by Jess Ryder
I slip into our bedroom, closing the door behind me. The room looks as chaotic as ever, a mishmash of sleeping, working and eating. I’m sick of the cardboard boxes, of not having my things around me. Sitting on the bed, I close my eyes. What to do? Of course, I could put the house back on the market tomorrow. I’d probably lose a lot of money, but if that’s what it takes to save my relationship … Without Jack, there’s really no point in having this place.
And yet I feel reluctant to go down that route. We made a joint decision to buy it; we knew it would be hellish living through the refurbishments but assured ourselves it would be worth it. He’s not really giving it a try. He comes home from the office later and later each day, complaining about his workload or blaming the trains. Sometimes he doesn’t even bother to text to let me know when to expect him. Last night I checked online and it said the trains were running on time, but when he turned up at half past ten, he claimed there’d been a signal failure.
‘Really?’ I said. ‘It wasn’t mentioned on the live updates.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ he answered gloomily. ‘It’s absolute chaos out there; nobody knows what’s going on. I should never have moved out of London. It’s taking years off my life.’
I know the travelling is difficult, but thousands of people commute every day and their relationships don’t split up.
But not everyone has a stranger living in their house, I remind myself. Jack hates Lori living here. One minute he’s telling me she’s a fake, on a mission to scam me out of my savings, and the next he’s warning me that her husband is about to storm the place, that my life’s in danger too. He can’t have it both ways. Tell Lori to leave, an inner voice says, then he’ll be happy and everything will be all right. But another voice jumps into the conversation. Why should you give in to him?
When we argued at the museum, I offered to chuck Lori out, but I knew I wasn’t going to. She’s blossoming here, so much calmer and more confident, a completely different person to the one who knocked on our door six weeks ago. Like Alan said, she’s a survivor, not a victim. This is the right place for her to be, better than some revolting bed and breakfast. I’m sure she’ll eventually be strong enough to leave Darren for good and be reunited with her children, but until then, she needs to be here. I don’t believe she went to meet him last week, I think either Jack was mistaken or – and it pains me to say it – he lied about seeing her get into the car.
It’s the lies I can’t take. Perhaps he’s lying about all these evening meetings and cancelled trains. He definitely lied about being at work when he’d bunked off to the museum. What if he was meeting someone there? I remember the young woman sitting at the next table in the tea room. She couldn’t take her eyes off us; I’m sure she was eavesdropping.
No, he wouldn’t do that to me. I mustn’t torture myself.
* * *
‘I’m supposed to be seeing the kids tomorrow,’ Lori says, finding me in the kitchen preparing a stir-fry. It’s gone five. Alan and his crew have left for the day. She puts a tray of dirty mugs by the sink and turns on the tap.
I look up from the chopping board. ‘Are you going to go?’
‘Not sure. I haven’t been outside the house for so long, I feel nervous.’ She squirts washing-up liquid into the flow of hot water, then ruffles up the bubbles.
‘I think you should go. It will cheer you up; you must be missing them so much. And they’ll be missing you too.’
‘Hmm, not sure about that. They blamed me for the rows, just wanted me to do what Daddy said so it would all stop.’ She puts the mugs into the bowl and reaches for the cleaning brush.
I lay down the knife, wiping the onion tears from my eyes. ‘They were too little to understand, that’s all. It doesn’t mean they don’t love you.’
‘No, I’m sure you’re right … I just feel a bit anxious. In case Darren … you know …’
‘I think we’ve established that he doesn’t know where you are, Lori,’ I say. ‘And I’m assuming he doesn’t know where the kids are living either?’
She scrubs away at a mug, then bangs it on the draining board. ‘I hope not.’
‘Anyway, I thought he was full of remorse for what he’d done.’
‘Yeah, but he doesn’t mean it. It’s just a ploy to get me to come home.’
I move on to the carrots, slicing them into thin, even sticks. ‘Well, it’s good that you recognise that. You’ve taken a big step forward.’
