The Bones of You

by Debbie Howells

  As we sit in her kitchen, she tells me about the therapy she’s been having.

  “I started to face up to a lot of things while I was in there, Kate. About my childhood. How it affected my marriage. My health, too. God, look at the state of me!” She says it self-deprecatingly, picking up the loose fabric of her clothes, under which she’s skin and bones. “Neal and I brought out the worst in each other. I do see that. I know how it must have looked from the outside, too, but if I’m honest, in a strange way we complemented each other. I wanted what he had to give. I wanted him, and there was a price. But there always is, isn’t there?”

  Is she right? Is it impossible to have it all? Did Jo crave Neal’s love so much, she’d do anything, even suffer his abuse?

  I’m reminded of how I felt when Zappa died. Zappa’s life for my marriage was what I’d thought. Jo’s doing what I did, mistakenly balancing emotional books. And she’s wrong.

  “She’s planning to sell the house,” I tell Angus, watching the flames from the fire casting shadows on the walls.

  “Really?” He sounds surprised. “I thought from everything you’d said, it was Neal who was always on the move, not Jo.”

  “I thought so, too. But you can understand it, can’t you? There are too many bad memories in that place. And round here, too.” I hesitate. “You know . . .” I reach a hand out, gently touching his arm. “We still haven’t really talked, have we? About while you were away. Do you think we should?”

  And there it is again, between us. Suddenly, I’m nervous.

  He sighs. “I was bloody jealous, Kate. But when I got over it, I trusted you. I’ve never had any reason not to—only, I suppose trust just got lost along the way.”

  I pause. Do I ask? If I don’t, it will always be there, rearing its ugly head whenever we argue. “Angus? Was there something? With Ally?”

  Again he sighs. Hesitates, which tells me all I need to know. Feeling physically sick, I lean forward to get up and walk away from him, but he grabs my arm tightly. “There wasn’t. But she wanted there to be. We got a bit drunk one night. She tried to kiss me, then realized her mistake.... That’s all. That’s why I booked the hotel.... I hoped you’d never know.”

  I’m quiet, thinking that if Neal hadn’t kissed me, I so wouldn’t get this. For the first time, I tell him the full story of what happened.

  “It doesn’t make it right, but it was a weird time. You weren’t here. Or Grace, of course. And then Jo went on her IT course. I thought it was neighborly to invite Neal and Delphine over.”

  Angus’s jaw clenches. “Well, I’m sure it was. Only, Neal has his own definition of neighborly.”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure he didn’t set it up,” I say slowly. “I talked to Laura. She couldn’t believe I didn’t see it coming.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You told her?”

  I nod. “I had to talk to someone. I felt so guilty, Angus.”

  He’s silent. “You know what? You did nothing wrong, Kate. It was a weird time, but it’s behind us. We’re together. We’ve survived it, and that’s what matters. Now, come here.”

  I wonder at what cost those words come. On the sofa, I snuggle closer to him, but in the silence, my ears prick up at the faint sound of footsteps on the gravel.

  “Someone’s outside.”

  Then there’s the distinctive click of the letter box snapping shut.

  “Just a moment . . .” I unfold myself from his arms and walk out to the kitchen, a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, throw open the door, stare outside into the darkness. But like before, there’s only silence. I close it again.

  Then I see it on the floor. Another envelope.

  I take it through to Angus.

  “If this is what I think it is, it’s the third,” I tell him.

  He takes it from me, opens it, and frowns.

  Not everything is what it seems.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There were two others,” I tell him. “I’ve given them to the police. The first was, ‘If you only knew the truth.’ Then, a few days later, a second arrived. ‘In a world of people, I’m alone.’” Words ingrained on my mind. “It must be to do with Rosie, don’t you think?”

  “It’s hardly likely to be anything else, is it?”

  “Laura thinks there’s a slim chance it’s someone local just stirring up trouble because I’m friends with Jo. She says there are people who do that kind of thing.”

  “Maybe.” Angus is thoughtful. “She might be right.... But what if she’s not? What if someone out there knows something?”

