And Then She Ran

by Karen Clarke

  After he told me they were staying together, that she was a different woman now, that he knew this was what she’d been waiting for, the initial shock wore off. Once I’d had a good cry, I felt relieved. No more sneaking about, no more complications. I didn’t want an affair, to be someone’s mistress, to disrespect another woman. With my burgeoning feelings nipped in the bud I could get my life back on track. If only he hadn’t come back into it a few months later.

  Startled back to the present, I caught a movement on the driver’s side of the van. I sensed a face staring through the rain and condensation, a shadowy figure moving past at speed. Pulse skittering, I jabbed the switch to open the windows but the engine was off. Morag had left the key in the ignition, but by the time I’d leant over to turn it on and lowered the window, whoever it was had gone. Maybe it was a shopper, though the spaces on either side of the van were empty now. I looked at the bank of trees in front, swaying against a backwash of grey sky. Craning my neck, I looked back at the car park, but saw only shoppers through the billowing rain, loading their car boots with bags, abandoning trolleys to the elements. I tried to pick out a parking attendant, but couldn’t make out a uniform among the huddled figures and bobbing umbrellas.

  Two children were running in circles and jumping in puddles like puppies. When one stopped and stared at me, I closed the window and made sure the doors were locked. ‘Silly Mummy,’ I said to Lily, who was examining her hand and started at the sound of my voice. I swiped my damp cheeks with my palm and waited for my heartbeat to slow.

  I thought about Declan, a relative stranger in Fenbrith, finding me like a heat-seeking missile, determined to strike up a conversation despite my obvious reluctance. Why hadn’t he stayed at the bar and chatted to Bryn and Ifan?

  You have to stop this, said an unsparing voice in my head. People are friendly around here. You’re the one who stands out.

  Another voice, Patrick’s this time, low and warm, his New York accent subtle. You do know every man in here is looking at me, wishing they were sitting where I am, talking to you.

  Declan wasn’t Patrick and even if he’d been an ‘admirer’ as Morag had put it, he hadn’t asked for my number, or even where I was staying. Unless he already knew?

  ‘Let’s put some music on.’ As I lurched sideways to fiddle with the radio, Lily grabbed a strand of my hair with a happy squeal.

  ‘Hey!’ I tried to relax as I freed myself, bobbing my head to an old ABBA song to make her smile. ‘You’re a cheeky monkey.’

  I reached to the floor for my bag and pulled out my phone, freshly charged and solid in my hand. There was only one bar of reception, but I’d seen the ‘free Wi-Fi’ sign for the café inside the supermarket as we drove in. I could probably get online from here. It was time to look Patrick up.

  Chapter 15

  My palms felt slippery as I waited for the phone to connect. Morag could be back any second. I should have logged on straight away, had intended to look while we were at the pub but got distracted by Declan, then lunch. A part of me didn’t want to read something in black and white that I wouldn’t be able to unsee.

  But now, I had to know.

  ‘Hurry up, hurry up,’ I muttered, turning it into a song for Lily, who was staring intently at the phone. ‘You’re not allowed one of these until you’re at least seventeen.’ I was filled with dread at the thought of the social media world I’d have to navigate with her in the future. With any luck, things would turn full circle and the world would revert to old-fashioned ways of communicating. The thought of her being bullied online made my blood run cold. Maybe we’d still be living in Fenbrith with Morag, in blissful anonymity, Lily oblivious to technology, content to live off the land, surrounded by wildlife with books for entertainment. At least her life wouldn’t be complicated by her father’s temper the way mine had been – as long as Patrick left us alone.

  Finally, I was online. Adrenaline flooded my veins. My fingers twitched as I typed Patrick Holden into the search engine, spelling it wrong the first time.

  Immediately, his image sprang up: a tasteful, well-lit headshot on his campaign website, conveying trustworthiness and quiet authority; a man guided by a strong moral compass. Seeing the faint laughter lines in the tanned skin around his coal-dark eyes, the Hollywood cleft in his clean-shaven chin, the thick dark hair I knew smelt faintly of limes, brought heat to the backs of my eyes.

  I will not cry.

