‘Mum, we know,’ Imo said.
‘No,’ I managed, ‘you don’t.’ She didn’t. Ned didn’t. It had been my life’s work. The only thing that kept me going. And writing stupid, frivolous books as a decoy. To keep it from them. I blew my nose into the tissue she’d handed me which was wet already from mopping tears.
‘OK, we don’t know everything,’ she said softly, still holding me tight. ‘But we know enough. And can take it now. We’re adults.’
I nodded, but I wasn’t sure they could. Not all of it.
‘And if we don’t know, we can imagine. Which might even be worse.’
‘He never hurt me physically, you know that, don’t you?’ I glanced at her. It was very important she did. She nodded quickly.
‘Of course, you’ve always told us that, and we believe you. And Mum,’ she paused to make me look at her. ‘You have to believe he never laid a finger on Ned or me, either.’ I did know that, but it was always a huge relief to hear it. ‘But there are other, subtler ways. Particularly for an intelligent man like Dad. And you have to know, hard as it might be, that yes, Ned and I suffered, and we kept some of it from you, too, but not from each other. We always had each other.’
Relief swept through me. ‘You talked about it?’
‘Always. We made each other. We had a pact. Told each other everything. The threats he made. And that definitively kept us sane.’
I remembered their regular lunches, dinners, whenever Imo was across. Ned often going to see her in New York. I felt my breathing come down a bit. Helena looked fit to burst a blood vessel, but she was silent. I knew there was a lot she could say about all of us remaining silent, how we should all have spoken out – including her, to some extent – but couldn’t. For fear of reprisals. That’s what you did, for love. And we were the lucky ones, we three. We had that. Love. Michael didn’t.
‘I’d have left him for an hour,’ said Helena.
‘I’d have left him there all night,’ replied Imo.
For some reason this struck us as unbearably funny. We exchanged looks and then snorted, all quietly horrified at our hysteria. Eventually we got ourselves under control amid strange looks from the rest of the pub, who can’t have been totally unaware of my sobs earlier. I might avoid this place for a while.
‘Can we get back to the police?’ asked Helena kindly, and I agreed we could, although Imo stayed beside me. She moved her knife and fork round so that when our food arrived seconds later, we tucked in, ravenous, to fish and chips, side by side. Helena, who barely ate, and certainly not this sort of food, toyed with a very English-looking ham salad.
‘I’m not suggesting you go straight to the police and say you left him to die because he was a cunt. I’m just saying, don’t forget why you did it. If and when the time comes.’
I nodded, throwing in chip after chip. Cunt. I liked that.
‘Also, Luce, there’s no way the police can find out how long you left him, don’t forget.’
‘Oh.’ I put my fork down. Told them about Ingrid. How it had slipped out at the police station. Imo asked why I’d even thought someone might have seen something? I told her about Amanda: my lunch with her.
‘OK,’ she said slowly. ‘But that’s just Amanda’s little threat? One of many? Scattergun approach? A shot in the dark that hit a target?’
‘Yes, more than likely. Scared the living daylights out of me, though. To the extent that I even started to imagine things, that this woman had turned a light off, the better to watch me.’
‘But you didn’t go round?’
‘I did, actually.’ I told them about seeing the daughter. Watched, as they valiantly resisted the temptation to put their heads in their hands.
‘OK,’ said Helena, as calmly as possible, ‘but obviously no more contact, all right?’
‘All Mum’s doing is being honest,’ Imo said reasonably. ‘Acting like a normal person would, who’s not under suspicion. Maybe frustrated by the slowness of the police inquiry?’
‘That’s true. Also, since you’re not under caution,’ Helena swept on, ‘and if you can bear it, I think you’re better off answering the police’s questions on your own. If you can bear it,’ she repeated.
‘I can. You mean, it looks suspicious if I have a solicitor? I’ve already asked for one.’
She hesitated. ‘It does look more honest, I suppose. But they may not even be back. But if they are, if it gets to the point of being cautioned, we’ll get you one then. OK? Personally, I think they put the frighteners on you by asking if you wanted one, and with the burglar’s version of events, just to gauge your reaction. To see if by any remote chance you looked guilty. Perhaps prompted by the Met. But they don’t believe it any more than a jury would.’