  And though I know the likelihood is he’s wrong, just hearing him say that sends a shiver down my spine.

  I take the note back from him. “I’ll call Sergeant Beauman tomorrow.”

  Angus nods silently, then takes my hand, pulls me toward him. “So, Mrs. McKay, you know what you said earlier on? About this lost time we have to make up for? How about now?”

  ROSIE

  When they’re first together, they go to parties, Joanna and Neal. Flirting, dancing, and laughing together, Neal whirling her round the floor while everyone watches, wanting a piece of them, wanting to know them, wanting the sparkle to rub off on their own gray-brown lives.

  I watch my family take shape, piece by perfect, carefully chosen piece, each placed next to the last. The handcrafted chair that’s the latest thing. The state-of-the-art kitchen, a modern wonder of polished steel and granite. The designer lamp. The contemporary art on the walls. One perfect daughter, then another. The best schools. The perfect friends.

  And from the outside, you see the big house on the quiet, private lane, windows newly painted, lawns mown, flower beds in bloom. The gravel drive, so everyone hears the flash cars coming and going. You might catch a glimpse, too, of a girl’s face framed by pale hair. If you get close enough, you’ll see the look in her eyes is indecipherable. That whatever’s going on is on the inside.

  Neal and Joanna are not like everyone else. They have such wonderful lives. How pretty they are, how charming, how much energy they radiate. He has a car men envy; their house is like a show home. But a family needs the invisible bits that hold it all together. The nuts and bolts and glue that come from strains of laughter, like music in your ears, or from the sharing of secrets and dreams, more precious than jewels.

  And if you don’t have these, if you don’t have love, then over time it all drifts apart—the fancy house with all the stuff in it, flimsy as snowflakes. I watch a beautiful painting as its colors run, then fade to a blur of gray; a sofa go up in flames; a budding flower bloom, then shrivel and die, while the exotic holidays pop like bubbles, leaving soap-scum memories, and the family that has no gravity just floats.

  DELPHINE

  I don’t know when it arrives. Whether it’s blown in on the breeze or in a dream. But her name is in my head, with the screaming inside that’s always there, that no one hears. With all the hate, the lies, and the truth.

  I need her to help me.

  Kate.

  ROSIE

  I watch Joanna’s world shift imperceptibly to one of scalding heat and hypothermic cold. Needle sharpness and invisible softness. Blinding days, and nights so dark, they suffocate her. Cruelty she doesn’t notice until yet again it escalates. He shocks her, hurts her more than last time. For Joanna, and for Neal, too, there are only extremes.

  But she stays. Her own personal triumph of hope over reality. That’s what she tells herself proudly, not seeing that really it’s a triumph of denial. Poor Neal, he doesn’t mean it. He had such a difficult childhood, you know. He can’t help himself. He’s been through so much. Yes, he drinks too much sometimes, but we all do, don’t we? And it’s my fault, too. If I hadn’t upset him, he wouldn’t have got so angry.

  He’s no worse than a lot of men.

  I know, in his own way, he loves me.

  The heavy gold chain he gave her, the one she loves because it makes her look slender, the one that�
��s padlocked round her neck, they’ve lost the key. So she’s found her dark glasses and shut out the world. Even if she wanted to, there’s nothing she can do. She can’t leave him.

  And why would she? Where would she go, and to whom? There’s no one, not since Amy. Only, Amy didn’t understand, not really. She’s not like Joanna. She’s strong and clever. Has a job and her own house, while Joanna doesn’t even have her own bank account. But why would she need one?

  And there are the girls to think of. They need their father, don’t they? Especially when their mother’s so fragile. Joanna knows that she’s weak, that she relies on Neal to keep their house, all their things, their world safe. That, as he constantly reminds her, she could never manage without him. He takes care of everything. Including her. She needs to get herself together—he’s always telling her that, too. To stop ruining all their lives. She’s so lucky she has him, isn’t she? Not many men would put up with her.