She looks at me, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve realised there’s no point in going back to him.’
‘No, I have to go back to him. For the sake of the kids.’
‘Uh-uh, you have to leave him for the sake of the kids!’
Her hands lift out of the bowl. ‘You don’t understand what it’s like for women like …’ She stops herself. ‘Like me. You haven’t got a bloody clue.’ I go to answer, but she turns and walks out of the kitchen, water dripping from her fingers and splashing onto the floor.
* * *
Jack doesn’t arrive home until gone eleven p.m. Friday-night drinks with work mates was tonight’s excuse. In what I now think of as the old days, it wouldn’t have been a problem. I would have met up with my own friends, or gone to join him in the pub. But this evening, his absence rankles. He knows I’m here on my own, with nobody to go out with and nothing much to do. I sense that he’s punishing me, giving me a taste of what life would be like without him.
Two can play at that game, I think. The lights are out when he comes home, the heating long switched off. His portion of stir-fry has already gone into the freezer and there’s no wine left. When he crawls into bed, I pretend to be fast asleep. But it doesn’t seem to bother him. Within minutes, he’s snoring peacefully. It’s me who lies awake for the next two hours – thinking, thinking, thinking …
On Saturday morning I feel groggy, unable to stir myself. Jack’s already up and about. I can hear him banging around. Maybe he’s making breakfast as a peace offering? Glancing at the alarm clock, I’m shocked to see that it’s gone ten o’clock. I get up and slouch into the kitchen, where he’s standing in front of the counter eating a bowl of cereal.
‘Hi,’ I say.
He looks over his right shoulder. ‘Hi.’
‘How’s things?’
‘Good.’ He puts another spoonful of muesli into his mouth. ‘The rugby’s on today. England v Wales. It’s being shown at the Oyster Catch – the pub on the other side of the pier. Fancy coming along?’
Rugby’s not my thing; usually I’m happy for him to watch it with his mates. But like me, he doesn’t know anyone in Nevansey, so I smile and say, ‘Yeah, why not?’
‘Excellent.’ He looks relieved. ‘Best to get there early so we can nab a good table. We can have lunch.’
‘Okay.’
I go back to the bedroom to get dressed, my spirits lifted slightly by his apparent eagerness to spend time with me, even though I know it’s only because he doesn’t want to watch the rugby on his own. But it’s better than nothing. Take the positives, Stella. Take them and build on them.
As I pull on my jeans, my thoughts are briefly diverted to Lori. I push my head through the neck of my jumper and dig my arms into the sleeves. Now that we’re going to be out all afternoon, she’ll need a key to get back in. I go to the kitchen and take the spare key out of the cutlery drawer.
‘What do you need that for?’ Jack asks, taking a tea bag out of his mug and throwing it into the bin.
‘It’s for Lori. She’s going to visit her kids today.’
‘You mean she’s actually going to leave the house?’
‘That’s the plan. It’s an important step. I hope she manages it.’
‘Me too,’ he replies, but I can’t work out whether he’s being genuine or sarcastic. I leave the key on the worktop next to the kettle where I know she’ll find it.
Jack seems impatient to get out. Instead of tramping down the Esplanade, we cross the road an
d take the path that runs behind the sea wall. The tide is out and the mud looks like a giant spillage of something nasty. A cold wind snaps at my ears, sharpening my nose to a point. I used to see a stark beauty in this landscape, but today it just looks ugly and grey.
As we walk past the beach huts, my eyes dart to their padlocked doors, checking they’re all still intact. I don’t know why, but I feel strangely vulnerable. As if someone’s watching and noting our departure. This will be the first time in weeks that the house will be completely empty. Lori has become a live-in guardian, part of the tatty fabric of the place. In some ways, I feel that she has more right to be there than I do. Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. It’s your home. Yours and Jack’s.
He’s trying to engage me in rugby talk, wants a debate about our chances today against Wales and whether the England pack is strong enough. He knows I haven’t a clue, let alone any interest, but he carries on regardless. I nod obligingly and make listening noises. The further away we get from the house, the more anxious I feel. Am I just being paranoid, or is something wrong?
