‘Good point.’ I do as he suggests and brace myself for rapping on the window and shouted questions.
‘Get ready,’ Ben says.
The engine growls as he accelerates hard through the gates and out onto the road. I hear the screech of tyres and use the heels of my hands to steady myself against the front of the footwell. I hear shouts from outside, and bright camera flashes briefly illuminate the truck’s interior.
‘Well, that was fun,’ Ben says. ‘Haven’t driven like that since I was seventeen and trying to impress Marie Philips. You can come out now.’
I straighten up and sit back in the passenger seat. ‘Marie Philips?’
‘A girl from school.’
‘Did it work? Was she impressed?’
‘No. She fell for a twenty-two-year-old car mechanic from Finchley. I didn’t stand a chance.’
We drive the rest of the way in companionable silence. I peer in the wing mirror every so often to check if anyone is following us. The traffic is quite heavy now, so maybe we are being followed, maybe we aren’t. I can’t tell.
As we turn into my road, my body tenses. No surprises: the cluster of journalists is still there, gathered by my front gate. I don’t know what they’re expecting. I’m not going to talk to them, so they should just bugger off home.
Ben slows the truck. ‘You can kip at my place if you want. The spare bed is really comfy.’
‘I’ll be okay,’ I say. ‘Thanks, though.’
‘Thing is, I won’t be able to pick you up tomorrow. I’ve got a meeting with the bank first thing.’
‘It’s okay, Ben. I don’t expect lifts from you. You’ve been an absolute godsend today, but I’ve put up with them once, so I’m sure I’ll be able to handle them okay tomorrow.’ This is a blatant lie. The thought of walking to work with them following me scares me senseless.
‘Stay home if you can’t deal with them, we can cope.’ He catches my eye, letting me know he means what he says.
‘Thanks, but I want to work.’ We’re right outside my house now and the press are gathering around Ben’s truck like zombies hungry for flesh. ‘Here goes,’ I say, sounding braver than I feel. I take a breath to steel myself.
‘Good luck, Tess.’
‘Thanks, Ben. I mean it, you’ve been so kind. And good luck with your meeting tomorrow.’ I open the car door and barge my way through the throng.
‘Who was that in the car, Tessa? Was that your boss?’
‘Are you two together, Tessa?’
‘Is he your boyfriend?’
‘Did he help you abduct that boy?’
Finally, I’m through my front door. Home. I should probably eat something, but I still haven’t managed to do any food shopping. I climb the stairs, pull on my pyjamas and fall into bed, too tired to deal with any more crap. Too tired to think. My eyes close.
* * *
I must have fallen asleep immediately. But now I’m awake, staring wide-eyed at the curtains, an almighty smash of breaking glass ringing in my ears, a dull pain in my leg. What the hell? Loud footsteps running away. I turn on my bedside light without thinking about who might be able to see in.
There’s something red on the covers next to my leg. A brick. A brick! I swing my legs out of bed and stand up, crying out as a sharp pain shoots through my foot. I glance down. Glass – glass everywhere. As I gradually recover my senses, I realise that someone has chucked a brick through my bedroom window.
A glance at my alarm clock shows it’s almost 4 a.m. Heedless of the glass strewn across the carpet, I peer out through the jagged hole in the window, the icy air making me catch my breath and shiver. The journalists are still out there, staring up at me. Some are pointing down the road. Did they see who did it? They must have. But I don’t dare go out to ask them.
House lights start coming on across the street. Bleary faces appear at bedroom windows. They must have heard the crash of glass. I wonder if any of the neighbours will come to see if I’m okay. Somehow I doubt it.
I stare down at my left foot. There’s blood on the carpet. My whole body shakes; my teeth begin to chatter. It’s just the cold, I tell myself, from the night air streaming in. And then I do something I know I shouldn’t: I blame it on the shock, on the fact that I’m still half-asleep. I grab my mobile from the nightstand and call Scott.
His voice is thick with sleep. ‘Tessa?’
‘They threw a brick through my window,’ I say. ‘Please, can you come over?’
