by Tess Stimson
‘Can I have some of that?’
‘As if. Didn’t anyone tell you it’s bad for you?’
‘According to Liesl, it’s medicinal.’
‘According to Liesl, acorns have souls.’
‘Spoilsport,’ she says, but she’s smiling. ‘Fancy pizza tonight? Gran’s at bridge, and I don’t feel like cooking.’
‘Sure.’
My mobile buzzes and automatically I pick it up and click on my inbox. I don’t give a shit if it’s from Dessler and his morons. Agness is right: give it a year or so and none of this will matter. In the meantime, they can throw all the verbal they like. Sticks and stones . . .
But when I see the video, I have trouble trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. I know what it is: I just don’t want to believe it.
Dessler’s voice bounces off the tiled walls: Did you get it all? Cool, that’ll do.
The bastards filmed it. They fucking filmed it, and now it’s gone viral.
They’re careful to keep the camera-phone away from the mirrors so it’s impossible to see their faces, but there’s no mistaking it’s me on the receiving end. My head bangs against the edge of the bathroom sink, snot and tears mingling with blood from where I’ve bitten through my bottom lip. I don’t even remember doing that. It’s like a horror flick, except it’s real, and it happened to me.
And now everybody knows it.
Agness, watching over my shoulder, snatches the phone from my hand and throws it across the room as if it’s a grenade, her face grey. She’s only fourteen. She shouldn’t have had to see that.
‘You’ve got to tell Dad,’ she whispers.
‘No!’
‘You have to!’ she insists. ‘Guy! You have to go to the police!’
‘You think I want the whole fucking world to know about this?’
‘They already do!’
I cringe against the wall, covering my face with hands. ‘What am I going to do? Agness. What am I going to do?’
‘You’ve got to go and talk to Dad. He’ll know what to do.’
I look up helplessly. ‘This can’t be fixed. I’m screwed.’
‘You don’t know that,’ she says stubbornly. ‘You have to try.’
www.GuyForrestShouldKillHimself.com. For the first time since all this started, I seriously consider it. I just want all this to be over. It’s too hard. Too much fucking work.
Agness starts to cry. Quietly, without drama. I look at her pinched, ashen face and a cold, hard knot of resignation settles in my stomach. I can’t do that to her. Not after all she’s had to cope with already.
She comes downstairs with me and sits on the bottom step, waving her hands in little shooing motions towards Dad’s study.
I suck down a breath and knock on the open door. ‘Dad?’
His back’s to me, and I have to say his name several times before he jumps and swings round in his chair. ‘Dad, can I talk to you?’
‘Does it have to be now?’ he says tersely.
I choke on the words. I know it’s not my fault, what happened, but all of a sudden I’m not sure Dad’s going to see it that way. Are you sure you didn’t do anything to provoke them? What sort of signals are you giving off?
Are you gay?
I can feel his attention slipping away before his phone even rings.
‘Sorry, Guy. I’ve got to take this,’ he says, turning away.
In a way, I’m almost relieved. There’s only one option left.
‘Sorry, Ags,’ I whisper as I pass her on the stairs.
Kate
‘What did you expect?’ Julia asks, not unsympathetically. ‘You left him, Kate. You can’t expect him to wait for you to come back for ever.’
‘He never even discussed it with me,’ I protest. ‘I’m gone a few weeks, and just like that he files for divorce?’
‘Three months. And did you talk it over with him before you decided to leave?’
The awkward silence that follows this uncomfortable truth is interrupted by the arrival of our waiter. We both lean back in our chairs, glad of the diversion, as he places a plate of insalata tricolore in front of each of us. I reach for my glass of fizzy water. It’s blisteringly hot today, even for mid-July. Beneath the shade of the restaurant’s yellow canopy, it must be close to forty degrees. A shimmering heat rises from the baking cobbles, and in the centre of the piazza dozens of tourists have taken off their shoes and are standing in the fountain in a futile attempt to cool down. Overhead, tiny pipes spray a fine mist of water over the tables, as if we’re hot-house flowers in a greenhouse. I pluck my damp T-shirt away from my skin. It’s like being wrapped in a hot, wet duvet.
