In Too Deep

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘Oh, Gina.’ Susan pulls on white underwear from a pile of folded clothes. ‘There weren’t any kittens at all, were there?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You poor, poor thing. You must be in agony all the time.’

  I shrug, giving her a little smile. ‘You have no idea.’

  She puts on a loose T-shirt, though I can still see the shape of her. Then she stretches into skinny white jeans.

  ‘Do you remember if the police contacted your husband about it?’ I ask. ‘They were supposed to trace all green Range Rovers of that age within a certain distance.’

  ‘I’m not sure, though I had a call from an officer quite recently,’ Susan replies. ‘A woman. She was asking me about when your husband made the booking. I tried to help.’

  So Kath did follow up. I feel embarrassed for mentioning it now, especially as there doesn’t seem to have been a booking at all.

  ‘But perhaps there was something else,’ Susan continues, frowning as she thinks hard. ‘Yes, a letter and a form. A few years ago now.’ She slips her feet into sparkly flat sandals. Fastens the thin straps. ‘That’s right. Phil had to confirm where he was on a certain day. Could that be it?’

  I nod. ‘Yes,’ I say quietly, feeling relieved and stupid all at the same time.

  ‘It was just routine, I think. The car was parked up in the garage just like it is now.’ She smiles.

  ‘But the dent?’ I look up at her, watching her expression closely. ‘How did that happen?’

  Immediately she laughs, looks embarrassed. ‘That was me, I’m afraid. I’m a bit hopeless at parking. I tried to squeeze into a small space in town and I clipped a wall.’

  She rolls her eyes, pushing her fingers through her hair quickly while peering into the mirror.

  ‘I hope that puts your mind at rest, Gina,’ she says, gathering up her towel.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ I say slowly, thoughtfully, though I’m not sure it does at all.

  ‘Mum, calm down.’

  ‘You’re breaking up, love,’ I say, standing at the window, hoping for better reception. ‘Where are you?’

  When I got back into the room, Hannah wasn’t there. I phoned her, gabbling out all the stuff in my head.

  ‘Have you got Cooper with you?’

  Again, I can’t make out her reply. Her words sound crumbled up.

  Then the line goes completely dead, so I call her back. It goes straight to her voicemail.

  ‘Call me, Hannah.’ I blow a kiss before hanging up.

  My thoughts are in a mess. I sit on the edge of the bed, not knowing what to do. I focus on Paula’s words, her sensible reasoning for the way my mind makes a new reality to fit with what I’m unable to accept.

  ‘The human brain is an incredible thing,’ she said. ‘Yours is doing an excellent job at filling in the gaps with explanations and stories and what-ifs. It’s meant to be soft padding, ultimately to protect you, but very often our brains get it wrong, especially after trauma. That same protection sometimes turns into our own worst nightmares if we’re not careful.’

  I nodded, listening, looking her in the eye. Paula was always so grounded, so together, exuding an aura of peace and assurance. I’d have given anything to be like her, to wake up knowing my own mind, confident that no one would change it.

  But then what did I know? Perhaps her life was as angst-ridden as mine. Perhaps she was just better at hiding it.

  I pull open the minibar fridge, grabbing the tiny bottle of wine I already opened. It doesn’t even warrant a glass. After I’ve finished, I head out of the room again. There’s more I need to know.

  I hear her before I see her, just making her out through a crack in the door. The sobbing is quiet and stifled, yet it comes from the heart. Her back is hunched as she leans over her desk in the office, head in hands, her shoulders twitching up and down. Susan plucks a tissue from the box next to her.

  There’s no one at reception, and the rest of the hotel is unusually quiet too. I hover by the counter, wondering whether to ring the bell, leave her alone, or go on inside. In the end, I decide on a combination. I make sure she hears me before approaching, tapping lightly on the door.

  ‘Susan, are you OK?’

  She doesn’t look round, rather beckons me inside with her hand. She’s clutching a balled-up tissue.

  I go over, sitting down in a chair beside her. We’re close, our legs almost touching. I smell chlorine on her still-damp hair. I want to reach out and take her hand, but I can’t. Not when there’s the remotest possibility that her husband killed my son. I’m still not convinced by her story.