  Pressing my lips together, I scanned for a newspaper article among the many links. Most of them detailed his race for the DA’s position – Patrick Holden on running for Manhattan District Attorney: “There has to be a sweeping overhaul of our criminal legal system.”; The Race to become Manhattan’s DA: Patrick Holden has what it takes … Patrick Holden, Manhattan DA race’s youngest and most promising candidate. My mind spiralled back to the body at the bottom of the stairs. His wife’s death wouldn’t be big news over here, but in New York there would have been quite a ripple.

  When I spotted the sentence I’d missed the first time, my heart jerked. Manhattan DA, Patrick Holden, 39, talks about the tragic loss of his wife.

  My limbs grew weak. Releasing a shaky breath, I pressed the link and brought up the feature on the front page of the New York Times, headed by a photo of Patrick caught mid-sentence, one hand outstretched as though in appeal. The photographer had captured the grief-stricken quality of his expression, the haunted gaze and crumpled brow. Leaning forward on the edge of a leather chair, shirtsleeves rolled up, one arm resting on his knee, he managed to give the impression of strength and resilience, of someone wholly reliable – even at his most vulnerable. The public would lap it up. Elise’s death had catapulted him into their consciousness in a way no amount of campaigning ever could, and he’d been pretty successful at that. He would undoubtedly gain new fans, new supporters – new admirers.

  Jaw clenched I skimmed the words underneath.

  Patrick Holden, 39, campaigning to become Manhattan’s youngest ever District Attorney next year, talked today about the tragic loss of his wife Elise, 36, eldest daughter of Clarence and Vanessa Boyd, founders of the Boyd Publishing Group. Elise tragically fell to her death at the couple’s home last week. It’s believed that she had been drinking heavily at the time.

  ‘The shock of finding her body will never leave me,’ Holden said, adding, ‘It’s true that my wife had fought a long battle against alcohol addiction, something those who loved her had tried to help her overcome. We’d like to ask for privacy at this extremely difficult time so her loved ones can grieve in peace. I will be taking some time out, but hope to be back soon, serving my community.’

  Some filler followed about Patrick’s New Jersey childhood, the youngest of three children, and the wrongful incarceration of his older brother, which led to his suicide when Patrick was eighteen, firing his ambition to become a lawyer, and how he’d worked as a public defender for some years, fighting for the underdog. He’d told me about his brother. I’d felt a kinship with him because we’d both suffered a family loss at a young age.

  My eyes skimmed the article again. No mention of their child. He’d portrayed himself in the best possible light, giving the newspaper enough roughage – Elise’s alcoholism – to satisfy their appetite for scandal (hers, not his) while retaining his integrity and all the sordid details. What lie had he fed Elise’s parents?

  My stomach felt hot with acid as I imagined how they must feel. Patrick had told me they didn’t particularly like him at first, because of the nature of the cases he worked on and the long hours he put in, the pressure to win that meant he was permanently cupping the back of his neck to massage away the tension. They thought their daughter could do better, like her sister, whose husband had set up a tech company worth millions, but they’d come to respect Patrick’s work ethic and determination to succeed. Of course, it wasn’t his fault that Elise was an alcoholic, but there’d be no doubt in her parents’ eyes that she’d be alive if she hadn’t married him.

>   Insides fluttering, I scrolled down, a comment beneath the article catching my eye.

  He probably pushed her. Have the police investigated?

  My vision blurred as my mind crashed back to Elise, broken at the foot of the stairs, her long black hair thrown across her face. Patrick’s conflicted features; the split-second brightness of relief. By then, I was sure he’d wanted her gone – had wanted rid of us both. I’d become part of the problem, one that could ruin his future. What if he’d seen this comment and thought I’d posted it, reneging on my promise? Feeling dizzy, I read on. Several people had leapt to his defence.

  That’s sick. He’s just lost his wife, asshole.

  Give the guy a break! I’ve met him a couple of times. He’s one of the good ones.

  Maybe he should look at diverting alcohol and drug-addicted criminals to treatment programs as part of his campaign.

  I forced my breathing to slow. It was fine. Patrick had handled the tragedy. No one else knew about me, or Lily – or so I’d thought.

  Just go, he’d said at the end, the arrangement of skin and bones in front of me transformed from the man I’d briefly imagined a future with, to a person I barely recognised.

