by Beth Thomas
‘I noticed it the other day, actually,’ he says from the kettle, ‘but didn’t like to say anything.’
‘Why not? I noticed it too, it was terrible.’
He shrugs. ‘Well at that point, I didn’t know if it was the normal smell of your house, or something … external.’
‘You’re kidding? Oh my God, you actually thought that my house, the place where I live, smelled like musty old vinegar? All the time?’
‘No, no, I didn’t think that. But, you know, you can’t ask someone when you go into their home for the first time if that terrible vinegar smell is normal. What if they say, “What vinegar smell?”’ He widens his eyes. ‘Hideous.’
I nod and give him a smile. ‘OK, fair enough. So?’ I look back at Ginger to find her gawping at us both with her mouth open.
‘Have you finished? Because I’m trying to tell a story here.’
‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘Thank you. Anyway, there’s this terrible sour smell. Really pungent. Matt says to me, is that smell always here?’
‘Oh God …’
‘And I tell him that I’ve never noticed it before. So we think, new smell, mysterious circumstances, can’t be a coincidence.’
‘Right.’
‘So instead of looking for the safe, which could be anywhere, we decide we need to locate the source of the terrible smell first. You know, because it was truly gruesome. And neither of us really wanted to spend any time in the house looking for a damn safe, with that … aroma hanging over us.’
‘So you …?’
‘All right, I’m getting there. So, we split up and went round the house, room by room, sniffing. Like a pair of bloodhounds! Nothing downstairs, although your fridge whiffs a bit now. But it wasn’t that. So we went upstairs, obviously couldn’t go into your room as you’re passed out on the bed, so we think we’ll check everywhere else, and if we don’t find it, we’ll check your room when you wake up.’
I nod. ‘But it’s not my room, is it?’
They shake their heads in unison, and I notice how much they look alike. ‘No it isn’t. Matt tracked it down to the spare room. Finally. Bloody relief to find it, I can tell you.’
‘So? What was it?’
‘Oh God, there’s this horrible big red stain on the carpet in the middle of the floor. Dried now, but still with a very powerful odour. What the frick was it? You spilled something there recently? Some kind of thick, heavy sauce? Sweet and sour, maybe?’
I stare at her and raise my eyebrows. ‘Ginger! That was you!’
She jerks backwards. ‘Me?’
‘Yes! Don’t you remember, the night Adam disappeared or left, or whatever the hell he did. You stayed over here because you were completely wasted. Kicked over a full glass of Merlot on my spare room carpet.’
‘Oh Christ, Ginger …’
‘Shut up, Matt, you’ve been drunk too, we both know that.’ She looks at me. ‘I don’t really remember that.’ Her face falls. ‘I’m so sorry, Grace. That’s awful of me.’
I shrug. ‘Doesn’t matter, really.’
She brightens. ‘No, it doesn’t! Actually, it’s a bloody good job I did mess up your spare room carpet, because Matt wanted to get rid of the smell so we could concentrate properly, so he pulled the carpet up. And guess what we found in a hole in the floor underneath?’
She’s grinning, and Matt’s grinning, and as I look at them both their absolute delight in their discovery is practically tangible. It’s like fireworks over a Disney parade and it starts to have an effect on me. For the first time in ages I feel hopeful and excited. ‘It wasn’t …’
She nods. ‘Come and see!’ She grabs my hand and drags me out of the kitchen and back up the stairs, Matt following behind, and there in the spare room, with the carpet pulled up and rolled back, is a neatly sawed little hole in the floorboards. Lying on the folded back bit of carpet is a square of wood, roughly the same size and shape as the hole; and down inside the hole, in the intimate part of the house normally reserved for electrical wiring and pipes, is a tiny, squat, black safe.
‘Secretive little shit.’
TWELVE
We all stare down into the hole for a few moments, trying to understand what this means, what it’s likely to reveal, wondering if we really want to know. Wondering if what’s in there will cause more pain and upset. Wondering who exactly was Adam Littleton, and why did we marry him. Well, I’m thinking that. Ginger and Matt probably aren’t.
