by Tess Stimson
I push myself up on my pillows, glancing at the clock beside the bed, which reads two-fifteen. ‘Is it Guy? Have you heard something?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that.’ He hesitates, then comes into the room. ‘I can’t sleep.’
‘It took me a while.’
‘Can I sit down?’
Surprised by his conciliatory tone, I nod, and he perches gingerly on the edge of the bed in his T-shirt and boxers. His bare feet make him look curiously vulnerable.
‘Look, Kate. I’m sorry about the way I was earlier. I didn’t mean to bite your head off the second you got through the door.’
‘It’s OK. I deserved it.’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘You didn’t. You came back because you’re worried about Guy, and instead of thanking you, I started hurling abuse. I’m sorry.’
I hesitate. ‘I’m sorry, too.’
‘Can we start this again?’
For a foolish moment I think he’s talking about our marriage, and then I realize he just means today. ‘Of course we can.’
He rubs his hands over his face in an achingly familiar gesture, and my heart turns over. Suddenly he looks no older than Guy and I yearn to reach out to him. But I no longer have the right to put my arms around him in comfort. He’s been my husband for a decade and a half, but he’s suddenly off-limits. I don’t know how to be around him.
‘Did you just stop loving me?’ he says suddenly into the darkness.
‘Ned . . .’
‘Please. I need to know.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Because I’ve never stopped loving you.’
He turns to face me, moonlight gilding the planes of his face. He seems so lost, and I have to fight hard not to let the past overwhelm me. Firmly I remind myself that we’re not the same people we were when we fell in love. A lot has changed in the past fifteen years. We’ve changed.
‘Not for one moment,’ he says earnestly. ‘I know I didn’t make you happy, but I can. I’ll do things differently from now on. I’ve changed. No more gambling, I swear. I’ve already paid back every penny I owed. I’ll quit freelancing and go back to work full-time, and I’ll pull my weight around the house. I’ll even move to London if you want. Whatever I did wrong, I’ll put right.’ He takes my hand, his eyes bright with tears. ‘I love you, Kate. I’ve missed you so much. Please come home.’
His evident pain and sincerity catch at my heart. Even though I realize it’s a mistake, my resolve starts to weaken. Love is a habit, not an impulse. And like most habits, it’s hard to break, even when you know you’ve outgrown it.
‘Ned, you fled for divorce,’ I say gently.
‘I was angry. Hurt. I didn’t mean it, you know that. I’d never have gone through with it.’
‘Divorce isn’t something you do by accident, Ned.’
‘I know I’ve screwed up. I don’t blame you for leaving. But can you look me in the eye and honestly say you don’t still care about me?’
I drop my gaze and stare at our hands, entwined together on the duvet. I’m still wearing my wedding ring. Why could I never bring myself to take it off?
‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘I don’t expect things to go back to the way they were overnight,’ he says eagerly. ‘I know it’s going to take some time. But do you really want to throw away everything we had together? Don’t we deserve a second chance?’
It was so much easier when he hated me. Suddenly I don’t know what I feel about him. Ned’s my husband, the father of my children. He’s not a bad man, nor even a weak one. Look at how he’s held the fort while I’ve been away: the fridge is full, the laundry basket empty, the house is tidy and even the lawn’s been mowed. If he’s prepared to overlook the pain and humiliation I’ve caused him, how can I not forgive him his mistakes?
Keir.
‘Do you love me?’ Ned presses.
‘Yes . . . but—’
‘That’s all that matters,’ he exclaims joyfully. ‘We can make it work, right?’
You can’t love Ned and Keir. Who’s it going to be?
I’m in love with Keir. It’s not the same.
You’re splitting hairs. What’s the difference?
Time.
Suddenly Ned pulls me towards him, catching me unawares. I smell the whisky on his breath, and then he’s kissing me: hot, hard kisses that arouse me despite myself. As if sensing my surrender, his hand snakes beneath the old T-shirt of Guy’s that I threw on after my bath, zoning in on my breast with unerring accuracy. His knee is already pushing mine apart as he presses me against the mattress with increasing urgency.
