by Rebecca Done
By the time I have managed to wrench open the car door and clamber out of it, Nicola is nearly halfway up the road. It helps, I suppose, that she keeps fit enough to be able to break into a sprint when she needs to. She half turns when she reaches the bend, catches my eye and ploughs on, leaving me standing there helplessly in the street, a carton of milk dangling from one finger, bag of apples balanced precariously in the crook of my elbow.
What the hell is she doing here? Why can’t she just leave us alone?
I know I need to go inside. I know I should put away my groceries, make us both a cup of tea, open a packet of biscuits, maybe. And then I should sit down and quietly ask Alex what his ex-girlfriend was doing in our house, and he can feel safe and calm enough to tell me, he can feel as if I’m not attacking him, merely asking.
But I’m not the right girl to do that, Alex. If you need a girl who can do that, I’m not her – and I’m not sure I ever will be. Because despite what you insist every day, it isn’t me who has changed – it is you – and feeling good-natured about something reigniting between you and your ex-girlfriend was never going to be part of the deal. So if that’s the kind of girl the new you needs, then I’m sorry, but the new you is asking too much.
There’s so much I can do, but the rest is up to you.
So instead of going indoors and stowing my groceries like a functional human being and making tea and remembering my breathing exercises and everything else I should do when I’m feeling like I’m about to lose it, I decide that – for once – I’m going to do what I want to do.
This time, I’m not going to Alex for answers.
Nicola lives in a smart renovated gatehouse on the edge of a country estate. She’s only a ten-minute walk from our cottage, and given that she jogs everywhere in trainers, this proximity has always unnerved me somewhat. I’d only really be happy if she was a long-haul flight away or marooned in a castle surrounded by some sort of impenetrable moat system. Being almost within shouting distance of Alex, the love of her life, has always been far too close for comfort.
At first she tries to ignore my frenzied knocking. I don’t blame her, in a way – I probably sound a bit maniacal what with all my urgent shouting too. But I’m not going to let this pass – my marriage and the rest of my life depend on what I can uncover today. After everything Alex and I have been through over the past few years, my future is once again hanging in the balance, and Nicola of all people has a part to play.
Though I suppose that is the very nature of commitment: you put your life and happiness in the hands of another. You relinquish responsibility. You say, Here is my heart. Do with it what you will – but please just try not to break it.
Eventually, she opens the door a crack. ‘I’m not going to let you in like this, Molly. You need to calm down.’
‘You are going to let me in,’ I counter breathlessly, ‘and we are going to talk.’
She sighs, but it sounds like exhaustion and fear, rather than contempt. And then the door swings open, and before she can change her mind, I am through it.
She looks unkempt and distressed, which is at odds with the cool, calm interior of the gatehouse: it is compact but immaculate, sparse in decor but beautifully presented. There is lots of wood and creamy wallpaper, lights on low and a lingering floral scent. It’s the sort of place I could see myself spilling red wine in.
Fortunately for both of us, Nicola doesn’t offer me any red wine. She doesn’t offer me anything. The most she is willing to offer, apparently, is a short audience in her hallway.
We face one another. I am all at once relieved and disturbed to recall how different we are in appearance. She is blonde, normally well-groomed and perfectly proportioned; I am dark, a little wild-looking and more than a bit gangly. My jeans are baggy and a bit scuffed at the knee; her leggings are skin-tight and she smells overwhelmingly of washing powder.
Was it because I was so different to Nicola that Alex fell in love with me? Is it because Nicola is different to me that he is falling for her now?
‘Nicola, what were you doing at our cottage? What’s going on? Tom saw you and Alex having lunch at the golf club the other day too. He saw you. And you … when you’re together, you’re always flirting …’ Even as I am gabbling, I know I need to calm down, because the calmer I am, the more likely it is that Nicola will give me what I need, which is the truth. After all, hostage negotiators never got anywhere by screaming, Just give me the sodding hostage, will you? My heartbeat starts to slowly ease up. This doesn’t have to be hard. Just stay cool, and she’ll give you what you want.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, gritting my teeth, lowering my pitch, even trying a smile. ‘I only wanted to talk. Let’s … let’s start again.’
