by Jess Ryder
‘I see. Does Abigail get on with your husband?’
‘Yes!’ Kay felt sick with nerves. If only she could lie down on that little bed.
‘Only she drew this picture this afternoon and it worried me a little. It’s not the first time either.’ Ms Gardiner opened the brown folder and took out a sheet of paper. She handed it to Kay. ‘I asked her to tell me about the drawing, but she refused. However, it, er … it kind of speaks for itself.’
Kay’s hand started to tremble as she looked at the picture. It was clearly of the living room at home. She recognised the brown sofa and the vase of flowers on the dining table.
All three of them were there. A big stick figure with yellow flick-ups and a small one with curly black hair. Mummy and Abigail, both of them wearing blue triangle skirts and crying black tears. On the other side of the page, standing as far away as possible, was Daddy, tall and imposing. He had his mouth open as if he was shouting, and one arm was raised as if about to strike.
‘It’s just a drawing.’ Kay sniffed. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Maybe not, but you can see how it could be interpreted.’ Miss Gardiner took the picture off her and put it back in the folder. ‘And given Abigail’s changed behaviour …’
‘She gets ideas off the telly. I’ll have to stop her watching Doctor Who.’ Kay tried to laugh, but it came out as a frightened squawk.
There was a long pause. Kay wanted to run out of the room, but she was stuck to the chair. Her limbs had gone heavy and she was sweating profusely. She could feel her make-up melting and running off her face, exposing the truth that lay beneath. It was so shameful. She’d been hauled up before teachers before – for talking in class, bunking off games and once for smoking at the bus stop in uniform – but this was far worse. It was even more excruciating than admitting to her parents that she was pregnant.
‘There are places you can go, you know,’ said Ms Gardiner quietly. ‘There’s one recently opened in Nevansey; I volunteer there in the evenings and at weekends. It’s a squat at the moment, but there’s a group of us who are trying to get some funding from the council—’
‘Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Kay felt all her muscles stiffening.
‘It’s a refuge for women in danger. You can turn up any time of the day or night; nobody’s ever turned away. And children are welcome too.’
Kay stood up. Her knees felt like bowls of jelly. ‘I’d like to collect Abigail now. She’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’
Ms Gardiner scribbled something on a scrap of paper and put it in her hand. ‘We’re trying to keep the location a secret, for obvious reasons. Here’s the address – just put it somewhere safe.’
Chapter Sixteen
Stella
Now
There’s nothing else to do but go back to bed. Jack falls asleep instantly, but I toss and turn for another couple of hours. Why did Lori leave like that, without saying goodbye – without even saying thank you, more to the point? I feel defeated and upset. I’m cross with her for giving in to Darren, and even crosser with myself for not making her see sense.
I sink into sleep at last and am only woken by the sound of banging in the room above. Alan is already at work. Jack has left for London, feeling smug no doubt that he’s been proved right about Lori. I dive under the duvet, trying to block out the noise. Alan’s a nice guy, but today I wish I had the house to myself.
I get out of bed and pull on some clothes. My limbs feel heavy as I drag them around the room. I’m so tired. My skin itches, as if covered in a fine layer of dust. I need a cup of really strong coffee to get me started. Leaving my room, I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. There’s a strong draught coming from the back of the house. Irritated, I walk past the middle room and into the conservatory. The door is wide open, letting all the heat out.
Heaving a sigh, I go to shut it, then stop mid slam. Lori is out there. She’s wearing the pink jumper I bought her from the charity shop, and the jogging bottoms she arrived in.
‘Lori!’ I shout. ‘Hey! Lori!’ She turns around and waves like nothing’s amiss. I stomp onto the patio and pick my way down the overgrown path that runs to the bottom of the garden. ‘Hey! What are you doing here?’
She takes a long drag of her cigarette. ‘Just having a quick fag before I start work. Sorry, I know it’s a filthy habit. I want to quit, but—’
‘No, no, I mean, why did you come back?’ She stares at me nonplussed. ‘Last night. Jack saw you getting into a car and driving away.’