I push against his chest. ‘No, Ned, please.’
He twists my nipple, kissing my neck, my face, my hair. ‘It’s been so long,’ he says thickly.
‘Ned, stop!’
Instantly he pulls back. ‘Christ. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—’
I pull down my T-shirt and yank up the duvet like a frightened virgin. ‘I can’t, Ned. I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have been so insensitive.’ He stands up, running his hands through his rumpled hair. ‘You’ve only been back five minutes. And we’re both frantic about Guy. I just got carried away, I’m sorry.’ He gets up and backs towards the door.
I feel like I’m on a runaway train with no means of stopping. ‘Ned, wait –’
‘I’ll go. It won’t happen again. We can sort everything out after we find Guy.’
‘We have to talk,’ I warn.
‘We will, we will. Look, sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.’
He shuts the door behind him with exaggerated care. I should’ve told him about Keir. It’s not fair to get his hopes up. I love him, yes, but not in the way he thinks, the way he wants. It’s going to be a thousand times worse now when I tell him I’m leaving again as soon as we find Guy.
I stare up into the darkness, wondering how I have managed to get myself trapped in such short order.
It’s a long time before sleep comes.
Ned
I feel like punching the air as I shut Guy’s bedroom door behind me, but limit myself to a double thumbs-up and a cheesy grin at my reflection in the hall mirror.
Now I know Kate still loves me, I feel better about everything. Not that I expect things to miraculously resolve themselves overnight. Like she says, we’ve got a lot to talk about. I need to know she’s not going to run off again next time we have a row about whose turn it is to put out the rubbish, for a start. And I’m sure she’s got some stuff she wants to get off her chest, too.
But my wife is home. Things are finally are getting back to normal. Well, not normal, obviously; Guy’s still missing. But like the cop said, he’s probably just done a runner because his head’s messed up over that video. It can all be sorted out. We just need to find him before he does anything stupid. Now Kate’s back, it’s all going to work out fine.
I climb into our empty double bed and bunch a pillow behind my head. With any luck, I won’t have it to myself much longer.
When Kate stormed off to bed earlier, I locked myself in my office and hit the Scotch, planning to drown my bitterness at the bottom of the bottle. And it worked, to begin with. I even had a neat range of perfect put-downs ready – ‘Yeah, your bum does look big in that, and frankly, fucking you is like waving a sock in a wind tunnel’. But somewhere between the third and fourth tumblers, I realized I’m tired of hating her. Tired of being angry and bent on revenge. Tired of playing hardball and divorce lawyers and all the rest of the bullshit. I just want things back the way they were. That’s all I’ve wanted since the day she left. Suddenly my pride didn’t matter nearly as much as making sure she knew I loved her.
I hadn’t planned to jump her; that was the Scotch talking. But I’m glad I did. She can play the reluctant bride all she likes, but that kiss didn’t lie. She wanted it as much as I did, even if she won’t admit it. We’ve got a lot to sort out �
� yes, yes, I get it. But we’re going to make it.
I drop off within minutes and sleep like a baby.
The next morning, energized by optimism, I get up early, knock back a couple of Alka-Seltzers and fire up the computer. There’s a limited number of places a seventeen-year-old kid with no money, no transport and no credit cards can go. I’ve no intention of leaving it to the headless chickens down the cop shop to find him. I’m an investigative journalist, for God’s sake. This is what I’m good at. Only reason I haven’t found Lord Lucan yet is because I’m too busy smoking out Shergar.
A little after seven, I’m hunched over my Mac with my third mug of coffee when Kate comes downstairs.
‘You found the suitcases, then,’ I say, glancing up.
She looks down at herself as if surprised to find she’s dressed. ‘Yes. Thanks for getting them down from the loft.’
She’s picked a pair of pastel striped trousers she knows I hate, and a high-necked virginal white cotton T-shirt. I hide a smile. She’s clearly sending me a keep-out message, but after last night, I guess I can’t blame her.
‘Any news?’ Kate asks anxiously.