I pick up my fork and then put it down again. ‘It’s just so final,’ I say. ‘Julia, I swear, I never wanted this.’
‘Nor does Ned, not really. He’s hurt, and he’s angry.’
‘He hates me.’
‘No, he doesn’t. He’s just upset.’
‘Upset? Julia, you saw what he’s told his lawyers about me. “Obsessed with my work. No time for the children. Volatile mood swings . . .” For God’s sake!’
She forks up a mouthful of avocado. ‘Come on. It’s just the way it works. He’s gone to the lawyers with his laundry list of complaints, and they’ve whipped it up into a petition for unreasonable behaviour. That’s their job. Apart from using desertion as grounds, they’ve got nothing. They’ve made it all sound far worse than it is. They pit you against each other, then stand back and cash in.’
‘He’s told them how many times we had sex!’ I cry.
‘It’ll get a lot worse than this if you contest it and it goes to court.’
I take a small bite of tomato and try to swallow. Since the papers arrived I seem to have a permanent lump in my throat. Of course I knew Ned and I couldn’t continue in limbo for ever, but even I am surprised by the shock and grief that’s overtaken me in the days since I received the letter from his lawyer. Surely the death of a marriage is one of the saddest things in the world.
I have a sudden image of Ned turning at the altar to watch me walk down the aisle, his face alight with innocent trust and hope for the future. No one ever gets married thinking they won’t make it. I was so afraid that morning as Julia helped me into my silk fish-tailed wedding dress: scared beyond reason that Ned wouldn’t turn up, would jilt me at the eleventh hour in front of everyone, like Miss Havisham. I hadn’t even wanted any bridesmaids, so convinced was I that the more fuss I made, the more abject would be my eventual humiliation.
I’ve never told Ned that, I realize sadly. I was always too afraid to let him know how much I loved him; I learned the hard way from Eleanor that whoever loves least – or at least appears to – has the upper hand.
For the first time, I feel the full weight of all our blunted dreams. During the past three months, I’ve rewritten my own history, casting him in my memories as the safe choice, the dull choice; an escape from my father, and from the destructive passion of men like Alessio. Maybe that’s partly true; but I did love Ned once, very much. How ironic that I’ve been unable to acknowledge it until now, when the last of the love we shared has gone.
‘Are you going to contest this?’ Julia asks carefully.
‘I can’t go back to him.’
‘Are you sure?’
My eyes prick. ‘I had to leave, Julia. I couldn’t stay in that marriage any longer. I felt like I was being walled up alive. But this breaks . . . it breaks . . . my heart.’
‘I know, darling.’
‘Everything in that petition is true. I know the lawyers present the facts in the worst possible light, but I was more committed to my work than to my marriage. I thought I was doing the right thing, but at the end of the day I’m as responsible as Ned for letting things between us die. It’s no wonder he gave up on me so quickly. What incentive did I give him to wait?’
‘He had a choice,’ Julia says robustly. ‘He could have come out and laid siege.’
‘I thought he would,’
I admit. Suddenly sick to my stomach, I push my food away. ‘I didn’t mean this as a test, but I suppose in a way it was.’
The waiter collects Julia’s empty plate and my untouched salad, balancing them on his forearm as he sets two steaming bowls of spaghetti alle vongole in front of us. My stomach heaves.
‘Listen to me,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘I sound pathetic. I don’t want to be with him, but he’s not allowed not to want me?’
‘And Keir?’ she asks gently.
I crumble a piece of bread between my fingers. I don’t know why this is suddenly so difficult. Until a few days ago, when the letter arrived, I’ve been happier than I’ve felt in years. It’s not just the sex – it’s the way Keir sees me. It’s the fact that he’s often lost for words because he’s listening to what I’m telling him rather than thinking about what he’s going to say next. It’s the graduate art school brochure left beside my bed. It’s the pair of flip-flops he produces from his backpack just at the point I think my heels are going to kill me. It’s the gap between his front teeth, the way he holds his cigarette between his third and fourth fingers, the indescribably beautiful expression on his face when he comes.