Chapter Eighteen
Stella
Now
There’s fifteen minutes of the match left to go. The place is packed and incredibly noisy, as fans cheer and shout at the televisions. Our table, ideally close to the biggest screen, has become a dumping ground for dirty glasses and empty crisp packets. I feel uncomfortably hot. My head is pounding and my thick jumper is making my skin itch.
‘Sorry, but I don’t think I can take much more of this,’ I shout above the din.
Jack squeezes my hand. ‘That’s okay. You need to get some fresh air. Take a nice long walk.’
‘Yeah, I’ll do that.’
‘You could go as far as the boat sheds, see if you can pick up some fish for tonight.’
My heart lifts. It almost feels like the old days. I kiss him on the cheek and grab my things. ‘See you back at the ranch. Won’t be long.’
‘Take as long as you like, clear your head.’ He waves me off, then turns his attention back to the big screen.
Outside, the cold air acts like a compress on my forehead. I take deep breaths of it as I walk along the seafront, away from Westhill House and towards the older part of town. It’s not an area I know well. The tourist attractions, such as they are, give way to black wooden boat sheds, their concrete car parks fenced off with metal railings. But beyond those, and near the sailing club, is a row of huts that sell wet fish. Their opening times are somewhat unpredictable, and sometimes they have very little available, but it’s always super fresh. When I have a proper kitchen, I tell myself, I’ll come down here every week. I’ll learn how to cook lobster and eat oysters like a local.
To my disappointment, all the sheds are closed. Maybe they don’t operate at weekends. I turn around and retrace my steps along the promenade, before cutting inland to the high street. I guess it’ll have to be pizzas instead tonight.
Arriving at the Co-op, I take a basket and throw in a bottle of Chianti, a couple of ‘luxury’ pepperoni pizzas and a bag of salad. Bananas, milk, some croissants for the morning. A few more ready meals to keep the freezer stocked. I’m contemplating the selection of chilled desserts when my phone rings. It’s Jack.
‘Stella? Where are you?’ There’s an odd urgency in his voice.
‘At the supermarket. The fish sheds were closed. What’s wrong?’
‘We’ve been burgled,’ he says.
My stomach turns over. ‘Wha … what do you mean? How do you know?’
‘I’m at home, aren’t I? Just got back. I’ve called the police. They probably won’t turn up for ages, but I didn’t want you to worry if you saw their car outside.’
‘Shit … What’s been taken?’
He pauses. ‘Just hurry up and get back, okay?’
I run to the tills, my hand shaking as I put the items on the conveyor belt. How could we have been burgled? Making a contactless payment, I stuff all the items into a bag and rush home, my mind racing ahead of me all the way. I already know what Jack will be thinking. That this is somehow connected to Lori.
As I put the key into the lock, he opens the front door. He looks nervous, as if he’s about to break some very bad news.
‘What’s happened? Was Lori in? Is she hurt?’
He shakes his head. ‘She’s not here.’
‘That’s something,’ I reply, putting the bag down and taking off my coat. ‘What did they take?’
‘A few bits. Don’t touch anything,’ he says. ‘Not until the police have been. They might need to take fingerprints.’
Jack takes the shopping into the kitchen. My palm feels sweaty as I turn the door handle to the front room and enter.
Our plastic storage boxes have been emptied onto the bed. My bras, pants, socks and tights stare back at me, and I shudder at the thought of strange fingers picking over them. I look around, desperately trying to work out what’s missing, but the obvious things are still here. Jack’s guitar is leaning against the wall, my laptop sitting on the desk.
‘I think I must have disturbed them,’ Jack says from the doorway, as if answering my silent question. He comes up and gives me a hug. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I think so. Have they taken anything?’
He pulls away, looking uncomfortable. ‘Hmm. Afraid so …’
‘What?’