A jury. Helena signalled for the bill. She’d abandoned her ham salad. Imo was efficiently scanning through her phone contacts, murmuring to Helena about lawyers. People she knew. Helena was responding with her own suggestions. They’d moved on. And actually, in a way, I had too. After they dropped me back at the house, at the end of the drive out of sight of the parents, and we’d all got out and hugged hard, I stood for a moment in the lane as they drove away. I felt better. I was even beginning to feel an element of ‘bring it on’. I find that can happen when one takes a scary situation to its worst possible conclusion. And aside from the court case, there was a potentially even worse situation around the corner: prison. But I felt I could almost contemplate it now, purely because it was surely more questionable. More – not necessarily remote, but debatable. The world had moved on, hadn’t it? Away from the patriarchy. Men were no longer allowed to abuse women, in any sense of the word. Of course, I couldn’t be sure. But as I went inside, I found myself thinking about what Helena had said: about what I knew from newspapers was called coercive control. She hadn’t said it, but that’s what she’d meant: there was a lot of it about.
I went to the kitchen for a glass of water and spotted my parents through the window over the sink. They were sitting outside in the sunshine, on a bench surrounded by budding cow parsley. Mum was wiping her nose and tucking a hanky up her sleeve. As we exchanged a wave, I thought about how I’d tell the court everything, if I had to. Spill the Michael beans. With my head held high. Keeping my voice steady. In my navy suit, with my cream shirt. The one with the scalloped edge. I knew I could do it.
26
The following morning, Helena rang. ‘All right?’ she demanded briskly.
‘Yes, fine, thanks. You?’
‘No, this isn’t a social call. I’m just ringing to check we didn’t leave you in a hole yesterday, but I’ve literally got two minutes.’
I smiled. I could feel her looking at her watch. Sensed she was in the office already, at ten to eight. I’d showered and dressed but that was as far as I’d got.
‘Yes, I’m really fine. But much better for seeing you two.’
‘Good.’ A pause. Unlike my sister in a hurry. ‘I forgot to ask if you’d seen Dan.’
I smiled again. Two smiles before eight, not bad. I saw what she was doing here. The world continues to turn. ‘I have, actually. Once or twice. He’s nice.’
I sensed her beaming on the other end. ‘Isn’t he?’ she purred.
‘But slightly over-attentive to his mother, apparently.’
‘Nance? Who told you that?’
‘Camilla Frobisher.’
‘She would,’ Helena snapped. ‘He dumped her.’
‘No. Really? Dan did?’
‘When the ghastly Torquil left her she thought she was a shoe-in with Dan, but she underestimated him. After a few dates, he made his excuses. Nance might have been one of them, I don’t know. Anyway, don’t make the same mistake, Luce.’
‘What?’
‘Of underestimating him. There are hidden depths.’
‘Good ones?’
‘D’you think I’d be mentioning them if they weren’t? Anyway, I’ve got to go.’
We hung up and I marvelled yet again at how m
y sister fitted so much into one day. Management buyouts, equity partner meetings, criminal procedure advice plus relationship counselling – all in a day’s work. I wasn’t quite sure what I’d been doing with my life.
A second later, she was back. ‘My point is, Luce, you need to carry on as normal. For you, your sanity, for Mum and Dad, for the kids, but also from the police’s point of view. This could go on a while. Hold your nerve. And don’t get all jumpy and confessional. Keep calm and carry on.’
‘Got it.’ About five minutes ago actually, oh sister of mine.
Nevertheless, less recently, perhaps not. Perhaps I’d been hiding. I’d certainly been avoiding a few messages I’d received. One from Frankie, wondering about lunch some time. I tapped away now and agreed I’d look at dates if she sent me some. One from Josh, letting me know it was one o’clock on Sunday, to which I said great, look forward to it. Then I replied to a text of Dan’s, agreeing to meet him for supper the following Wednes day. I put my phone down beside me. Life going on as normal, but how normal was that? To be seeing two men? Except … I was doing nothing of the sort, was I? I was spending time with two nice people. Friends, that was all. I conveniently forgot about the kiss in the car. Which, in the scheme of things, was immaterial anyway, I decided, as I got to my feet. Because anything I did right now was basically irrelevant. All I was doing was rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Oh, I knew what was coming. I was facing up to the blindingly obvious by the minute. I took a deep breath to steady myself. Then I made my bed, tidied my room, tucked my phone in my pocket and went downstairs.