‘Who did? A brick? It’s probably just some idiot who’s seen the news,’ he says sleepily. ‘They’ll have run away by now. You need to call the police.’
‘Can’t you come over, Scott? Please,’ I beg. ‘Our bedroom window’s smashed. There’s glass everywhere. It’s freezing.’ I can’t control the tremor in my voice. ‘I… I don’t know what to do.’
‘Just call the police, Tessa. They’ll sort you out. I’m sorry, but Ellie needs me here. We’ve had the press outside our house all day too. The stress isn’t good for her and the baby. Actually, it’s been bloody awful. I couldn’t even go in to work today.’
I shake my head and end the call without saying another word. Suddenly wide awake, I realise Scott will no longer be there for me. Not any more. I should never have called him.
My initial fear and confusion morph into something harder as I dial 999.
Chapter Eleven
While I’m waiting for the police to arrive, I sit in the kitchen picking fragments of broken glass from my foot. Once I’m sure I have all the tiny pieces out, I wash and bandage it up, barely registering the pain. In fact, it’s almost a welcome distraction. Why would someone throw a brick through my window? Why is all this crap happening to me? I know why. This is trial by media: I’m guilty until proven innocent. To the general public I’m a child snatcher, regardless of what I have or haven’t done.
The doorbell rings. Is it my imagination, or does it sound louder than usual? The echoing chime reverberates through my body, setting my teeth on edge. I limp down the hallway to the front door, hesitating. What if it’s not the police?
‘Hello?’ A male voice from outside. ‘Tessa Markham? It’s the police. You called us earlier.’
I open the door to two uniformed officers. I thought they might have sent Chibuzo and Marshall. I don’t recognise these guys. They’re young. Younger than me. Behind them, on the pavement, the press are almost well-behaved. There are fewer of them at this time of night, or should I say, morning. No jostling and shouting out to me while the police are here. A few flashes from their cameras and that’s it.
‘Thanks for coming,’ I say to the officers, pulling my dressing gown more tightly around my body. ‘Come in.’
They step inside and I lead them to the kitchen, where they take my statement. Once they’ve heard what happened, they ask to see the bedroom window, so we go upstairs.
‘The journalists out there,’ I say. ‘Did they see anything?’
The dark-haired officer replies. ‘According to them, a person on a motorbike rode past, slowed down and threw the brick, then sped up and rode off.’
‘Did they get a licence number?’
The officer shakes his head. ‘Sounds like the plates were purposely smeared with dirt. A couple of the photographers got off some shots, but they were all out of focus. Too busy watching your house.’
Typical – a bunch of press hounds camped outside, hoping to get a shot of an innocent woman, and when the real crime happens, they’re too slow to react.
‘We’ve got an alert out for the vehicle,’ he continues. ‘And we’ll take full statements from everyone out there after we’ve made sure you’re okay.’
Stepping into the chilly room with its flapping curtains, glass everywhere and that cold red brick on the bed, I feel violated, even worse than when it actually happened. Maybe because I was half-asleep before. Maybe because I’ve now had time for it to properly sink in.
‘Do you have any idea who it might have been?’ the fair-hai
red officer asks.
‘No.’
‘Anyone you’ve been in an argument with recently? Or someone who might have a grudge against you?’
The other officer nudges his colleague, but the fair-haired officer doesn’t seem to know who I am. Maybe he doesn’t watch the news.
‘The media have decided I’m some kind of child abductor,’ I say. ‘Whoever sent this brick obviously agrees with them.’
The fair-haired officer flushes. ‘Ah, yes, of course. Sorry.’
So he has heard of me then. ‘It’s all a load of made-up nonsense,’ I say. ‘Your lot don’t seem to think I’m guilty, but since when has the truth mattered when there’s a story to sell?’
‘You’ll want to get that boarded up,’ the dark-haired officer advises. ‘You on your own here?’
I nod and chew the inside of my lip. ‘Yes, I’m on my own.’
‘Got any chipboard?’ he asks.