  And here we are. I’d left, yet he didn’t trust me. Did he want Lily back, or was it that he didn’t like me calling the shots? Maybe wanted to show me who was boss? It seemed so old-fashioned and Patrick was all about the future, about looking forward. It made no sense. But I hadn’t imagined the note, the footprints, my ring in the woods. I just couldn’t work out what he wanted.

  Could I call him? My mind rejected the idea. What could I say? Reiterate I had no intention of changing my mind, that I wanted to be left in peace? He knew that already. Frustrated, I tuned back in to the lashing rain, to the radio playing ‘I’m Free’ by the Rolling Stones. I nearly laughed. I was supposed to be free, but felt anything but.

  ‘Sorry I took so long. It was crazy in there.’ Morag was back, filling the van with reusable shopping bags and the peaty smell of outside, shaking herself like a spaniel as she clambered inside, raindrops flying from her hair. ‘How is she?’

  She looked at Lily, who’d fallen asleep, with a complicated expression of love and something darker – the sort of look I’d occasionally caught on my own face; fear that everything precious could be snatched away any moment.

  ‘She’s fine.’ Tears filled my eyes. Would there ever be a time when I didn’t have to keep looking over my shoulder? When we were part of Patrick Holden’s history? ‘We’re both absolutely fine.’

  Chapter 16

  Back at the cottage, I was filled with a surge of restless energy that Skip picked up on, barking and jumping around us as we put away the shopping – an eclectic mix that included a bag of lemons and jars of spices I suspected were to encourage me to keep cooking, and several packs of dried dog food. When the cupboards were full, which didn’t take long, the rest of the items lined along the worktop and on a shelf fixed to the wall, I spotted the muddy pawprints Skip had trailed in.

  ‘Shall I clean the floor? I can do the windows too if you like, while Lily’s quiet.’ She was awake in her bouncy chair, which I’d placed on the table out of the dog’s reach. ‘I’m not used to doing nothing.’ And I needed a distraction.

  ‘I don’t need a housekeeper.’ Morag softened her tone as she added, ‘I suppose you can do the floor, but not much point cleaning the windows if it’s going to keep raining.’

  ‘It’s stopped now.’ The door was open, cool air drifting through the rooms, a spill of lemony sunlight on the tiles. ‘I think it’s done for today.’

  ‘You’re in a funny mood.’ Morag watched with a frown as I picked up Skip and petted his ears with exaggerated daintiness, making woofy sounds for Lily’s benefit. Maybe if I acted fine, I’d feel it.

  ‘I’m just glad to be here.’ I put the dog down and reached for the plastic bucket I’d spotted under the sink. ‘I can’t thank you enough for making us welcome.’

  ‘You’ll be tearing your hair out with boredom by the end of the week.’

  My smile felt more like a grimace. ‘Believe me, boredom would be good.’ I turned on the taps, trying to nourish the feeling of hope I’d felt talking to Annie at the pub. I realised how tightly coiled my muscles were. My temples throbbed as if I’d been grinding my teeth. ‘Being able to appreciate all … this.’ I swept my arm around to encompass the cramped little room – Lily waving her arms, Skip turning circles in the rectangle of sunlight, and through the open door, a patchwork of blue as the rainclouds cleared. ‘I don’t think I’ve properly seen the sky for months.’ That much was true. In Manhattan, there were mostly skyscrapers if I looked up.

  ‘Well, that’s a tragedy.’ Morag’s mouth curved into a smile that made me think of a photo Mum had of them, dressed up for a rare night out together, arms around each other’s waists, heads pressed together. Boys never looked at me if I was out with Morag, Mum had said, and it was easy to see why in that moment. ‘You need to get out more,’ Morag said now.

  ‘I intend to.’

  My fake enthusiasm seemed to make Morag uncomfortable, as if I was displaying some deeply unstable behaviour. ‘I noticed you’d got Mum’s ring,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘I saw it on the dressing table.’

  Startled, my fingers went to the shape of it in my pocket. ‘She left it to me,’ I said. ‘I take it everywhere.’ The fact that I hadn’t noticed it was missing, that it had been in someone else’s hand – someone who hadn’t meant me to find it – made me feel suddenly sick. ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Why would I mind?’ Morag’s forehead rolled into a frown. ‘I’m glad you have it.’