‘I love him,’ I say simply. ‘I know it makes things so much more complicated, but I do.’
She spreads her hands. ‘Then why the tears over Ned?’
‘I don’t know. Because of the waste, I suppose. Ned and I got it so wrong. It could have been so different.’ I lick my forefinger and dab at the crumbs I’ve made. ‘It was a shock when I got that petition. I don’t know why it should’ve been, but you’re right: I can’t expect Ned to wait around for ever. We might as well get this over so we can both move on with our lives.’
Julia doesn’t reply. I watch the top of her bent head as she studiously pushes a clam around the plate as if her life depends on it.
‘What?’ I say.
‘It’s none of my business . . .’
‘Julia.’
She puts down her fork with a clatter. ‘OK. You really want to know what I think?’
I nod warily, not at all certain that I do.
‘I think Keir’s distracting you from what’s really going on. Maybe you do actually love him, though I can think of another L-word that would be more appropriate. Either way,’ she adds, ‘either way, he’s the reason you’re not fighting to save your marriage, and that worries me.’
‘Keir has nothing to do with this. My marriage was over long before we even met.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asks softly. ‘Or is it just easier to tell yourself that, so that Ned has to make the decision for you?’
With impeccable timing, our waiter reappears and refills our glasses of water, giving us both time to regroup.
‘I don’t know how it happened, or what I did to deserve it,’ I say finally, ‘but Keir is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’m sorry if that sounds clichéd, but it’s true. Maybe you’re right; maybe it’ll all end in tears. But this isn’t some kind of holiday romance. I would’ve fallen in love with him whenever we met. He makes me feel . . . I don’t know . . .’
‘Sexy? Appreciated?’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ I ask, nettled.
‘Nothing. But you don’t need to screw a teenager to feel that way.’
I gasp as if I’ve been slapped. ‘I know you mean well,’ I say, holding on to my temper with difficulty. ‘But you don’t understand. I love Keir because when I’m with him I can simply be me.’
She slams her glass on the table. ‘You’re not you with Keir! Of course you like the way you are with him. You don’t have any responsibilities. It’s not real.’ She sighs in exasperation. ‘Wise up, Kate. No one likes getting older. We all wonder how we ended up where we are. But whether you like it or not, part of you is being a wife and mother. We’d all like to be twenty-one again, and not just for the great skin. But think back. It all seemed pretty stressful at the time, didn’t it? No knowing what we wanted to do with our lives, wondering if we’d ever fall in love. Frankly, I’m bloody glad to be forty, if you want the truth.’
‘It’s different for you. You have your freedom. You get to be yourself every day. You don’t know what it’s like—’
‘You think my life is perfect?’ Julia demands. ‘I’m permanently broke, I’m lonely, and I’ll never have a child. Chances are I’ll grow old alone. I’d like to run away from my life to yours.’
Unexpectedly, I laugh. ‘I’ve always wanted curly hair,’ I say.
Julia stares at me for a long moment and then smiles tiredly. ‘And I’d have given anything for mine to be straight.’
We look sadly at each other. ‘No one said it would be easy, did they?’ I say.
‘You really love Keir, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ I say simply.
The moment is broken by my phone ringing. I pull it out, glance at the number and feel myself going pale. ‘It’s Ned.’
‘Talk of the devil.’
I take a deep breath to steady myself, and answer it.
‘Is Guy with you?’ Ned says without preamble.
Instantly, I’m alert. ‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘I don’t know.’ He sounds fraught, worried. ‘He’s left. We thought he might have come to see you.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘Yesterday. I can’t be sure when. Maybe even the night before.’
‘He’s been gone two days and you didn’t notice?’
‘Kate, he’s seventeen. I don’t keep him on reins any more.’
My stomach lurches. ‘If he was on his way here, he should’ve arrived by now.’
‘Christ,’ Ned says, and I can hear the fear in his voice. ‘Christ.’