Fortunately, perhaps, my parents were now in a parallel universe: immersed in their own little world of soft furnishings, glass candlesticks, side tables, place mats, and faux flower arrangements, they were somewhat oblivious to anything else. Or at least Mum was. Consumed by catalogues, online shopping and trips to Dunelm – which apparently was far cheaper than Peter Jones, historically her spiritual home – she’d even picked out a recliner chair she’d seen, before my father quietly reminded her I might not need a chair that gently eased me to my feet. He caught my eye.
I’d managed to have a quiet word with him in the greenhouse. My mother was a bit under the weather, nursing a cold she’d had for days, and was under a rug on the sofa in front of Cash in the Attic. The timelessness of the greenhouse was a comfort: I remembered coming in here as a child to help him plant tomatoes.
I took the other ancient Lloyd Loom chair opposite my father’s at the far end and watched as he sprinkled sweet pea seeds into a tray. He’d made a furrow in the warm earth with a lollipop stick and was carefully picking a few seeds out of the palm of his hand. Hector was lying at his feet and his old Roberts Radio was on low, tuned to Classic FM. As I sat there, he waited. He picked up another packet of seeds. Tobacco plants, this time. Mum’s favourite. Eventually I cleared my throat.
‘Dad, Helena says I’m not allowed to get confessional, but—’
‘Then don’t,’ he interrupted sharply. His gaze was steady for one with eyes so rheumy. ‘I don’t need to know, Luce.’
‘No,’ I said uncertainly, wrong-footed. ‘It’s just – I know you’re not stupid. And I know you know they both came down here to give me advice—’
‘But that the fewer people who know about that advice, the better. Helena’s right, love. We’re here if you need us, but you don’t need to tell us anything. Keep shtum.’
My heart began to beat fast. What could he know? He put his seed packet aside. Regarded me over his reading glasses. ‘The thing is, Lucy, under immense pressure, it’s possible to feel immense guilt. You felt it all your married life. Michael persuaded you you were permanently in the wrong. Permanently culpable. As far as I’m concerned, there’s little you could do that would be wrong. But don’t let his influence cloud your judgement. Even from the grave.’
‘Right. No.’ God, I had no idea my family knew so much about my crap life. How naïve of me, in retrospect, to believe I’d kept it to myself. All I’d kept were the dark spaces. And not even all of those. And people talk, whatever you might think. Imo to Ned. Helena to Imo. My parents to Helena. I watched Dad tip a few more tiny black seeds into the palm of his hand and sprinkle them again, in a line. Beside him were a row of bulbs already planted in pots for later in the year: dahlias. My father was eighty-six. How did he know he’d even see them come up in the autumn? How did he imagine he’d see any proper growth in the chestnut sapling he’d found broken off by the wind, and was carefully dipping into root hormone powder to stimulate it, before planting in a terracotta pot? He didn’t. He was doing it because that was what he’d always done, and what was expected of him. He was doing it for future generations, and he was doing it for love. That was why we all kept buggering on. I’d also imagined I might tackle the subject of the cottage with him, but then I realized I wouldn’t. Some things were best left unsaid. Instead, I got up from my chair, and went to refill the heavy galvanized watering can from the tap in the yard, which I knew he found a struggle to carry back when it was full. I delivered it to him, then disappeared inside to make some egg mayonnaise sandwiches for lunch.
A few days went by. And still no sign of the police. I began to wonder if Helena was right, and they’d just been trying to frighten me. The weekend approached, and within a twinkling, I found myself arriving at Josh’s house for lunch. Well, my house. I’d actually been sitting round the corner for fifteen minutes until I’d deemed myself fashionably late, but not overdoing it. It occurred to me, as I waited, that Melissa, back from Silicon Valley, would be horrified if she knew I was here and hadn’t popped in. But although I was making myself carry on, I also knew I wasn’t up to that. Melissa knew a lot about me, but not everything. The advantage of seeing Josh was that, despite having met me so recently, he knew what was consuming me. There was an odd sort of relaxation in that. Of course, it wouldn’t be mentioned. But it was there, unspoken, in the room. I didn’t have to pretend it wasn’t.