  ‘I’m going to get a chain so I can wear it.’ My voice sounded odd, pitched wrongly. ‘I never wore jewellery at the restaurant, but now …’

  She seemed to be waiting for more. When it didn’t come, she looked at me oddly and nodded. ‘I need to make a delivery to the farm where his nibs came from.’ She nodded at Skip, who cocked his head. ‘And a couple of other places.’

  ‘You do home deliveries?’ I said, grabbing the change of subject.

  ‘People love their organic fruit and veg.’ She ploughed her fingers through her hair, which seemed to be the closest she got to brushing it. ‘I invest the money back into the business, if you can call it that.’

  ‘It sounds exactly like a business.’

  Morag looked grudgingly pleased. ‘I tried to get into baking bread,’ she said with a confessional air. ‘Got as far as making a sourdough culture, but everything turned out either rock-hard or burnt. I don’t have the magic touch.’

  I smiled, picturing it. ‘I’m a decent enough baker. Maybe I could make cakes as well, for birthdays, or offer private catering for dinner parties.’

  Morag looked up from the cardboard boxes she’d plucked from under the table, her eyebrows high. ‘You think people are throwing dinner parties in Fenbrith?’

  My laugh surprised me as much as Morag. ‘Maybe not all the time, but you never know. There are other places. Caernarfon’s not far.’

  ‘Do you drive?’

  I deflated. ‘I passed my test before I went to New York, but over there we either took the subway or caught cabs. Ana sometimes drove when we went out.’

  ‘Ana was the friend you went to stay with?’

  ‘That’s right.’ I was pleased she’d asked, after seeming uninterested in my life there. ‘Her uncle Julio owned the restaurant where I worked.’

  Morag looked thoughtful. ‘It’ll be hard for you to get around if you don’t drive. I could give you some refresher lessons.’

  ‘You could,’ I said. ‘Or, you can be our designated driver.’

  ‘I don’t mind either way.’ She lifted the boxes and patted her pocket for her keys. ‘But you need to be independent.’

  Was she warning me not to rely on her? ‘I’ll think about it,’ I promised. Being able to drive would be essential if I needed to make a quick getaway. ‘Morag, could … would
you mind if I used the landline to call Ana?’ I hadn’t realised I was going to ask, but mentioning my friend had brought a strong craving to hear her voice.

  Morag gave a curt nod. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘I can pay for the call.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Skip followed her outside and I left the door open, confident he would bark if anyone approached. Beginning to mop the floor I tried not to keep looking round, imagining someone sneaking up behind me. Was that what Patrick wanted? I didn’t want to keep thinking about him, but maybe that was his intention.

  I wished I’d asked Morag to buy some batteries for the radio, but made do with singing the ABBA song I’d heard earlier, checking Lily’s expression and catching a smile.

  When I’d finished mopping, I changed Lily’s nappy on her changing mat, blowing raspberries on the soft domed skin of her belly. She grabbed at my hair and made cooing noises. I revelled in the sound, wanting to always make her happy. To let her know she could trust me to keep her safe. Safe. Such a simple word.

  ‘You’re the cutest baby in the world.’ I took out my phone and snapped a couple of pictures once I’d dressed her. The forest-green of her jumpsuit made her eyes look darker, but the image quality was terrible, the phone a cheap model with a basic camera. Maybe I could ask Morag for some lighting tips, and in return show her how to bake bread.

  Lily grew excitable, kicking her legs and thrashing her arms around. I found a blanket in Morag’s bedding pile and spread it on the rug, away from the draught from the open door, and placed Lily on top so she could wriggle about.

  Next, I wiped all the surfaces with a damp cloth, careful to put each item back in the same place. As I worked, I turned my mind to the apartment above the restaurant. I’d carried on living there after Ana decided to study food science at New York University, choosing to share accommodation nearby with a couple of fellow students. The waitress we’d shared the apartment with initially had left to go travelling, so I had the place to myself. Ana’s uncle hadn’t needed the money so my rent was nominal and I’d been able to afford to change the furniture, do some decorating, make the place my own. Housed in one of Manhattan’s oldest buildings it had plenty of character – high ceilings, ornate coving – and big windows with a view of the Hudson if I squinted hard. It was palatial compared to Morag’s cottage. Although it had mostly been a place to sleep when I wasn’t working, it came to feel like home; the smells and sounds of the restaurant as familiar as the ones I’d grown up with.