‘Come through,’ she says eventually, before turning and heading into the living room without saying anything further.
I don’t really stop to think about it. So desperate am I for information, I simply follow.
‘I’d convinced myself Alex wanted me back,’ she says coolly. We are sitting opposite one another, me on the sofa, her in a stiff little armchair, drinking tea. It’s all ridiculously civilized compared to how she’s been behaving towards me since Alex’s accident. It seems strange to feel her actually looking at me for once, rather than straight through me.
‘Why would you think that? He’s married.’ To me, in case you’d forgotten.
‘He’s always so flirtatious. He touches my arm, says nice things whenever I see him … it’s everything I ever dreamed of after …’
‘After you broke up with him?’ I say, partly to remind her it was her decision.
‘That was a big mistake. I was too hasty. I finished it and always regretted it. Alex was the love of my life.’
Still? I wonder to myself. After everything that’s happened to Alex, you still see him that way?
She sighs. ‘And when you and he … got married, I was heartbroken. Around the time he met you, he was planning to move back to Norfolk from London, and I had this crazy idea that he was partly … moving back for me.’
I swallow. It’s so strange to hear someone talking about my husband in this way. Nobody else should even be having these thoughts – let alone sharing them with me.
‘But he wasn’t, and he didn’t,’ I say sharply. ‘So you should have dealt with that. Accepted that we were together and moved on.’
‘I’ve been a complete cow,’ she says, looking down at her knees.
I am both surprised and baffled. ‘What’s going on?’ I press. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’
She shakes her head, and I brace myself to hear her confirm it. ‘For a long time … I wanted him back. I’m sorry, Molly, but for a while it was all I wanted. Anyway, I ran past your place this morning and he was in the front garden. We chatted a bit, and he said he was having problems with breakfast, so I said … I’d give him a hand. He told me you were out.’
I shake my head at her naivety, her ignorance. Alex would have meant I was out at that moment in time – not for long enough to give them privacy.
‘He was trying to cook pancakes,’ she says, ‘and he couldn’t find the right type of pan. He seemed to think it should look exactly the same as the picture on the packet.’
Pancakes – they used to be my favourite breakfast. But Alex can’t taste anything as bland as pancakes. He must have been cooking them for me.
‘I tried to kiss him,’ she says quietly, head down.
Her words wound me like a sharp puncture, an expertly aimed arrow.
‘You did what?’ My hands start to shake round the teacup.
‘I’m sorry, Molly,’ she says blankly, but something in her voice tells me this isn’t the climax to her story.
‘What did Alex do?’ I genuinely need to know, because I cannot even imagine.
‘He lost it. Started screaming at me. Like, literally screaming at me. He … punched the wall next to my head. I was terrified. I judged him all wrong, Molly.’
Did I
learn some breathing exercises once? I can barely remember them now.
‘I’ve never seen that side to him before.’ To her credit, if she deserves any at all, Nicola seems genuinely embarrassed. ‘I didn’t realize … he was so bad. I thought people were exaggerating what had happened to him. I had this crazy idea that I still knew him best, even after all these years. I convinced myself he was misunderstood.’
‘You have no idea,’ I say, my voice trembling slightly. ‘None. This is a hidden condition, with no cure. All you can do is manage it – and you haven’t got a clue what that involves, or how different he is to how he was before. He’s not the man you knew – God, he’s not even the man I knew.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I can sort of appreciate that now.’
‘Did he hurt you?’ I ask her, not because I care as much as I probably should, but because I need to know.
‘No. I left straight away. That’s when you came home.’
‘So that’s it?’ I demand. ‘You wanted him back, and now … you don’t?’