‘Not yet. Thought it would be useful if we started looking for him ourselves.’ I push a printout across the table. ‘Those are the places I’ve ruled out. He’s not at Liesl’s – she’s been in Vietnam for the last three weeks, totally unreachable, of course. We’ve left messages at her hotel, but God knows if she’ll ever get them. Guy obviously wasn’t with you, and he’s not with any of his school friends, according to all the parents I’ve spoken to.’
‘What about this boy who bullied him? Dessler?’
‘Surprisingly, he’s out of the picture on this one. Been in hospital since Wednesday with a burst appendix or something. Parents were a bit vague.’
She pulls out a chair opposite me and picks fretfully at the place mat in the centre of the table. ‘I still don’t see why Guy ran away. I mean, lots of boys get bullied at school, don’t they? Isn’t it par for the course?’
‘This was in another league,’ I say quietly. ‘Those kids were up to some pretty sick stuff.’
‘What do you mean? What sort of stuff?’
‘You don’t need to know the details. Trust me,’ I add, when she starts to protest. ‘Those boys hurt Guy, and then posted a video of it online. You don’t need to know any more than that. It’s going to be hard enough as it is for Guy to look you in the eye when he comes back.’
Kate hesitates, then nods curtly and picks up my printout. ‘I don’t see that we’re any further on with this,’ she says. ‘All we know is where he isn’t.’
‘You have to start somewhere,’ I say patiently. ‘He’s not hiding out with friends, which means he’s on his own. No money, no car. That limits the number of places he can go.’
‘Salisbury’s too close,’ Kate muses. ‘London?’
‘Yeah. That’d be my first bet. He’s probably got enough for a train fare and to see him through for a week or so. Either London or the coast, I’m thinking. London’s more likely – it’s where all the runaways go. Still think the streets are paved with gold.’
She sighs. ‘It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
‘Mind you,’ I add, looking up from my laptop suddenly, ‘maybe we should think about Brighton.’
‘Brighton?’
‘Bit of a gay hotspot, I’ve always heard,’ I say, striving to sound offhand. A modern father, at home with his son’s alternative lifestyle.
She stares at me. ‘Who told you Guy was gay?’
‘Agness.’ There’s a long silence. ‘I imagine you’re OK with it? After all, it’s no reflection on you . . .’
‘Well, of course it isn’t,’ she says crossly. ‘Or it wouldn’t be, if Guy was gay.’
‘You don’t think he is?’
‘I have no idea. More to the point, neither does Guy.’ She hesitates. ‘I have wondered, I must admit, and I’m sure he has, too. He’s certainly not as far along the macho curve as most of his class. He may well turn out to be gay, or he could just be more sensitive than most men,’ she adds pointedly. ‘I don’t see that it matters. I’m certainly not going to put a label on it.’
‘I wasn’t trying to,’ I protest. ‘It was just something Agness said—’
‘Agness is fourteen years old. It’s all about pigeonholes at that age. When Guy’s ready to tell us how he feels, he will.’
‘So London, then,’ I say hastily, keen to move into safer waters. ‘I’ve done a couple of stories on runaways in the past, and I still have a few contacts in London at some of the shelters.’ I’m typing as I speak. ‘There’s one charity that operates directly out of King’s Cross, picking up kids as they arrive from the boondocks before the bad guys can get to them. I think they cover some of the other mainline stations, like Waterloo, which is where Guy—’
‘Bad guys?’
‘Guy will be fine,’ I say quickly. ‘He’s seventeen. He knows how to look after himself.’
Kate nods, but I can see in her eyes that she’s thinking the same thing as me: If he knew how to look after himself, he wouldn’t have had to run away.
‘Ned,’ she says carefully. ‘Since you’re at your computer, we should probably talk about finances . . .’
‘We can get to that later,’ I interrupt.
‘I should at least put something into the joint account,’ she offers. ‘I know you had the rainy-day money to keep you going, but I could cover the mortgage payment for this month.’
No need to tell her I lost the rainy-day money on an appropriately named nag called Summer Monsoon before she even left.
‘I’ve paid it,’ I say simply.