  She sniffs. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. She looks up. Her eyes are almond-shaped, red-rimmed. She’s still beautiful. ‘Everyone expects me to be so . . . so strong.’

  ‘I know what that feels like,’ I say. I touch her hand anyway.

  ‘Running this place single-handedly is really tough. I do my best.’ She straightens up, composing herself, clearing her throat.

  ‘I imagine, especially with Tom away.’

  She nods. ‘He helps when he can, but he’s still young. I don’t want him to feel tied down.’

  ‘And Phil?’ I say. My heart thumps when I say his name.

  ‘He’s got his career,’ she says. ‘Though it’s caused us trouble over the years.’ She gets up and goes to a coffee machine, waving an empty cup at me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘No sugar.’

  She puts the drinks on the desk. ‘But on the whole, Phil and I are solid. Anyway, you’re the last person I should be complaining to about husbands. I’m so sorry, Gina.’ She touches my wrist.

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ I say, meaning it. She doesn’t understand that I want to hear all about Phil. What he’s capable of. And if Rick, to his detriment, has already found out.

  ‘We broke up once for a while.’ Susan dabs under her eyes with a tissue. ‘His bloody job. God, it’s always been about his job.’ She bows her head, smiling, trying to hide the bitterness.

  ‘I was in my early twenties when I took on the hotel. My father died in a sailing accident, and shortly afterwards Mum got ill and couldn’t cope. I’d always promised them I’d keep the place going. I just hadn’t imagined it would be at such a young age. I couldn’t let them down. I even kept the family name when I married Phil.’ She laughs. ‘Much to Phil’s annoyance, but it’s part of the place.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your parents,’ I say, sipping my coffee, washing away the taste of wine. ‘I’m sure they’d be proud of what you’ve achieved.’

  Susan shrugs. ‘You just get on with it, don’t you?’

  I know exactly what she means.

  ‘I think youth and stupidity had a lot to do with it. Phil and I were young when we met. When did you two marry?’

  Usually I dodge those sorts of questions if and when they crop up, though there’s something about Susan that makes it feel OK to tell her.

  ‘We were young and stupid, too,’ I say with a laugh, thinking back. ‘Early twenties. It was a bit on–off to start, but after a few years Rick eventually got the hang of commitment.’ I smile fondly at the memory. ‘He was . . . is the best husband ever.’ I wait for the surge, but oddly, it doesn’t come. ‘I don’t think I could ever be with anyone else.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Susan says, patting my hand. ‘But look at us,’ she laughs, blowing her nose. ‘A right pair of miseries.’

  I laugh in agreement, though just to humour her. ‘When did you and Phil break up?’ I can’t help wondering if it was around the time of Jacob’s death.

  ‘Tom was nearly ten,’ she says, thinking. ‘So it must have been, what, 2007? We’d booked to go to France but ended up cancelling. It was a disaster at the time, though, looking back, it probably helped.’

  I bite my lip. The timing’s wrong, but somehow talking about her issues helps me make sense of mine. ‘Were you apart for long?’

  ‘About a year.’ She sips her coffee, sounding matter-of-fact about th
e whole thing.

  I don’t know what to say, because that was the year that Rick and I renewed our vows. I keep quiet, not wanting to rub it in. Hannah wore a pretty yellow dress, and Jacob was trussed up in a mini morning suit, complete with buttonhole. He wriggled the entire time. The photographs are precious, but the memories are way more valuable.

  ‘We worked things out in the end,’ Susan says. ‘Which basically means I agreed to stop moaning about his work.’

  ‘I have a friend whose husband is overseas most of the year,’ I say, hoping to make her feel better. ‘They see each other at Christmas and once in summer, but that’s it.’ I shrug, not quite understanding the arrangement. ‘It works for them. It seems quite common these days.’

  ‘Thank you, Gina. For understanding. Especially as you’ve been through more than I can ever imagine.’

  She gives me a look and takes hold of my hand again, which I find oddly comforting. Clasped together in a knot of female solidarity, our fists are lying right over where I saw the letter from Adrian.

