by Luana Lewis
‘My sister was murdered. She was a couple of years older than me, and she was away at college. One night she’d been out drinking and she had a fight with her boyfriend outside the pub. He let her walk home alone.’
She stops. I can see she doesn’t want to say any more.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. Then, ‘It’s odd, isn’t it, how people apologize to you all the time?’
‘You get used to it.’
I stand up. ‘I won’t take up any more of your time,’ I say.
She stands too, and opens the door for me. ‘I’m sorry we still haven’t been able to give you any clear answers,’ she says. ‘I know it’s difficult to move on with your life while an investigation is ongoing. I know how important it is to have closure.’
Vivien
Three months ago
My daughter is avoiding me.
I’m standing outside her bedroom door, holding a tray with a glass of skimmed milk and a banana-and-oat muffin. The door is shut.
‘Alexandra?’ I call out. ‘Open the door please.’
I hear a thud as she jumps off her bed and then her plodding footsteps, like a little elephant. When she finally opens up, she looks at me with that defiant expression that gets right under my skin. I try not to be angry. I try to smile.
‘Are you hungry?’ I say.
Alexandra shakes her head. She rubs her nose. She does this a lot when I speak to her, she’s fidgety around me.
And sometimes I find it hard to look at her. The double chin she’s developing, the way her belly pushes against the waistband of her skirt, the bracelets of fat bunched around her wrists. I have no control over what she eats at school or over what Ben feeds her when I’m not around. And she has no self-control, either.
I practically have to push past her to get inside her bedroom. Her clothes are strewn all over the floor, and there are felt-tip pens and little plastic creatures piled up on every surface, on the chest of drawers and bedside tables, and around her computer. I decide tidiness is a battle best left to another time since I am losing so many others.
I know she’s always starving when she gets home. The school feeds them lunch early, at twelve fifteen. I hate to think about the junk they serve up: pizza, breaded chicken, and cake or ice cream for dessert. It’s mind-boggling, given the levels of obesity in England. Alexandra promises me she’ll choose a baked potato with tuna and that she won’t take a dessert except on Fridays, but by the looks of her, she’s choosing no such thing and depriving herself of nothing.
On the surface, she complies with me. Underneath, she defies me. My daughter is becoming a practised liar.
I place the tray down on the desk, next to a photograph of Alexandra and her father. Ben is standing behind her, with his arms around her, and both of them have the same serious expressions on their faces, the same vulnerable eyes. It’s so easy for Ben, I envy him. He accepts the girl the way she is: pudgy and socially inept. It’s left to me to try to mould my daughter into someone who might have even the remotest chance of finding a place in the outside world. Alexandra is my only one, after all. And already, she has become a target for bullies.
She sits on the edge of her bed, staring at me with those apprehensive eyes of hers, as though she’s afraid of her own mother.
I don’t like to encourage Alexandra to eat in her bedroom, but this is the best chance I have of getting this stuff down her. I lift the glass of milk and balance the plate with the muffin on my lap as I sit next to her on the bed.
‘I’ve made you muffins,’ I say.
‘I’m not eating them.’ Her small jaw is set.
She moves away from me. She goes to stand next to her desk and her beloved computer. And her photograph of her father. She seldom comes downstairs when we’re alone in the house together. She waits until she hears Ben come through the front door, or until I call her down for a lesson with her tutor.
If I allowed her to, she’d stay holed up in her bedroom, sitting like a zombie, inert in front of the computer screen. If I tell her she’s had enough screen time, she’ll curl up on her bed and read. The child barely moves. When I was her age, I was at dance classes practically every day; I was exercising all the time, and even then my weight was an ongoing battle.
Her eyes fix on the muffin.
‘Come on, Alexandra, I know you’re hungry. Drink this milk and then you can have the muffin. It’s delicious. It’s still warm.’
I smile at her again, but I have to force my mouth into the right position and I know the warmth does not reach my eyes and the girl sees right through me.
‘Why does everything have to be such a battle?’ I say.
Of course, she doesn’t know the answer.
Being a mother is not what I’d hoped. I had hoped it would be different between me and Alexandra, different because of Ben and because we are a family, but really, it’s just the same. It’s the same pain and frustration I felt with my own mother, all over again.
‘I don’t want it,’ she says.
I sigh, a deep, impatient exhalation, more like a hiss, really. My daughter is strong and smart and I love that about her. But she is also constantly undermining my authority, and this makes me afraid of what is to come in the teenage years. I have to get this right. She has to learn to listen to me. Alexandra, with her unkempt curls, in her white school shirt stained with brown dirt and blue ink and her thick waist straining against the waistband of her skirt, does not yet understand that appearances matter. Already, she is becoming an outcast. I see the way the other mothers look at her. I notice how she is never invited over to play at the other girls’ houses. We are all out of place here, in the world of private schools, skiing holidays and dinner parties. We are out of our depth. And my daughter is different: quirky and large. I’m doing my best to help her fit in.
Perhaps I am also trying to help myself, because I’m ashamed of her. I hate myself for feeling this way.
She is looking at the muffin. She’s hungry.