‘It wasn’t just about wanting him back,’ she says. ‘It was about … wanting to keep him safe.’
‘Safe from what?’
She hesitates. ‘It’s more about safe from who.’
I swallow. ‘What?’
‘His brother. Graeme.’
I feel an uneasy sensation spread through my chest. ‘What about him?’
‘I assume you’ve never been told,’ she says, ‘but Graeme and I had a fling. It was just for a few weeks, at Christmas 2013.’
Three months before Alex’s accident.
I have no way to tell if she’s lying, but I do know that period was one of the darkest of Graeme’s life.
Perhaps if I was more quick-thinking I could call her bluff, say I already knew, but she’s moved on. ‘And just before Alex’s accident, I told Alex about it – about me and Graeme, sleeping together.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’ve never regretted doing anything so much in my life.’
‘Why?’ I whisper, trying to shake off the creeping feeling of dread. It’s wrapping me up like a spider’s web.
She looks down at her knees. ‘I guess … I was trying to make Alex jealous. Make him realize how much he still loved me.’
No, I think. Why did you regret telling him so much? What went wrong, Nicola? But it’s all starting to slot into place – why Graeme hates Nicola, how suspicious he is of her, how allergic to her presence.
Her voice begins to quiver now, and I am afraid she is about to start crying. I can’t picture myself sitting and watching while Nicola weeps in front of me. It’s not a situation I ever thought I’d need to deal with.
Nicola glances at me over the rim of her cup as a cuckoo clock chimes ten above her head. ‘Alex was extremely upset when I told him,’ she breathes. ‘Much more upset than I’d been expecting, actually.’
I want to scoff, dismiss this out of hand. Why – because he loved you so much? Give me a break, Nicola.
‘Molly – he was furious with Graeme,’ she says, and then falls silent, like there’s some gap I’m supposed to fill, some piece of the jigsaw I’m meant to be picking up, fitting into place to complete her horrible picture.
‘Well,’ I am forced to concede, ‘if he was, that’s because they’re twins. It’s weird, you and Graeme having a fling.’ I shrug, an attempt to negate some of her dramatics, her perceived power over me. ‘That’s it.’
‘But then I heard about Alex’s accident.’
Another silence. She’s tormenting me with her withheld information now, teasing me with it as if I am a cat. She’s dangling it in front of me, goading me to chase it, or get mad and swipe.
She speaks more slowly, more definitely. ‘It happened a week later, Molly. At Graeme’s flat. No witnesses. Just … Graeme.’
My stomach makes a clumsy somersault. ‘What?’ I whisper. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I think Alex confronted Graeme about me and Graeme sleeping together.’
I want to scream, grab her by the hair, reach down into her throat and pull the bloody information out of her. ‘What are you saying?’ I repeat, my voice by now high-pitched and wavering.
‘I can’t shake the feeling that they had a fight, and Graeme … hurt Alex.’
Gotcha.
‘Don’t say any more!’ I get to my feet. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about! Graeme would never hurt Alex – why would you say that? Haven’t you tried hard enough to destroy us? What is this – your last-ditch attempt to mess everything up for us?’
‘I just need to know Alex isn’t in danger!’ she implores me. ‘Please! If I can’t ask anything else of you, let me at least ask that. Please, Molly. I know I have no right to love him, but I just need to know he’s safe.’ Nicola’s crying now, apparently genuinely distraught, and it scares me. She’s not lying any more, I hear a voice say inside my mind. Look at the state of her. Perfect, put-together Nicola. She’s falling apart in front of you. She’s not lying, Molly.
But safe – from Graeme? The idea of him being any sort of threat has never even crossed my mind. It’s never had to. And worse, the idea that everything Alex is going through could possibly be down to Graeme … did he do this to him?
‘You’re lying,’ I say with all the confidence I can summon, which isn’t much. ‘If you were so worried about his safety, why wait until now to say anything?’