  It sends a chill through me.

  Then, as she sits back in her chair, the sleeve of her cotton jacket rises up, exposing her watch.

  My watch.

  Hannah

  ‘I hate to see you so unhappy,’ Mum says. She’s standing at the end of the bed holding a tray.

  ‘You’re a fine example,’ I reply, not meaning to sound so cruel. I turn my head so she doesn’t notice my red eyes. I try to stop shaking, but I can’t.

  ‘I asked the chef to make you this.’ She puts the tray down on the bedside table. The tang of tomato soup hits my nostrils, making me feel even more nauseous. ‘Are you cold?’

  It’s not just tomato soup I smell. Between them, Mum and the dish are doing a great impression of a Bloody Mary.

  ‘Yes, this bug’s getting worse,’ I say, trying to sound normal. I huddle my shoulders up to my ears.

  Mum puts her hand on my forehead and frowns. Then, as she’s always done, she leans forward, placing her lips there instead. ‘It’s the only way to tell without a thermometer.’ She frowns. ‘I think you have a fever. What’s hurting the most?’

  ‘My stomach,’ I say, thinking, My heart.

  ‘I should call a doctor,’ she says, covering the soup bowl with a side plate. Then she flips through the hotel information booklet, finding a number.

  ‘No need, Mum. It’s just a tummy upset.’

  ‘You might have appendicitis or a blockage or . . .’ Mum tries to think of some other reason why my stomach could be in knots. ‘Shall I have a feel?’ she asks.

  When I was little, it was often enough comfort to have Mum lay her hands on me in various ways. ‘That feels very serious,’ I remember her telling me in a silly voice, grinning, when I took a harmless tumble off the slide aged seven. The warmth of her hands was enough to soothe my grazed skin, a chewy sweet enough to take away the pain.

  Over the years, she played nurse, sang her silly songs, diagnosing everything from water on the brain when I had a headache, to a rare tropical disease when I was hopping about with a stubbed toe. All were usually cured with Mum’s hugs, a hot drink, some junk food, and occasionally a paracetamol.

  But she wasn’t able to mend Jacob, and I doubt she’s any good at healing broken hearts.

  ‘That boy,’ I blurt out, not meaning to. It’s as though it’s not even me speaking.

  Mum puts down the booklet. ‘Go on.’ She helps me sit up, plumping up my pillows. Then she places the tray on my lap.

  ‘He was really nice.’ I clamp my teeth together to stop the tears.

  ‘The one from university?’

  I nod.

  ‘Did you love him?’

  I pick at a thread on my pyjama sleeve, imagining my life unravelling.

  It takes a while for the second little nod to come.

  ‘Do you love him?’

  I cover my face with my hands, desperate to hold back the tears. I can’t even stand to be inside my own skin when the third nod comes.

  ‘Oh love,’ she says kindly, laying her hands on my arms. ‘I just hope he was gentle with you when he broke up.’

  Mum’s voice is filled with relief. She thinks she’s got to the bottom of my low mood, understands entirely why I’ve been living my life on a knife-edge since last November – that it’s not just because Dad went missing, but because I’m lovesick. Her relief is palpable.

  ‘He didn’t end it,’ I say, uncovering my face. ‘I did.’

  Mum frowns. She doesn’t understand. Isn’t even close.

  ‘I’m sure you must have had good reason. You need to trust your instincts, go with your gut.’ She looks pensive, as if passing on some great secret that she never quite mastered herself.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I did,’ I reply. My eyes sting.

  What she doesn’t know is that me ending things with Tom was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, yet staying with him was impossible, too. These last few months, I’ve been drowning, frozen. Not least because I’ve been waiting for the police to pay me a visit – listening out for the sound of a siren, a knock at the door, a pair of metal cuffs slipping round my wrists.

  Many times I’ve thought of turning myself in. Many times I’ve thought of ending it all. Either way, I’m a coward, doing nothing, forcing Mum to live in agony.

  If I told her the truth, would she still bring me soup?

  ‘There’ll be many boys come and go before you find the right one,’ she says.