Eventually Matt moves forward and easily lifts the little safe out of its resting place, reverentially placing it on the floor like the lost Ark of the Covenant. It’s a bit dusty, but not massively so, and it’s obvious it hasn’t been sitting there untouched for years or even months. This little box has been accessed regularly. Its key is still around my neck on its chain, so I take it off and kneel down, then lean back on my heels and stare at it for a few seconds. It feels decidedly like this is the start of something, like an episode of a soap opera or the beginning of a dramatic film involving missing data and car chases. Except at that moment, as I’m about to violate my husband’s privacy in the worst – and best – way, it’s not secrets and lies that come into my head. It’s our wedding vows.
I wrote my own vows to marry Adam. I know, I know, it’s cheese, but I’d seen a gorgeous romantic film where the lead couple had done it, and I longed for Adam and me to be like that with each other, to be that couple. I considered just doing it, as a surprise for him, but in the end I acknowledged to myself that that wasn’t enough. What I really wanted was for him to do it. To be thought of in that way by my handsome fiancé. In front of everyone who knew me.
I was stunned when Adam had agreed. He’d looked at me and nodded as I was explaining what I wanted to do, and said it would be a nice touch. I’d flung my arms round his neck, then dashed straight off to my laptop to get writing. I spent every spare moment in the run-up to the wedding consumed by the need to get the words just right, just perfect (although a large part of me was consumed by wondering what Adam was writing). I wanted my love for him to guide my pen and produce something that would show eternal love, companionship, an enduring promise to support and comfort each other. I wanted to write about a joining of souls. A togetherness that couldn’t be broken. A partnership. It was a fucking nightmare.
It wasn’t my love for Adam that guided my pen in the end; it was Google. I looked up ‘husband’, and ‘harmony’ and ‘happy’ and threw their synonyms down onto paper in an order that sounded loving. I didn’t question at that point why my actual love for him hadn’t helped me. I believed in it then, and his for me, and assumed I’d struggled just because it needed to be perfect. Eventually, I was fairly pleased with what I came up with. It wasn’t exactly what I’d envisaged when I’d started out on the project five weeks earlier – a breathtaking, heart-stopping piece of poetry that would bring a tear to the eye of everyone in the congregation and make even horrible old Uncle Nigel believe in love again – but it was good enough.
Walking up the aisle to some stirring classical music (Adam’s choice; I’d wanted ‘For the First Time in Forever’ but he’d vetoed it) I looked up to the front and watched Adam’s back as I advanced. Ray was standing next to him, turning round beaming to watch me arrive; and everyone in the congregation had turned to look at me too. I caught a few of Auntie Helen’s words as I glided past, ‘Oh, doesn’t she look …’ but the rest was lost behind me. Any minute now, I told myself, any minute now he’ll turn and it will be that character from that film’s favourite moment, when the groom turns round and sees his bride for the first time. His face will explode in joy and a single tear will make its slow, solitary way down his perfect cheek (I did look quite nice that day). But he didn’t move. Just continued stoically staring ahead, keeping his focus. When I finally arrived at his side, he turned his head to see me at last and said with an approving nod, ‘That’s a lovely dress.’
I deflated like a soufflé. But I swallowed down my disappointment
and got on with the business of committing myself to him for life. He must be anxious about his vows, I thought. He must be nervous about his speech. He must be worrying about Julia, sitting in the congregation on her own. It’s a big moment, full of emotion and distracting thoughts, of course it’s not going to be how it is in the movies.
When it came to the vows, I went first. I had memorised them, and said them to myself at least once a day for over a week, to make sure I didn’t forget them at the crucial moment, so it all went off exactly how I planned. Except for the part where no one cried. But that’s OK. People were smiling at me, which was good enough. When I’d finished, I turned to Adam, my stomach churning with anticipation as I waited for him to fumble a ratty old bit of well-thumbed paper out of his pocket and unfold it shakily. But he didn’t.
There was a moment’s hiatus while we stared at each other – me waiting; him … also waiting, it turned out. Then he blinked a couple of times and faced back to Father Michael.
‘Your turn to do your vows,’ I stage-whispered, turning my head away from the crowd.
He nodded. ‘I’m aware of that, Grace.’