‘What? I haven’t been out of the house for weeks, you know that.’
‘He heard you leave the house. He followed you.’
‘He did what?’
‘You got into a dark car. It sounded like Darren’s.’
Her eyes widen. A chimney of ash forms on the tip of her cigarette. ‘I don’t know who Jack was stalking last night, but it wasn’t me. I was in bed by eleven.’
‘Right … sorry. It was obviously a mistake …’
‘I wouldn’t just leave like that.’
‘That’s what I thought. I was surprised, I couldn’t understand—’
‘So Jack’s been spying on me, has he?’
‘Not at all. He just thought he heard …’ I sigh. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does to me. I’ve had enough of men watching my every move.’ She stubs her cigarette out with an angry heel. ‘He’ll be reading my texts next.’
‘Please, forget I ever mentioned it. My mistake, I must have misunderstood.’
We stand quietly for a few moments. I want to go but can’t think of a good exit line.
‘I’d love to help you clear all this, you know,’ she says in a completely different tone. ‘I’m a better gardener than a builder.’
‘Feel free,’ I reply.
Another pause.
‘I was really upset when I thought you’d gone back to Darren,’ I say. ‘I’m scared that he’ll attack you. You could be killed.’
She nods thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I know that. You’re a very special person, Stella. There aren’t many in the world like you. Most of them look away, pretend not to hear, don’t want to get involved. But you didn’t hesitate.’
‘It’s how I was brought up.’ My eyes well with tears. I feel such a fraud, piggybacking on the goodness of my parents.
‘Don’t forget to look after yourself too, okay?’
‘Me? Oh, I’m fine.’
‘Be careful of Jack. He likes to be in control.’
I force out a laugh. ‘No he doesn’t. We have a really equal relationship.’
She gives me an oblique glance. ‘That’s not how it looks to me. The house belongs to you, right? It’s your money that’s paying for the refurbishments. Jack is here on your terms and he doesn’t like it. I know he doesn’t want me here. He’s jealous because you’re giving me attention and he thinks you should only be focused on him.’
‘You sound like you’ve read a book on the subject, Lori,’ I say, surprised.
She blushes. ‘No, no, I’m only going on what I see. My therapist used to talk to me like that, and at first I couldn’t see what she was getting at.’
‘Things have been a bit strained recently,’ I admit. ‘But really, we’re good.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ she says, but I know she doesn’t believe me. ‘Right. Time I started work.’ She walks back towards the house. I watch her tramping through the long grass, and my pulse quickens. What did she mean, Be careful of Jack?
I follow her indoors. She’s already climbing the stairs, shouting out hello to Alan. I pick up my phone and call Jack, but it goes straight to voicemail. He always switches his mobile off when he goes into meetings, so it doesn’t particularly surprise me. I leave a vague message asking him to call back when he gets a chance. But the hours go by and I don’t hear from him.
It’s impossible to concentrate on anything. The room is enormous and yet I feel confined, as if the walls are clos
ing in on me while I’m not looking, centimetre by centimetre. I have a sudden urge to get out, not just out of the house, but away from the town altogether. I want to see Jack. I want him to hold me close and tell me everything’s all right. That he made a stupid mistake thinking he heard Lori leaving the house. Perhaps it was a door banging in the wind. It must have taken him a few minutes to get dressed and go after her. He was half asleep; he probably saw somebody walking down the hill and thought it was her. As for the dark car; well, lots of cars are blue or black. It could easily have been a minicab. See? There’s a logical explanation for all of it.
Why doesn’t he call?
By the afternoon, I’m going crazy. We have to talk before he comes home. He’ll be pissed off that Lori’s still here, and I have to warn him. I don’t want a scene.