‘I’m not sure exactly … but they’ve been through your mum and dad’s stuff.’
‘Oh my God.’ I push past him and run into the room on the other side of the hallway. The place is a mess. Cardboard boxes containing my parents’ personal effects have been ripped open. Some silverware has gone, as has my father’s cut-glass whisky decanter. But most alarming of all, my mother’s jewellery box – inlaid wood, lined with red velvet – is lying on its back, empty.
‘No, noooo!’ I wail, falling to my knees.
Jack is right behind me. ‘What was in there?’
‘Their wedding rings … Dad’s gold watch … A necklace, earrings, I can’t remember exactly.’ A sob catches in my throat.
‘I’m so sorry, Stella.’ He crouches down beside me. ‘Were they worth much?’
‘No … hardly anything. But that’s not the point, is it? They belonged to them. They’re all I have left.’
‘I know, it’s so tough.’ He squeezes my shoulder.
‘How come they knew it was here? There are dozens of boxes they could have opened.’
‘Maybe it was just bad luck. Or maybe they looked at the labels.’ He reaches across and pulls one of the boxes towards him. On the outside, scrawled in felt pen, are the giveaway words: M and D’s stuff. Silver, glass, jewellery etc.
‘Oh God, how stupid of me!’ I cover my face with my hands.
Jack stands up. ‘The police will be here soon. The more information we can give them, the better our chances of getting the stuff back.’
‘How the hell did they get in?’ I say.
‘I’m not sure. I had a scout around but I couldn’t see any signs of forced entry. The back door was wide open, though, so either they got in some other way and left via the conservatory, or it was open from the start.’
I don’t respond. Was it Lori’s fault, then? She’s always going into the garden to smoke. Did she accidentally leave the door open? It’s a possibility, but I don’t want to land her in it.
‘And Lori’s definitely not in the house?’ I say.
‘No. I don’t know if that’s a coincidence or …’ He leaves the rest of his sentence for me to complete.
‘Or what?’ My tone is sharp. ‘What are you trying to say, Jack?’
‘I don’t know. I just think it’s a bit weird that she goes out for the first time in weeks and we get burgled.’
‘This is nothing to do with Lori.’
He gives me a patronising smile. ‘Well, you would say that.’
We leave the room as we found it. Jack opens the bottle of wine I bought for dinner and pours two glasses.
I secret
ly text Lori, asking how she is and when she’s going to be home. I don’t tell her about the burglary or that the police are on their way in case she’s frightened off. She doesn’t reply. I persuade myself that there’s nothing suspicious about that. She’s probably having fun with the kids and not looking at her phone.
Two male uniformed officers, PCs Brookes and Khan, turn up forty-five minutes later. They seem enormous in their winter padding, their dark clothes festooned with yellow fluorescent strips, reminding me of giant wasps. Their radios constantly bleep out unintelligible messages and they keep interrupting their sentences to listen to them.
We are standing in the conservatory, shivering by the still open door leading into the garden.
‘Did you definitely close this door before you left the house today?’ PC Khan asks.
‘Yes,’ I say quickly.
He points to the key still in the lock. ‘Not very clever.’
‘I know. But the fences are really high and there’s a brick wall at the bottom. There’s no way anyone could get in or out via the garden.’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ says PC Brookes. ‘I’ll take a look.’ He unclips a torch from his belt and steps outside.
‘This used to be a women’s refuge,’ I explain to the other officer. ‘They had a lot of security.’
‘Yeah, I thought I remembered it. Westhill House, right? Closed down a few years ago. I’ve been called here a few times over disturbances in the street.’
‘None of the cameras work any more,’ says Jack. ‘The alarm’s defunct too.’
‘But they weren’t to know that. I’m surprised they risked it,’ says PC Khan. ‘Problem is, with no sign of forced entry, you’re going to struggle with an insurance claim. Anyone else have a key?’
‘Just the builder,’ I say, reluctantly. ‘But he wouldn’t—’
‘Can you give me his details?’