yeah. I shouldn’t have said it.’
‘Then, why did you?’
‘No excuse. I was just worried about you. In that hospital. Nearly dead.’ His voice is soft and sad and I’m forgetting the effect the accident must have had on him; he pulled us from the wreckage, watched it go up in flames as we lay on the grass verge. He saved my life. And he was sorry he couldn’t save Robin’s.
I offer Stephen a weak smile as we sit and sip our coffee in silence. It’s all so bloody miserable. I put my cup down and pick up Robin’s phone again, I type in the treacherous password and begin to flick through his contacts.
‘Here it is: Mother.’ I flash the phone at Stephen before pressing dial. ‘It’s ringing.’ Now I’m dreading it being answered, I’m going to have to tell Robin’s mother that her son is dead. I shouldn’t be doing this over the phone but I can hardly travel to Brazil.
‘Hello, Robin.’ The voice sounds weary.
‘Oh, hello. It’s not Robin. I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve ever met.’ I know we haven’t, she couldn’t come to our wedding. ‘I’m Juliette, Robin’s wife.’ I wait for her to say something.
‘Oh.’ There’s a pause. ‘Oh,’ she says again. ‘His wife?’
‘Yes. I’m really sorry, I’ve got some sad news for you.’
There’s silence at the other end.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes. Is he all right? Is he ill? I haven’t seen him for weeks, he missed his usual visit.’
‘His visit?’ I shouldn’t be diverted from the purpose of this call, but I don’t understand how Robin can have visited Brazil without me knowing.
‘Yes, regular as clockwork. First Saturday of the mon
th. He didn’t come this month. Is he all right?’
‘No. I’m sorry. He’s not. Robin died in a car accident four weeks ago. I’m so sorry.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me earlier?’ Her tone is bitter and snappy.
‘No. I’m sorry. I couldn’t.’ I’m crying now. It’s not unreasonable of her to be angry, but I’m doing my best to break it gently. Stephen takes the phone from me and leaves the room. I hear his voice as he talks to Robin’s mother but I cannot hear what is being said. When he comes back he drops the phone on the coffee table and sits down next to me, his arm goes around my shoulder.
‘You okay?’
‘Thank you. For that.’
‘I should have made that call. It was never going to be easy.’
‘Did you tell her about the funeral? Will she be able to make it?’ Part of me still believes that she is in Brazil, but the rational part of me knows that cannot be true.
‘She wants to see his body. I’m taking her tomorrow. She wants to meet you there too. I haven’t made any promises, just said I’d ask you.’
I don’t want to meet her and yet, at the same time, I do. I’d like to know when she came back from Brazil. I’d like to know why I’ve never met her.
‘What time?’
At eleven the next morning we’re sitting in a little cul-de-sac of tiny bungalows, barely ten miles from where Robin and I live. The gardens are open plan and neat, the grass is the same length across them all, the bushes beneath the front windows are the same. It dawns on me that these are communal gardens and probably maintained by gardeners.
‘Do you think this is sheltered housing?’ I try to guess how old Robin’s mother is. He was forty-two so it’s feasible that she could be anything between sixty and eighty.
‘Looks like it.’ Stephen glances at the clock on the dashboard. ‘It’s time. Should I go and knock for her? Maybe she’s a bit infirm.’
‘Yeah. If you don’t mind.’ I can’t face the thought of knocking on her front door myself.
Just as Stephen puts his hand on the handle to open his car door the front door of Robin’s mother’s house bursts open and a woman steps out. She is neither elderly, nor infirm.
‘My God, that is Robin’s mother.’ Stephen takes the words right out of my mouth. I think we had both imagined old and frail, but this woman is tall, slim, perhaps mid-sixties, but youthful. Her hair is styled into a dark bob, her face is elegantly made up. She wears a dark trouser suit, a soft pink blouse, and carries a large handbag. She only needs a pair of sunglasses to look like a model for a middle-aged ladies’ fashion advert. She is where Robin got his looks from.