‘I… er, I don’t know. If there is any, it’ll be in the garden shed.’
‘Right, come on, show me the shed. I’m sure we can find something and I’ll board it up for you. Won’t take five minutes. My old man’s a chippy, taught me everything I know.’ He gives me a wink, and I’m pathetically grateful. ‘I’m PC Dave Cavendish, by the way,’ he says. ‘And this useless article is PC James Lewis.’
PC Lewis flushes once again. I give him an encouraging smile.
Downstairs, I slip on a pair of old Crocs, and Dave and I head out across the soaking grass to the dilapidated shed at the bottom of the garden while his colleague waits in the kitchen. I unlock the shed and it takes him around twenty seconds to find what he needs – an old kitchen cabinet with chipboard backing, and a staple gun.
Ten minutes later, my bedroom window is boarded up, the glass all swept away and my bed stripped and changed.
‘This can’t be part of your job description,’ I say. ‘Won’t you get in trouble?’
‘It’s a quiet night,’ he says with a smile. ‘You’ll need a glazier to fix it properly, but this will do as a temporary measure.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I reply.
‘Your foot…’ he continues.
‘I stupidly stood on some of that smashed glass.’
‘You wanna get that looked at properly. Don’t want it getting infected.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, knowing I probably won’t do anything about it. ‘Do you think you’ll catch whoever did it?’
‘Truthfully, it’s doubtful. But if it’s any consolation, I don’t think they’ll come back. Probably just some idiot who thinks they know better than the police. Call us if you have any more problems.’ He jerks his head towards the street. ‘That lot out there giving you much grief?’
I shrug – I don’t have the energy to tell him they’re making my life a misery.
‘We’ll have a word on our way out, warn them to behave themselves.’
Once the officers have gone, I hobble back up to my bedroom. It all looks fairly normal in here now. With the curtains drawn, I can’t even see the board across the window. But the air is cold and damp. Tainted. I know I won’t be able to climb back into bed and close my eyes as though nothing has happened. How can I fall asleep in here knowing there’s someone out there who hates me enough to do something like this?
I scoop up my alarm clock and duvet and leave the bedroom, closing the door behind me. It hardly seems worth going to bed just for an hour and a half, but what else am I going to do? I realise I don’t like spending time in my house any more, even without all the press hanging around. Actually, I haven’t enjoyed being here since Scott left. It’s a house of memories. Lifeless. I’m not sure if it has given up entirely, or if it’s waiting for something.
I wander along the short landing to the back bedroom: Sam’s bedroom. I step inside and inhale the stale air, foolishly hoping to catch a remnant of his scent. But there’s no trace of my little boy. I place my alarm clock on his low nightstand and lie down on the bare mattress of his toddler bed, curling up in the foetal position and pulling my king-size duvet around me. It’s only when I huddle under the covers that I realise how cold I am. My duvet is still freezing to the touch and I wish I had a hot-water bottle or an electric blanket… a warm body to spoon with, to press my icy toes against.
Eventually, I manage to fall into an uneasy slumber shortly before my alarm goes off. I wake disorientated, and then I remember last night. Right on cue, my foot starts to throb. I ignore it and uncurl myself, stretch out the kinks in my back and stand up. After throwing on my work clothes, I hobble downstairs and peer through the lounge blinds into the dim, cloudy morning. Oh joy. My fan club is back in force. There are more of them here than ever. Word must have spread about the brick thrower – I’ll need to order a taxi to work.
As I munch on cornflakes and water again, I berate myself for calling Scott last night. It’s humiliating to remember how I pleaded with him to come over. He’s already made it crystal clear that he has more important things to worry about now. He’s hardened his heart towards me. This Ellie woman is going to be a permanent fixture. I can just about deal with her, but I’m not sure how I’ll be able to handle the rest of it – Scott having a new family. Even thinking about it twists my guts and leaves me short of breath. In my mind I see this faceless woman bending over her newborn while Scott looks on adoringly. Stop thinking about it.
I gaze at Sam’s and Harry’s drawings stuck to my fridge, the sweet, childish images lifting my heart a little.