I change into a grey shift dress, put on my red raincoat and a pair of smart ankle boots. London clothes. Thin and light, perfect for standing on the crowded, overheated Tube. It’s a short walk to Nevansey station. There are two trains an hour and I just manage to catch the two forty-five p.m. It takes me directly into St Pancras and then it’s just one stop on the Victoria line.
By four o’clock I’m standing in the foyer of his smart office block. Jack works for a design company, based on the fifth floor.
‘Hi, I’m here to see Jack Lancing,’ I say. The receptionist makes me sign in via a tablet. It takes a photo, the camera freezing on my startled gaze. There are dark rings beneath my eyes, reminding me of my terrible night’s sleep. As she dials Jack’s internal number, I suddenly feel like I’m doing the wrong thing. He’s going to think I’m really weird, doorstepping him like this.
‘Sorry, he’s off sick today,’ she says, replacing the handset. ‘What’s your name? I could try someone else.’
‘That’s okay, it was just a social call. I was passing by. On the off chance,’ I bluster, then hurry out of the building, only stopping for breath when I reach the corner.
What are you playing at, Jack?
I immediately call him, and this time he picks up after two rings. ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Sorry I couldn’t call earlier. Everything okay?’
‘Where are you?’ I demand.
There’s the briefest of pauses. ‘At work.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Jack. I’ve just been at your office. They told me you were off sick.’
‘Ah … sorry. What are you doing in London?’
‘Never mind that. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing much. I just fancied a day off. I’m at the V and A. There’s a really interesting exhibition on—’
‘Stay there. I’m on my way. Meet me in the tea rooms.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ He sounds nervous. ‘There’s no need to do that. I’ll come home.’
‘No, I’m coming to you. We need to talk.’
* * *
He’s waiting at a large round table, big enough to seat half a dozen people and covered in the detritus of several salad lunches. The place is horribly busy. I weave my way through the clusters of grey-haired ladies, who all remind me in some way of my mother, and sit down next to him. The smells of balsamic vinegar and cold coffee rise up my nostrils.
‘It was the only free table,’ he says apologetically. ‘Would you rather go somewhere else?’
‘No.’ I unbutton my coat and ease it off my shoulders onto the back of the chair.
‘What do you want? Tea or coffee? I think they do wine too.’ He starts to rise, but I shake my head.
‘I want to know what’s going on.’
‘Nothing’s going on. I was in a funny mood this morning, that’s all, couldn’t face work. I do it about once every six weeks. Bunk off. Visit a museum or art gallery.’
‘You never told me before.’
‘I knew you’d disapprove, that’s why. Sometimes I just need a bit of time to myself, you know? To do London things. There’s fuck all happening in Nevansey.’
‘Yes, you hate living there, you make it abundantly clear. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about Nevansey.’ I start stacking the plates, scraping off the food remains and making a neat pile. I’m fizzing with irritation.
‘They have staff to do that,’ he says.
I put down somebody else’s knife. ‘It wasn’t Lori you saw last night.’
He folds his arms. ‘Yes it was.’
‘You made a mistake.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Then how come she’s still at the house? I spoke to her this morning and she insists she was in bed all night.’
He leans back in his chair and stares at the exquisitely tiled walls. ‘She’s lying.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I know so.’ I can’t bear it when he goes all smug and know-it-all on me. ‘I followed her and she got in the car and it drove off. My guess is the guy – this Darren, presumably – dropped her off later and she crept in.’
‘She doesn’t have a key.’
‘There’s a spare set in the kitchen drawer.’
‘Why would she meet up with him? She hates him, she’s terrified of him.’
‘I expect they’re on some kind of scam. They probably worked out you had thousands in your bank account for the building work. You should check your statements, change your passwords. Find a better hiding place for your book of codes.’
‘That’s a disgusting thing to say.’
‘Why are you so naïve, Stella?’
‘I’m not naïve. I just trust people.’
‘Same thing.’
‘It’s not the same thing at all. Lori is a victim of domestic violence.’
‘So you say.’