‘So …?’
He flicked me a quick glance, then faced forward again. ‘It’s OK, you don’t need to panic. Father Michael will read them, we just have to repeat them.’
And so we resumed the standard service, and Adam simply repeated the pre-written vows that had been said a million times by a million other grooms. I felt ridiculous, like everyone had been sitting in their seats, wondering what the hell I was doing, straying from the standard text with my flowery nonsense. But Adam hadn’t written any vows, so that was that.
Afterwards, before we all sat down to dinner, I asked him why he hadn’t. He smiled indulgently down at me, like an Edwardian father. ‘Oh, Gracie,’ he said, practically patting me on the head, ‘did you want me to do some too? I didn’t realise, I thought it was just something you felt you had to do.’
‘No, Adam. We agreed we would write our own, don’t you remember? We agreed we would both do it. For each other.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I never would have agreed to that, my love. I mean, it was very sweet, adorable, coming from you. But that sort of thing is not appropriate for me.’
Now, crouched over a hole in our spare room, I look up and find two wide-open, expectant faces with held breath peering down at me. They don’t speak but their expressions are both saying, ‘Go on, do it. Do it!’
‘I can’t do it.’
Their faces drop simultaneously. Ginger’s turns into frowning, uncomprehending disappointment. Matt gives a small smile and starts nodding calmly.
‘Oh God, why not?’ Ginge bursts out. ‘Come on, this is what you’ve been waiting for. Just do it, open it, find out what’s in there!’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t. I don’t want to … I don’t know, find out stuff. Let stuff in.’ I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Let stuff in? What the hell? You’re not letting stuff in, you plank. You’re letting stuff out.’ She jabs a finger at the safe. ‘Whatever’s in there. Let it out, Grace, for God’s sake.’
In my mind, that’s no better. She’s just described Pandora’s Box.
Matt turns to look at her. ‘Come on, Ginge, don’t pressure her. It’s not as if there’s a kitten in there, using up the last of the oxygen, needing to be got out urgently.’
Ginger and I both stare at him, then turn back in horror to the safe. Is it my imagination or do I hear a very faint, hoarse mewing sound?
‘No, don’t be stupid, you two,’ Matt says, stepping away a little. ‘It’s not a kitten. Now come on, let’s get this thing into the car and get you both home.’
Odd how we all silently acknowledge, by moving to the stairs and leaving the house, that he’s talking about my parents’ place.
When we get there, he lifts the safe out of the boot and carefully hands it to me. It feels like a ticking bomb.
‘You don’t have to open it,’ he says quietly. ‘But I think you’ll want to. When you’re ready.’ He holds my gaze. ‘I think it will answer a few questions for you.’
I nod. ‘Thanks, Matt. For everything.’
‘Any time. I mean it.’ His voice is low and makes my spine vibrate a little. As we stand and look at each other, his hand lifts up and I think he might be going to touch me but then he just rubs the back of his head. He blinks a few times and looks around, then focuses back on me. ‘I really do mean it, Grace,’ he says softly. Then he steps in close, leans down and kisses me very softly on my cheek.
Before I go in, I stand on the pavement for a few moments, cradling my bomb. Next door’s driveway is starting to look nice – a herringbone pattern in red bricks, with a smart grey-brick border. Mum and Dad’s doesn’t have a border. They won’t be happy about that. Distractedly, I wonder how little old Mr and Mrs Martin can possibly afford to have a driveway like that laid. Have they come into some money, maybe? As I look, I spot that they’ve also had their ancient windows and front door replaced with smart new uPVC double glazing. Maybe they won the lottery. Ripper is visible, nonchalantly cleaning himself on their porch. As I watch, he freezes mid-lick, looks up quickly in the direction of something inaudible, then darts across the lawn and under their car.
I walk in the house into the middle of a massive row.
‘It’s my bloody decision!’ Dad is saying. Well, shouting really. ‘I never wanted to do it anyway, you know that, so I think I’m perfectly justified in calling it off.’
‘Oh, that’s just charming,’ Mum says. ‘Try and do something nice for you and you scream and shout about how you never wanted it in the first place.’