  What she needs to do is think less about herself and more about him. It’s not his fault she’s not happy. Some people never are—and, anyway, real life isn’t about happiness. It’s about taking the rough with the smooth. The good with the bad. About making a go of her marriage, no matter what happens.

  As she’s said more times than she can remember, he’s an amazing man. He needs her. She needs to be needed. And unlike other people, she can see beyond his brutality to the complicated, compassionate man underneath, so deserving of the unselfish, giving kind of love not many people have to offer. She’s good at that. It’s the same when her children are ill, when she brings them pills, mops their forehead, fusses over them. Keeps them there as long as she can, because at times like this her life is easy, her purpose valid. They’re small and helpless and need her.

  “Only we’re not small. We’re growing up!” I want to shout at her. “I’ll leave then, Della. You can’t keep us here.”

  But she doesn’t think about that. Nothing must change—because if it does, if no one needs her, what else is there?

  31

  True to her word, Jo’s lawyer gets Neal to consent, and the house goes on the market. The fact that it happens so quickly makes me wonder how stretched they are financially. Straight away, people want to view it, throwing her into the mother of all panics.

  “But I’m not ready!” she cries, running her hands through her hair, knocking her sunglasses onto the floor. She often wears them, even on the dullest day. “Half of me doesn’t even want them here, prying into our lives. Everyone knows about us. They believe the gossip, don’t they? I’ve told the agent to give me a few days.”

  It’s exactly what she said last week. I wonder if perhaps she’s having second thoughts.

  “Jo, you really don’t have to do this. Not yet. Put it off, even if only for a couple of months, but give yourself a break.”

  “But I have to, Kate.” Her eyes are desperate. “Can’t you see? I need the money. And as long as I stay, it’s like living with a ghost.”

  She doesn’t say whose ghost. But the more I try to reason with her, the more upset she gets, and in the end, I let it go.

  “You could at least let me tidy your garden,” I tell her. “Nothing major. Just cut the grass, prune the shrubs a bit. It’s surprising what a difference it makes.”

  I can see her thinking about it. She glances outside. “Are you sure? You’re so busy. I hate to ask.”

  “You didn’t ask. I offered. It won’t take me long. I’ll pop in tomorrow, when I get a free couple of hours, if you don’t mind me letting myself in?”

  “I’ll probably be here,” she says, hesitating. “But if I’m not, that’s so kind, Kate. Thank you.”

  “I can help, Mummy.” It’s Delphine, standing in the doorway. Neither of us had noticed her there.

  “Oh!” Jo looks flustered again. “Don’t worry, honey. . . . I think we’re almost there.”

  “But there’s the garage. I could tidy in there.”

  An odd look crosses Jo’s face. “I don’t think we need to worry about that. People don’t care what’s in your garage, do they? Before we move, I’ll get someone in to clear it.”

  “No, Mummy. You can’t do that. Remember my old books are in there?”

  “They’re upstairs, aren’t they? I’m sure they are.... Why don’t you go and have a look?”

  “Would you like some help, Delphine?” She stands alone, this child. I’ve never seen Jo touch her, cuddle her, or any visible display of affection between them.

  Delphine hesitates. Then it’s as though something unspoken flows between her and Jo before she turns back to me. “Thank you, but I think I can manage.”

  The next day, when I go back to work on Jo’s garden, the house is locked and Jo’s car isn’t there. I let myself in through the side gate, as we agreed, and get to work.

  A couple of hours in, I realize there’s far more work needed than I’d thought. The lawn’s freshly mown stripes give it an instant face-lift, but everywhere I look, there’s something else. After hunting around for a wheelbarrow, I start on the flower beds nearest the house, imagining most potential buyers won’t venture much farther, only the trouble is, once I’ve done them, the rest looks even worse.

  There’s no sign of a compost heap. In need of something large to hold all the weeds, I go to get some gardening sacks from my car. Only, as I pass the garage, I glance in the window, to see a pile just inside, on the floor.