‘You keep me at arm’s length,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You always have done. I knew you’d never believe me. And my entire livelihood depends on my reputation around here, Molly. If I started making accusations like that …’ She wipes her face, shakes her head in apparent despair. ‘And, to be honest, Graeme scares me. I didn’t know what he might do to me if I said anything, after Alex …’ And as she says his name her voice breaks, and she starts to cry again.
I look at her completely losing it in front of me, blowing her nose and sobbing in a way that, frankly, I wouldn’t have previously considered possible, and the sight of her distress sends a little chill across my skin. No, Molly. Fight back. There’s no way she’s right. Graeme can’t possibly be the one who …
‘I really don’t trust Graeme,’ Nicola gasps now through her tears. ‘When we were together I saw him in a whole different light, Molly. He used to say such awful things about Alex … that he’d stolen money from him, that he had no right to the cottage, that he turned Kevin against him … I was at Graeme’s before Christmas that year and Alex came round. They had a horrible fight about money …’
Is she right? I cast my mind back. Yes, I remember Alex going to visit Graeme – he wanted to invite him to ours for Christmas – but he never mentioned them fighting about money.
‘… that’s why I’ve been trying to talk to Alex, ever since the accident. I’ve been trying to find out the truth!’
‘Shut up!’ I spit at her suddenly, because I can’t take any more. Everything she’s saying is sending my mind spinning violently off-axis. ‘The only truth is that everyone around Alex loves him! Including …’
But suddenly, unexpectedly, I can’t say his name.
‘Please, at least let me come and talk to Alex …’ Nicola implores as I gasp for air, or words, or both.
‘No!’ I shout, finally finding my breath. ‘Stay away from us, Nicola. Stay away from us!’
And now I am fleeing, fleeing this horrible, claustrophobic gatehouse, trying desperately to breathe fresh air but feeling nothing, nothing but blind panic intermingled with a growing sense of foreboding and fear.
21
Alex – 14 December 2013
The period after Dad’s death is possibly Graeme’s darkest since hitting adulthood. It was supposed to be a fresh start for him – a chance to see the world, make the most of what he initially saw as his new-found freedom. It was an opportunity to shake off the shadows of the past and make new, more positive memories. I’d even been hoping that maybe he’d meet a girl – a like-minded thrill seeker perhaps, someon
e who could help him enjoy life beyond Norfolk and ever-present guilt.
But Graeme never made it to Australia or America. In fact, after rashly accepting a low offer on his flat, he made it as far as London, insisting he was going to spend a few weeks catching up with old friends and acquaintances, and sorting out his itinerary for the months ahead.
Nine months later, he’s still there, with considerably less cash in his pocket, a persistent hangover and no imminent plans to get on a plane to anywhere.
As autumn winds down into winter I don’t see much of him at all, and as December progresses, he goes off the radar entirely. He’s staying north of the river with a friend of a friend, so with Christmas less than two weeks away, I decide to doorstep him, because I’m worried.
It’s a nice block of flats on a decent street in Hackney, which reassures me at least that he’s not living in some squalid crack den. When I buzz, it takes a long time for anyone to answer, and I’m about to give up, berating myself for coming all this way on the unlikely chance that Graeme would actually be at home on a Saturday, when a gruff voice comes on to the intercom.
‘Yep.’
‘It’s me. Alex.’
A long pause, almost as long as the first one.
‘Gray?’
He doesn’t reply, but the door buzzes again, so I’m in.
The flat’s pretty nice – it’s spacious, clean and has the kind of furnishings that make me think Graeme’s friend subscribes to interiors magazines. In fact, it’s completely at odds with the image I had of him dossing from sofa to sofa, smoking and eating takeaway straight from the carton, empty beer cans at his feet.
If I’m honest, my biggest fear has been that Graeme might slowly be turning into Dad. The pair of us are well aware that the children of alcoholics are sitting ducks for following in their parents’ footsteps.