I don’t try to approach my daughter. I know better. She will only resist and wind herself up into a state. I have to be patient. I hold out the glass of milk, it’s cold and slippery in my fingers. Alexandra shakes her head and purses her lips. She retreats behind the computer chair, as though she’s cowering.
‘Look, Alexandra,’ I say, ‘we can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. You have to drink this milk. The doctor said so. Drink it and that’s the end of it. Or I can punish you and take your computer away. You choose. The easy way or the hard way.’
‘I don’t want to.’
There is pain in her eyes that I do not want to see.
‘Whether you want to or not isn’t the point. You know your medicine is in this milk and you know you’re overweight. You have to do something about it unless you want to get sick with diabetes or heart disease or cancer. And none of the clothes in the shops for an eight-year-old even fit you any more. Aren’t you embarrassed in front of your friends?’
I watch my daughter’s face crumple and the life and joy go out of her eyes. I promised myself I wouldn’t say these things. Not again. But Alexandra pushes me. If she tells Ben the things I have said to her, he will never forgive me.
‘Come on, Alexandra,’ I say. ‘One glass of milk. And then everything will be fine.’
She takes two reluctant steps forward. She stops, then takes another few slow steps towards me, approaching as though I’m a predator about to pounce. I resent her for this too, for the way she makes me feel like I’m hurting her when I am desperately trying to help. I won’t neglect her. She doesn’t always know what she needs.
She takes the glass of milk from me, and drinks, a tiny sip. Barely any of it passes her lips. She makes a face.
‘It tastes funny.’
‘No it doesn’t.’
‘It does. The medicine makes it taste funny.’
‘Nonsense, there’s only a tiny bit of medicine in there.’
God, this is so simple and yet i
t takes forever each time. I can feel my anger swelling, and I have the urge to slap her pasty, pudgy little face. Of course I never would, not in a million years. But my daughter has a way of pushing me right to my limit, to the edge in this battle of wills between us. She saps my energy so there is nothing left of me by the time Ben comes home.
‘Please, Mummy,’ she says. ‘Don’t make me. It makes me feel sick. My heart goes all funny when I take it, it beats too fast.’
‘It’s good for you. And when you’ve lost some weight, we can stop. Don’t make this difficult. Don’t make me take the computer away. Don’t make me tell Daddy you have to cancel the camping trip.’
She takes another drink, a longer one this time. There’s still three-quarters of the glass to go.
‘Good girl,’ I say. ‘And we can go shopping for a present, too. Once you’ve taken it for a whole week.’
Alexandra sits down next to me on the bed. From the look on her face, anyone would have thought she was being tortured. She tips the glass up, gulps the whole thing down, then puts on a big act, as though she’s about to gag.
She reaches for the muffin. Eats it as though she’s chewing through sawdust. Crumbs fall all over her bed and I try not to mind. It takes her ten minutes to eat one lousy muffin. By the end of it, her face is a mess of tears and snot.
I put my arm around her. She rests her head against my chest and tries to snuggle into me, to find somewhere soft. She puts her arms around me and clings on tight.
Chapter 20
My phone rings just as I close my front door behind me. I struggle to find it, because it’s sunk right to the bottom of my handbag. I hate this bag; it’s like a black hole.
DS Cole is on the line. ‘Rose, I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she says, ‘do you have a minute?’
‘Of course.’
DS Cole does not yet know I’m no longer working. I have several minutes; I have nothing else but empty minutes. I balance on one leg as I pull off each of my boots and arrange them neatly beside the door.
‘You’ve known Cleo Baker a long time, since she was a child. So I wondered if you’ve ever known her to show any aggressive behaviour?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘she’s always been quiet and reserved. Although – maybe there was some aggression towards herself.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean?’
I walk over to my fridge. Now I have two of Lexi’s drawings on display. The one where she’s standing next to her mother, and the newer one, of her house with the pretty pink flowers in the garden. When I look at the earlier picture, I see something I’ve never noticed before. Vivien is drawn as a stick figure with a large round head. But Alexandra has given herself a large, round middle.
‘Rose?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m still here. I mean, Cleo used to pull out her hair as a child. Her eyebrows and her eyelashes. At one point when they were in secondary school, I thought I saw a bald spot forming, on her head, but she usually kept it covered up. So I suppose, that’s some kind of violence, isn’t it, against herself? A sign that something wasn’t right, at home.’
‘I don’t want to worry you too much,’ she says, ‘but I think it’s in your interests to know that Cleo has previously been charged with assault. A woman in Bermondsey laid a charge against her several years ago, around the time she was living with Ben in Cinnamon Wharf. I can reassure you that this was an isolated incident.’
I’m shocked by what she’s said. I wonder if DS Cole is supposed to be giving out this kind of information, and whether this call is really in the line of duty, or whether she’s taken a personal interest. She sounds worried about me. Detectives are human beings, after all.
‘Was she convicted?’ I say.
‘The charges were dropped,’ DS Cole says.
I adjust Lexi’s drawings, straightening them, and making sure there’s a magnet in each of the four corners to keep them secure.
‘Could there have been some sort of mistake, if the charges were dropped?’
‘No,’ DS Cole says. ‘There was no mistake. The woman dropped the charges but Cleo admitted the assault.’