  I try the door. It’s unlocked, so I let myself in. In spite of what Jo said, it’s the tidiest garage I’ve ever seen. A pair of shelves at one end hold one or two pots and what I imagine are the books that belong to Delphine. Other than that, there’s hardly anything in here. Apart from the suitcases of Neal’s clothes, there are boxes, gardening tools, and an old cupboard.

  As I bend down to pick up the gardening sacks, I don’t hear anyone, but I’m suddenly aware of someone close behind me. As I stand up and turn round, I’m face-to-face with Jo.

  “God! You gave me the fright of my life! I was just getting these!” I wave the empty bags at her.

  “How did you get in?” If I didn’t know her better, I’d say the look on her face was hostile. Behind her, Delphine appears.

  “Hi! The door was open. I didn’t think you’d mind. There’s more to do out there than I realized. I thought I’d take the rubbish away to save you the trouble.”

  “I don’t understand,” she says, turning to her daughter. “Delphine locked it just before we went out, didn’t you?”

  Delphine nods.

  I shrug. “Maybe the lock stuck or something. Anyway, I ought to get on.”

  Jo seems to snap out of whatever it is that’s preoccupying her. “Yes. Of course. Sorry. You just surprised me, that’s all. I’ll put the kettle on and make us some tea.”

  “That would be great.”

  As I go back to my pruning, the irony strikes me that for all Neal’s controlling ways, Jo, too, seems to like her life just so. The garden, however, gets the better of me. I make it halfway along the first border before deciding the rest will have to wait for another day.

  As I stand up and stretch my aching back, the little apple tree catches my eye. It hasn’t flowered the way it ought to, and the leaves that are unfurling are yellowed and unhealthy looking. And I wonder, If I replaced it, would she even notice?

  Laura stops by unexpectedly with the news that the trial starts next month.

  “Do you know if Jo will have to be there?” It’s a question I don’t dare ask Jo.

  “Almost certainly. She’s a key witness, isn’t she?”

  “I’m really worried about what it will do to her.” It’s too soon for her. She’s too fragile.

  “I know. Same.”

  “You’d think . . .” I hesitate. “Nothing’s changed, has it? I mean, it’s obvious enough Neal’s guilty . . . isn’t it?”

  Laura raises her eyebrows. “Are you thinking about Alex again?”

  Suddenly, I’m less sure. “Maybe . . . I don’t kn
ow. Only, you read about innocent people being convicted.... What if Neal’s not the murderer?”

  “There’s nothing innocent about Neal Anderson. Anyway, the trial will consider absolutely everything.” She hesitates; then a look of surprise dawns on her face. “Oh my God. You’re thinking about the notes.”

  ROSIE

  I watch Joanna stare at her reflection. Everything he said was true. The lines, the circles under her eyes, skin pulled too tight over jutting cheekbones. She sees ugliness. Ugly face, ugly hair, ugly everything, not the person inside, who’s terrified of being without him, nor does she see the beauty in softness. She’s become a caricature, unlike other women, for whom beauty is so natural and effortless.

  She’s fat, too. Look at her arms, at the loose skin under her chin. Pinching the nonexistent flesh round her middle, she feels the familiar curl of self-hatred inside her. She’s hideous. No wonder he pushed her away.

  She rubs her cheeks, trying to lure color into them, then stretches out imaginary wrinkles toward her hairline, picturing a surgeon’s knife slicing into the pale skin, lifting it, creating perfection. How can she do that, repeatedly enduring the pain? But it’s worth it, ten, twenty times over. Anything is, to be with him.

  But it’s too late now. He doesn’t want her. But then, she lost him a long time ago to younger, longer-limbed versions of herself, like the models on the pages of Vogue.

  She’s turned a blind eye to them, because that way, they go away—eventually. Only, this one’s different. Serious. She’s seen photos of them, online or in the press, the woman standing almost beside him or just behind him. Caught him whispering into his phone. Read the texts that leave nothing to the imagination. Private, explicit messages that he leaves for her to find, knowing they’re like bullets or knives through her heart, laughing his cruel laugh, ridiculing her.