I should probably check the news to see what lies they’re spreading about me this morning, but I can’t face it, and besides, I don’t have time. A car horn sounds out the front: my taxi’s here. I dump my cereal bowl in the sink, snatch up my handbag and head towards the front door with not quite as much terror as I felt yesterday.
I run the gauntlet once again. Bulbs flash and questions are hurled. Same as yesterday. Thankfully, I only have to endure it for a few seconds, limping down the path and elbowing my way across the pavement until I enter the blissful calm of the taxi.
* * *
Work is my sanctuary. A haven. Even with the occasional gawping customer, I feel safe here, I have a purpose. The morning passes at a steady pace. I begin by sweeping the pathways, then continue with my veg planting in the greenhouse. I haven’t caught sight of Ben yet. He must still be at the bank. I hope his meeting goes well. I realise that I’m coming round to his proposal more and more. Maybe this extra responsibility is what I need to pull me out of my half-life and into something more real. But I can’t decide anything while I have all this stuff going on. If only the police would solve the mystery of who Harry is and where he belongs. When they clear my name once and for all, maybe things can start getting back to normal.
‘Tessa.’ I glance up from my seed packets to see Carolyn standing at the greenhouse door, fluffing out her short mousy hair with her fingertips. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’
No. Go away. I don’t want a visitor. ‘Hi, Carolyn.’ I manage a smile. ‘A visitor?’
‘She says she’s a friend.’
‘Who is it? Do you know?’ I put down my trowel and wipe my hands on my apron. ‘It might be one of the press pretending to be a friend.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t ask.’
In my head, I curse her for being so dumb, although I guess that’s unfair of me. It’s not her fault.
‘She’s in the café,’ Carolyn adds. ‘I’d better get back to the shop.’
‘Okay, thanks. I’ll be there in a mo.’
Carolyn turns and walks briskly back the way she came. I sigh and leave the greenhouse, limping behind her. I don’t have a good feeling about whoever is out there waiting for me.
Chapter Twelve
The café is already half full, even though it’s only 11.30. I wave to Janet, who’s serving behind the counter, and she smiles and points to a table in the corner where a woman sits with her back to me. The woman in question has shiny brown hair with sunglasses pushed up onto the top
of her head. I haven’t witnessed the sun in north London since September, so I’m guessing it’s a fashion thing. I walk around the table, nervous to see who it is and what she wants.
Carly. My whole body tenses at the sight of her.
‘Tessa!’ she gushes, standing up and leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. Awkward doesn’t cover it.
I step away from her, my mind whirring.
‘Hope you don’t mind me coming to meet you at work like this,’ she says, her gravelly voice irritating me already. ‘This place is gorgeous, isn’t it? I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.’ She sits back down and takes a sip of her coffee.
‘Was it you?’ I demand.
‘Me?’ She tilts her head.
‘Yes, you. Did you sell that story about me to the newspapers?’
She sighs. ‘You’re being quite aggressive, Tessa.’
‘You told my colleague you were a friend,’ I say, ‘but you’re not here as a friend, are you?’
‘Well,’ she shrugs, ‘whatever the reason I’m here, we are still friends, aren’t we?’ She gives me what I’m sure she hopes is a winning smile, but I’m not falling for it.
‘My boss has barred the press from coming in,’ I say, my hands resting on my hips. ‘So I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. You’ll have to leave.’
Her eyes harden for a split second, but she reattaches her smile straight away. ‘Yes, but I’m not here in my capacity as press. I’m here to have a chat as a friend and a neighbour. I saw the board across your upstairs window this morning. I was worried.’
‘That’s bollocks,’ I say, a little too loudly, drawing the attention of an elderly couple at the next table. They tut and angle their bodies away from me. I sit down opposite Carly and lower my voice. ‘This is my workplace. I’m here to work, not chat with my neighbours.’
‘So why don’t I come to yours after work?’ she pushes. ‘I can bring a bottle of something sparkling and we can have a natter. Be like old times.’
The Secret Mother Page 8