Naturally I’d thought long and hard about what to wear: it had been a pleasurable diversion. In the end, I’d settled for a long, slightly boho skirt Imo had given me for my last birthday, a pair of lace-up ankle boots, and a thin cream cashmere jumper tucked into a wide belt. I’d added a short, faux-suede jacket from Zara. The vibe I was hoping for was arty chic. As I rang the bell clutching my bunch of tulips, it occurred to me that my heart didn’t beat like this as I was waiting for Dan.
Josh flung wide the door, bestowing on me a beaming smile. I basked in its glow for a moment. God, he was – oh, get a grip, Lucy. To be fair, though, he hadn’t smiled at me much before. Most of our exchanges had been of a serious bent. This new social dynamic caused his eyes to crinkle, which I loved: it was something Ned had, smiling eyes. He was wearing a blue shirt and a perfectly ordinary pair of chinos, but he somehow made it look Parisian and chic. I beamed just as broadly back and we kissed lightly on each cheek. As he shut the door behind me, he said quietly:
‘OK?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ I replied, knowing that this was more than just a social enquiry.
I followed him through into the sitting room where his friends were already sitting. They both rose to greet me, smiling, as Josh brought me through and introduced us. Francis was middle-aged, small and balding, but his bright, twinkly hazel eyes didn’t miss a trick, and Trisha was soft and fair, with slightly windswept curls. But no frowsty clothes, as some academics are known for, perhaps because, as I was quickly to discover, she wasn’t one. I’d got that wrong. She had a garden design business, which was much more manageable for me, conversationally, than the French literature her husband specialized in. After some initial chat, we went through to the kitchen together to arrange my flowers, and fell happily to Dutch or English tulips. These were Dutch. We discussed which lasted the longest, and whether to trim the stems or put anything in the water, all of which I was very au fait with. When we’d set the vase on the table, I even offered to show her my garden, which of course wasn�
�t mine at all, but sort of was. We had a laugh about that and I opened the French doors and showed her anyway.
As we walked around my old patch she bent with interest over some white narcissi, which, if you were lucky, kept going with their pale nodding heads right into May. Prolifically, too, bridging the gap between the forget-me-nots and tulips. They happily needed little tending, although I couldn’t resist pulling a few weeds from around them. Trisha instinctively crouched and did the same, so that when Josh and Francis appeared in the open French windows, nursing a glass of red wine apiece, we were talking so much we hadn’t heard them. We both straightened up, rather guiltily, our hands full of weeds and dirt. Josh widened his eyes theatrically.
‘Is this what’s known as garden shaming?’ he enquired dryly, and we laughed.
‘You’ll probably get a bill, Josh,’ Francis told him. ‘Knowing my wife. Can’t tell you the number of women who’ve asked for garden advice and then been charged.’
‘Ooh, what a terrible fib!’ Trisha declared, her eyes dancing. ‘Once,’ she turned to me, ‘an acquaintance – not even a friend – asked me to stop by and have a look at her garden. I was there for two hours. She picked my brains for the entire time as we walked around – she even took notes! Drew a plan! I’m afraid my daughter was so incensed when she heard, she insisted I bill her.’
‘My daughter would be the same,’ I told her. ‘She used to be astonished when I wrote copious notes to would-be novelists whose manuscripts I read – but they were mostly young and I didn’t mind. One elderly chap did treat it as a weekly seminar, though, and I had to keep it from Imogen.’
‘Oh, you write books?’
It had slipped out, perhaps because so much else really mustn’t slip out. But it wasn’t something I brought up, as a rule. People were too interested, and I always felt I’d stolen the spotlight, somehow, in some sort of power grab. On the other hand, if I didn’t mention it, hostesses were often put out, saying – I put you next to Gerald because he’s writing a novel!
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