It’s not like Guy to disappear without saying a word. He’s normally so reliable.
‘What is it?’ I demand sharply. ‘Ned, what’s going on? What is it you’re not telling me?’
He hesitates. ‘Look, there’s been some trouble at Guy’s school. Some of the other lads have been bullying him, and I’ll be honest, it got pretty nasty.’
‘What do you mean? What kind of bullying?’
‘I’ll explain another time. Right now, I’m just worried about finding him before things get totally out of hand.’
‘Call the police,’ I say crisply. ‘Tell them he’s missing. Tell them it’s been more than twenty-four hours. Tell them anything you have to to get them to take you seriously. I’m leaving for the airport now. I’ll be home in a few hours.’
‘You don’t have to come back. I can handle this.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s my son.’
I put the phone back in my bag and stand up. I always have my passport and wallet with me out of habit; I don’t need anything else.
‘Go,’ Julia says anxiously. ‘Go, I’ll deal with this.’ She gives me a hug.
‘I’ll call you,’ I say.
I hitch my bag over my shoulder and dash across the piazza, ruthlessly cutting into the line at the nearest taxi rank. ‘It’s an emergency,’ I pant as I yank open the door of the first yellow cab. I bark instructions to the airport and collapse against the sticky vinyl seat. Even in the midst of my fear and worry, the irony of the situation doesn’t escape me: I’m leaving Rome as precipitately as I arrived, with only the clothes I stand up in.
And once again I have no idea when, or even if, I’ll be back.
Ned
It’s starting to feel like a bloody French farce. And I’ve never liked the fucking French.
‘Another family member missing, Mr Forrest?’ Plod says drolly. ‘It’s a bit like an Agatha Christie novel, isn’t it? Ten Little Indians, or whatever the PC brigade call it now. Would you like us to bring in Mr Poirot?’
‘This isn’t a joke,’ I say furiously. ‘My son is missing!’
‘So was your wife,’ the cop says blandly. ‘Until she wasn’t, of course.’
It had to be the same sanctimonious bastard, didn’t it?
I lean o
ver the counter and get right in his face. ‘Are you going to take me seriously, or do I have to go over your head?’
He sighs gustily and pulls the computer keyboard towards him. ‘Name?’
‘Guy Forrest.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Wednesday night. Nearly two days ago.’
‘Two days?’ he says sharply. ‘How old is your son, Mr Forrest?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Seventeen.’ He gives me a long, measured look and pointedly pushes the keyboard away. ‘Look, Mr Forrest. I’m sure he’s just gone out with his mates and forgotten to tell you. They do that at this age, you know—’
‘What’s it going to take? I’m telling you my son is missing. Not off with his mates, not out getting bladdered, not shacked up with some bird getting laid. He may be seventeen, but he’s just a kid.’ I slam my palm on the counter. ‘Now, are you going to do your job and find him, or do I have to start making a real stink around here?’
‘Mr Forrest. Please. Do you have any reason to believe your son has actually come to any harm?’
‘Look, I told you—’
‘Has he been threatened?’
I’ve paid the bookies off, with interest; thanks to the football scam, I’m suddenly back in the black. They’ve got no reason to go after Guy. ‘Not as far as I’m aware, but—’
‘Is he a danger to himself or to others?’
‘No! Of course not!’
‘And as far as you know, he left home of his own free will?’
‘He left on his own, but not because he wanted to,’ Agness interrupts, appearing suddenly at my side. ‘He didn’t have a choice!’
‘Agness, go and sit back down.’
‘What d’you mean, young lady?’ Plod asks.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I snap. I don’t want that filth on Guy’s phone seeing the light of day. ‘Agness, sit down and let me deal with this.’
‘Show him the video!’ Agness cries, ignoring me completely. ‘Go on. Show him!’
‘Agness, I said, I can handle this.’
‘What video?’ the cop asks curiously.
‘There’s no point trying to hide it, Dad,’ Agness sighs. ‘It’s all over YouTube. You might as well show him. Maybe then they’ll start to take us seriously.’