The implications of what DS Cole is saying are gradually sinking in.
‘Are you saying you think Cleo might have hurt Vivien? The injury, on Vivien’s head, are you saying—’
‘Rose, I don’t think it’s helpful to speculate. But I do want to ask you to be cautious, until we finish our investigation. I strongly recommend you don’t visit her again until we’ve had a chance to look into this and to interview her. As I said, I really was reluctant to worry you because I suspect there’s nothing in this. But I decided you should know. I’d rather you kept your distance from Cleo.’
I’m standing in front of my fridge, looking at Lexi’s drawings. At the way she has drawn herself and her mother, both so small, as though they are cowering together in the corner of the page.
‘Rose, is that okay?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Thank you. I understand.’
‘You know I’m always here if anything concerns you.’
‘Will you tell Ben, about this?’ I say. ‘He won’t listen to me.’
‘We’re trying to reach him.’
I am afraid. Not for myself, but for my granddaughter. I can keep my distance from Cleo, but Lexi does not have a choice. Ben will let her in.
Chapter 21
The tables outside the pub on the corner of Blackthorn Road are empty, not even the patio heaters can lure drinkers. My steps are brisk and my limbs feel lighter than they have for weeks as I rush towards Vivien’s house in the icy darkness. My outrage gives me a purpose, it energizes me. After DS Cole’s call, Ben has to take my concerns seriously.
When I reach number sixty-three, I stand still for a few moments, watching the house. There is only one Range Rover on the driveway, Vivien’s. The lights are on inside, on all four floors. The shutters are closed.
I’ve been trying to reach Ben on both the home number and his mobile, but he doesn’t pick up. I need to talk to him, tonight. I have to tell him my side of the story, the whole story. I’ve already left it much too long.
I do not press the buzzer on the gate because I’m not taking a chance on being shut out. This time, I have come prepared: I have the spare set of keys that Vivien left with me at Cambridge Court. The key turns easily, the lock is well oiled.
I slip through and pull the gate shut behind me, then I make my way up the steps. I knock on the front door a few times, grasping the lion’s head door knocker. Nothing happens. I knock again, harder. Still, nothing.
The next key turns easily too, and the front door opens without a sound. Now I am nervous. A dry-mouthed intruder.
‘Ben?’ I call out.
The heavy door bangs as I shut it behind me. My voice echoes across the hushed entrance hall.
‘Ben?’ There is no answer.
Letting myself into this house at nine o’clock at night, unannounced, now seems a stupid and even dangerous thing to do. The last thing I want is to alarm him.
I walk across to the doorway of the living room. The drinks cabinet is closed. Only the large black stone bird stares at me malevolently from her corner.
I turn back and move slowly across the chequered entrance-hall tiles, calling out Ben’s name. Vivien always kept this house well heated, a hothouse for a tropical gardenia. I can feel I’ve begun to sweat. I shrug off my coat and drape it over the hall table.
Holding onto the banister, I walk down the staircase and peer into the basement. Once again, the lights are on but the room is empty. The grey cabinets and stainless-steel surfaces glint, cold and clinical. I can no longer find my voice to call out as I return to the ground floor, to the still and silent entrance hall.
I climb up to the first floor. I’m aware of my heart beating faster than usual, aware of feeling much too hot.
Lexi’s room is in darkness. Her door creaks as I push it open. Light from the landing falls across the floor in a wide stripe.
‘Ben?’ My voice is a whisper.
There’s no response. I walk over to Lexi’s bedside and I almost trip over her quilt, it’s fallen to the floor. I sit down on the edge of the bed and place my hand on her back, feeling for the rise and fall of her breath.
The door creaks. My breath catches in my throat as I look up.
The apparition is back. She is silhouetted in the doorway, dark hair falling poker straight to her shoulders.
‘Did you not hear me knocking at the door?’ I say.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t,’ Cleo says.
She doesn’t look at all surprised to see me in Lexi’s bedroom. I’m sure she heard me knock, and I’m sure she heard me calling out.
‘Where’s Ben?’ I say.
‘He had to go back to the office. He had a conference call with some investor in the US. He asked me to watch over Lexi.’
‘What about Isaac?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Cleo walks across Lexi’s room and goes over to the window. She opens the shutters and looks out at the street. Orange light filters through into the room. My hand stays still on Lexi’s back. Rise. Fall. Rise. Her breathing is slow and easy.
‘Sometimes I see Isaac,’ Cleo says, ‘just sitting out there in the car, reading his newspaper. For hours on end. He gives me the creeps.’
She talks in a loud voice, with no heed to the fact that Lexi is asleep.
‘Ben says you and Isaac have been spending time together,’ Cleo says.
‘Is that so?’
‘He’s in desperate need of money. Did you know?’
‘He’s been quite open about his job situation.’
‘Do you think Isaac is manipulating Ben?’ Cleo says. She closes the shutters and stands with her back to the window.
‘Ben is no fool. If he trusts Isaac, I think that says something.’
‘Of course Vivien had both of them wrapped around her little finger.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘Vivien was always insecure. She needed male attention, she thrived on it.’