I scrape back my chair. ‘Stop it!’ I hiss. ‘You’re being vile. What’s got into you, Jack? You never used to be like this. Ever since I bought the house you’ve basically been in a foul mood. Are you jealous? Do you wish your parents had died and left you a million pounds? Because if I could swap places with you, I’d do it like a shot.’
‘Shut up,’ he says in a low voice. ‘Go back to your battered wife and leave me alone.’ He looks down at the table and sets his jaw. A woman sitting by herself at a nearby table shoots me a curious look.
‘Please, Jack, let’s just talk. We can sort it out. I’ll tell Lori she has to leave if you like. Just don’t lie to me. I can’t bear it.’
He closes his eyes, as if silently counting to ten. Then he looks up at me, his expression as serious as I’ve ever seen it. ‘I’m pretty certain I saw her last night, but maybe I got it wrong. It was late and dark, I was tired. But if you’re so trusting, then you have to trust me too. I’m trying to look after you, to save you from yourself.’
‘I don’t need looking after.’
‘You do.’ He leans forward. ‘If Lori did sneak out to see her husband, for whatever reason, and he brought her back to the house, he now knows where she’s living. Which means she’s not safe, Stella. And nor are you.’
Chapter Seventeen
Stella
Now
A week later, I get a call from the architect. The plans for the kitchen-diner extension have been approved with no amendments. A couple of months ago we would have celebrated with a bottle of champagne, but this morning I barely register a reaction.
‘If you send me details of your contractor, I’ll start the process with Building Control,’ he says.
‘Oh, um, yeah, okay,’ I reply, pulling my mind away from other thoughts. ‘I’ll let you know.’
The phone call ends and I find myself drifting into the conservatory. It’s a horrid narrow corridor and I’ll be pleased to see it go. There’s no doubt that the extension will make a dramatic impact, opening up the house and flooding it with light. But what’s the point of creating a fantastic family space if you’ve no family to put in it?
I think of Molly, with her doting husband and gorgeous new baby. She still lives close to the commuter town where we both grew up, in a small but perfect house. For years I spurned the idea of a safe suburban life, bu
t now I long for that kind of stability. Over the last few months I’ve found myself dreaming about wedding dresses and where we would have the reception. Maybe we could get married on the beach and then party in the garden.
Some hope of that, I think, staring through the windows at the wilderness that was once a lawn. It’s not just the garden that’s not ready, it’s Jack. Everything was going brilliantly between us until we moved here, but recently I’ve felt as if our relationship has been slowly sinking into the mud. He’s never properly engaged with the building plans, pretending to listen to my design ideas, agreeing because it’s easier than arguing, always ending the discussion with ‘It’s up to you, it’s your house.’ Recently he hasn’t even bothered to go upstairs to check on Alan’s work. When I talk bathroom tiles or kitchen units his eyes glaze over and I can tell his mind is elsewhere. It’s become my dream, not ours.
But it’s not just about the bricks and mortar. Eventually the building work will be complete and there’ll just be the two of us, living in our airy, light extension with its polished concrete floor and industrial lighting. Or maybe I’ll be alone. Like a modern-day Miss Havisham, trapped in time, waiting for a future that can never be.
A lump hardens in my throat and I swallow it down. There’s no point in feeling sorry for myself. I have to do something. Turning away from the garden, I walk back through the kitchen and into the hallway. A cacophony of banging, chatter and music is coming from upstairs. Alan has called in some extra guys to help put in the new ceilings. I think they’re Romanian. Lori has been temporarily demoted to tea lady and seems to spend most of her time running up and downstairs with mugs. There’s a cheerful mood up there, a camaraderie of dust and wet plaster. I’m not part of it. As far as the new guys are concerned, I’m the client. No, correction. I’m the wife of the client, who is a man of mystery, never seen. In their minds, I couldn’t possibly know what I’m talking about, so my opinion is never sought. The new builders don’t know how to react to me – whenever our paths cross, they lower their eyes.