‘Oh, Christ, woman, you know that’s not what I meant.’
‘It is so what you meant, you selfish goat. This affects more than just you, you know. People are coming from all over …’
‘I don’t sodding care about them!’
I freeze mid-creep in the hallway. It’s incredibly unusual just to hear my dad shouting, but he never, ever uses expletives. I can hear the shockwaves bouncing around the kitchen, making the utensils ding against each other and the cups rattle a little in the cupboards. Then everything falls silent. No doubt everyone is staring at Dad with their mouths open.
‘Dad …’ Lauren says quietly.
‘OK, I’m sorry for that. Obviously I do care about them. And I’m sorry for swearing …’
‘I should think so.’
‘… but it’s just not appropriate to go ahead. Not now, with Adam and everything. I don’t know how you can’t see that.’
‘Go ahead with what?’
They all turn to me as I come in, and instantly all eyes flick to the safe in my arms.
‘Doesn’t matter, love,’ Dad says, coming over to me. ‘How are you doing?’ What he actually means is, what in the name of matrimony is that?
‘Fine and dandy. What are you cancelling? If you’re cancelling it because of Adam being gone, there’s really no need.’
‘Told you,’ Mum says, folding her arms. Dad shoots her a look, then turns back to me.
‘It doesn’t matter, sweetheart, because whether you’re upset or in shock or not, it’s just not appropriate to go ahead. Not in the circumstances.’
‘Go ahead with what?’
‘Ugh, Dad’s birthday party,’ Lauren says. ‘We’ve been planning it for weeks. Now he reckons he wants to cancel it.’
‘I don’t want to cancel it, for crying out loud, it’s just not right to go ahead. Why can’t anyone see that?’
I look at him. ‘Oh Dad. You don’t have to cancel it. Honestly. A good old knees-up is probably just what we all need.’
He stares at me a moment, then throws his hands up. ‘OK, fine, we’ll go ahead, we’ll have a party days after our daughter’s husband vanishes into thin air. We’ll even invite the grieving parents, I’m sure they’d appreciate a chance to get wasted and dance drunkenly to “The Birdie Song”. That’s perfectly fine. I mean, who cares
if people are shocked and think badly of us? It’s only all our friends and relatives and everyone we care about, how important can their opinions of us possibly be?’ He starts to walk away, then stops suddenly and performs a comedy head-scratch. ‘No, wait …’ Then he shakes his head and leaves the kitchen.
‘That’s settled then,’ Mum says with a satisfied smile, heroically missing Dad’s sarcasm altogether. ‘All systems go. Lauren, get on to the rugby club and un-cancel it, quick. I’ll give the caterers the thumbs up.’ She looks at me with a grin. Then her face drops and she puts out a hand. ‘Oh, good Christ, sorry sweetheart, I wasn’t—’ She stops herself in time. ‘I mean, how are you doing now?’ Her voice has gone all high and breathy. It must be the strong emotion.
‘Forget how’s she doing,’ Lauren butts in, ‘how about what’s she carrying?’
‘I’m feeling OK, actually, thanks for asking, Lo.’
Lauren lifts her hands, palm up. ‘What? What did I do?’
‘Nothing. Forget it. I’m going upstairs.’ I turn back towards the door, then hesitate just before leaving the room. ‘Oh, next door’s drive looks great with that grey border, doesn’t it?’
There’s a pause as they turn to look at each other, then Mum bursts out, ‘I knew it! I bloody knew it! Those bloody people, now we’ll have to get the caravan. Jeffrey! Where are you? Jeff!’
In my room, I put the safe on the floor and sit down on the bed to stare at it. I do intend to open it, straight away, I just didn’t want to do it in front of Ginger and Matt. I also know that the contents of this metal box could be explosive and will certainly be of interest to the police. A small part of me wonders what Linda will make of the fact that I didn’t tell them about it straight away. A larger part of me doesn’t really care. Then an even larger part actually does care, quite a lot, because Linda has already got a mental notebook chock full of evidence against me, and now I’m concealing stuff too.
OK. I’ll open the post, and the safe, deal with the contents; and then ring Linda and confess to everything.