  No one will want someone like me.

  ‘Dad and I were on–off for a bit before we finally got together. Maybe you and . . . What’s the boy’s name?’ she asks.

  I swallow it down. ‘David,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Maybe you and David will get back together. Sometimes a break is all it takes. Anyway, you’re still so young. There must be hundreds of lads wanting to take a gorgeous girl like you out and—’

  ‘Mum, don’t,’ I say, shrugging away as she strokes my hair. I hate that she thinks she knows the truth.

  She freezes, looking hurt and bemused, making me want to smash everything in this perfect room. In this beautiful hotel. In this idyllic location.

  The faultless lives it contains.

  Lives that aren’t ours. Aren’t mine or Mum’s. Lives that go on as we sleep.

  Oblivious.

  ‘I’m not going back to university.’

  Mum recoils. It’s a punch in the face.

  ‘No. Oh no, love, you mustn’t overreact just because of a boy.’

  Her expression tells me she thinks that I’ll come round, that my broken heart will soon heal, that I’ll pick myself up.

  I put the tray back on the bedside table. Then I slide down under the duvet and turn on to my side, pulling the covers up over my face. I close my eyes, forcing myself to focus on oblivion. The place where none of this exists. The place where I don’t exist.

  It’s ages before Mum gets up off the bed and slips quietly out of the room.

  Gina

  Susan is a good hostess, gliding between groups of guests who are having pre-dinner drinks, laughing in all the right places, nursing only a glass of sparkling water. Her head tilts back from time to time, an infectious smile exposing her super-white teeth, her neck elongated and elegant.

  I’ve been watching her from where I sit at the darker end of the bar, quietly working my way through a double gin and tonic as she does her job, making sure her guests are happy, that they’ll come back time and time again.

  And she touches people – not just with a hand placed warmly on elbows and arms, or lightly round a waist – but she touches their hearts. It’s what I’ve noticed most about her. An inner warmth radiating out. Something I’ve lost since Rick went.

  One by one, the groups and couples drift off to eat, leaving their aperitif glasses littered on the bar, on tables, the sound of their chatter hanging in the air. A waitress busies about with a tray in the crook of her arm.

  Susan notices me t
hen, lurking in the shadows. She comes up to me, sitting down on a stool to my left. She gives a big sigh, as if she’s only just realised she’s exhausted.

  ‘Are you eating?’ she asks.

  ‘Hannah’s not well,’ I say. ‘I’ll just get room service.’ I turn my glass between my hands, staring at the semicircle of lemon.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing your watch earlier,’ I say suddenly, pointing at her wrist. My heart thumps. I hate confrontation, but I want it back. It was a gift from Rick.

  Susan smiles. ‘It’s cute, isn’t it?’

  She asks the barman for more water.

  I try to control my breathing. I’m making too much of this. It was probably handed into the hotel’s lost property, and then Susan took a shine to it, deciding to keep it for herself when no one claimed it.

  ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘God, now you’re asking,’ she says, thinking. ‘I’ve had it ages. It might have been a Christmas gift, or a birthday present.’ She flashes it at me.

  I don’t believe her.

  ‘The thing is, I have one just the same. And I lost it in the pool changing rooms a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Oh, that’s such a shame,’ she says. ‘Did you check with housekeeping?’

  I give a vague nod, hoping to catch sight of the watch again. Mine had a tiny scratch on the glass front, about one o’clock, but Susan doesn’t keep her arm still long enough for me to get a close look.

  ‘I asked one of the cleaning staff. She said she’d keep an eye open for it.’

  ‘Hopefully it will turn up. We’ve never had anyone with light fingers around here.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ I say, feeling confused and deflated. I take a big sip of my drink.

  Susan suddenly smiles, standing up, greeting a late guest with a kiss on each cheek. It’s as if she’s switched to a different persona – one character for her guests, another one reserved especially for me.

  ‘Do you know the estate agency Watkins & Lowe?’ I ask when she sits down again.

  Susan looks at me a beat too long. ‘Yes, I do,’ she replies. ‘Why?’

  It means admitting I was in the office, but she already knows that.