‘Well, it can go towards next month’s payment then.’
‘I’ve paid the mortgage,’ I repeat. ‘All of it. I’ve paid it off.’
A sweet moment, this: Kate Forrest lost for words.
‘All of it? That’s over two hundred thousand! You can’t have done!’
‘I had a couple of good wins,’ I say drily.
From the expression on her face, it’s lucky she’s sitting down. ‘You won two hundred thousand pounds in a bet?’
‘Well, not just one bet, obviously,’ I say, keen to avoid being dragged into the details. ‘I had a couple of . . . tips. From an impeccable source. They came good, so I cleared our mortgage and the credit cards. I thought it best to stop while I was ahead, so there’s still Eleanor’s mortgage, I’m afraid, but I think we can manage that . . .’
‘You promised me you wouldn’t gamble again,’ she accuses.
Only a woman.
‘You weren’t here,’ I remind her, not unkindly. ‘The rainy-day money ran out. I had to pay Agness’s school fees before they expelled her, and the mortgage, and all the rest of it. I needed cash. I couldn’t earn nearly enough to cover it all, so I did what I know best. But you don’t need to worry. That was the last time. I swear on my mother’s life.’
I’m not kidding. Morrison played ball once, but I’m not about go to that particular well again. I’ll end up with my bloody legs broken. Or worse.
Kate looks as if she’s about to say something, then thinks better of it.
‘If you want some breakfast, help yourself to what’s on the stove,’ I say, turning back to my laptop. ‘Corned beef hash. Home-made.’
She lifts the lid and peers into the iron skillet. ‘You made this?’
‘It tastes better than it looks. Agness is on breakfasts tomorrow, so you might want to fill up now. Her recipe for muesli takes some getting used to.’
‘I didn’t know you could cook,’ she says faintly.
‘My repertoire’s still a bit basic, but yeah, I can cook.’
‘And you have a rota?’
‘One day in four. You can cover Guy while he’s away, if you like.’
‘Eleanor’s part of it too?’ she echoes. ‘Things really have changed.’
‘I told you,’ I say, holding her gaze. ‘It’s a
ll going to be different from now on.’
She blushes, and I know she’s thinking about last night.
She pours herself a mug of coffee from the cafetière I made earlier and sits at the table opposite me.
‘Look, Ned,’ she says nervously. ‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I was tired last night, and it was all a bit overwhelming, coming back home and seeing you and everything. I shouldn’t have let . . . things . . . go as far as they did.’
‘I’m your husband,’ I point out mildly. ‘It is allowed.’
‘Come on, Ned. Please stop acting like we can just pick up where we left off.’
I shut my laptop.
‘Kate. I’m not a fool. Neither one of us wants to pick up where we left off. It wasn’t exactly marital Eden, was it? You ended up so damned miserable you ran away. And I’ll be honest with you, I wasn’t exactly a happy camper most of the time either. You treated me like shit on the sole of your shoe. I’m not saying I didn’t deserve it,’ I add quickly. ‘I was a fucking arsehole. I let you pull the full load and then resented the hell out of you for it. Something had to give. I told you, I don’t blame you for leaving.’
She stares into her coffee. ‘I shouldn’t have just gone. I should have told you how I felt.’
‘Yeah. You should have had the balls to stay and talk it out,’ I agree. ‘Christ knows, you were the only one who had a pair around here.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. Agness can be pretty determined when she wants to be.’
I crack a smile. ‘Chip off the old block.’
‘I couldn’t talk to you any more, Ned. Not about . . . the baby. Or anything. And it all got on top of me: Eleanor, the way Agness was with me. My job,’ she says in a sudden rush. ‘I hate my job, Ned. I’ve hated it for years. I hate being the one with all the responsibility. I can’t go back to it. I’m sorry, I just can’t.’
It feels like having the Pope tell you he’s just not that into God.
‘I know it’ll hit our income, but I’ll find something else. Maybe not as well paid,’ she adds anxiously, ‘but if you’ve really cleared the mortgage, we won’t have to sell the house. The kids can stay here in their own home with you, whatever happens.’