by Lulu Taylor
‘He’s got you,’ Emily said. ‘If he knows anything, he’ll know you’re there for him.’
But she could sense that Diana’s disapproval had not softened.
Emily closed her eyes now as the nurse peeled back layer after layer of dressing. Once this is all gone, I’ll be able to wash my hair properly again. Dry shampoo had only been able to do so much. What she really wanted was for the plaster to come off her leg so that she could lie in a hot bath and soak away the accident. She felt as though she hadn’t been able to get properly clean since it had happened. The grubby tawdriness of the whole thing clung to her. No wonder it was still oppressing her.
The nurse’s chest rose and fell gently against her cheek. She smelt of soap and antiseptic. ‘So,’ she said softly, ‘you must have been in quite an accident.’
‘I was,’ Emily murmured sleepily, lulled by the gentle touch against her face.
‘You hit a windscreen?’
Emily nodded, then remembered she oughtn’t to move her head. ‘Yes.’
‘You must have lost a fair amount of blood through this cut.’
‘I did.’ They’d given her a transfusion, she remembered. Big squashy packets of purple fluid, like the bags inside a wine box, pumped into her. She’d barely been conscious for that, though.
‘It’s healed very nicely. You must have been badly lacerated. It looks like the surgeon has done a good job. One of the results of this kind of cut is that it can heal with livid puckering and you end up with a raised scar with the skin kind of pleated around it. It’s unsightly and upsetting, particularly on the face. But he’s done very well with you. I think you’ll be pleased.’ The nurse stood back, discarding a wad of bandages and padding into the waste bin. ‘Do you want to see it?’ She gestured to the flat mirror screwed to the wall on the opposite side of the room.
As Emily stood up carefully, grabbing a crutch to support her, she realised that she had barely looked in a mirror since the accident. She’d stood in front of them, yes – to brush her teeth, or comb out her hair, or to scrabble for her keys in the hall in front of the glass there – but she hadn’t looked, not really. She hadn’t wanted to see the draggle-haired woman with the tight lips and sad eyes and the great bandage round the side of her face. It was bad enough going out and seeing the way people eyed her with mild curiosity, wondering how she’d got herself so battered, without looking herself full in the face.
Now she approached the mirror tentatively, keeping herself purposefully out of focus. Then, when she was close, she looked up and slowly turned her head so that she could see the scar. There it was. She took a deep breath and put her hand to the side of her head.
‘There,’ said the nurse, smiling. ‘Isn’t that good? I knew you’d be pleased.’
The children didn’t seem to notice anything different about her. They didn’t appear even to spot that the bandage had gone from her face. Tom, though, saw at once. He came to meet her as she stood in the hall taking off her coat, and his eyes flew to the scar. He winced and bit his lip, sucking in air over his teeth. Instantly his expression changed to apologetic sympathy.
‘Oh God, sorry, darling. Sorry. It’s just . . . Oh, your beautiful face.’
Her eyes began to sting and her chest felt shaky with potential tears but she tried to stay brave. She suddenly became aware that she’d hardly cried since the accident. That’s strange. I hadn’t realised that before.
‘I don’t think it was all that beautiful to start with,’ she said as airily as she could manage. ‘But I suppose it was better than this.’ She turned to the mirror in the hall, tilting her face round so that she could see the scar. It ran down the side of her face from the top of her temple almost to her jaw, not in a neat curve but in an uneven, jagged line. ‘The nurse said it could have been worse. I could have had one of those great red ridges with creased skin round it. The surgeon has done a marvellous job, apparently.’ It was true that the scar was a fine one, with no raised edges or puckers, but it cut through her skin in a dark red line, as though someone had taken a red marker pen and scrawled hard down her face in rough zigzags. ‘She said it will fade a lot in time. I can use various creams and potions on it to help the healing. And after a year or so, we can think about laser treatments and so on. But the skin needs to restore itself first.’
‘Oh Em.’ Tom came up and hugged her. ‘You’re right, it could have been so much worse. You could have lost an eye or had your whole face sliced off. You’ve been bloody lucky.’
‘I know.’ She buried her face in his chest as he held her close. ‘I know. I just wish it felt like it, that’s all. That’s all I wish. Because I don’t feel lucky.’
The secret knowledge of what had been inside those letters lay heavy and nasty inside her. It felt as though the whole world had turned against her, was baying for her blood and the children’s. It turned out that her entire existence had simply been borrowed; none of it had really been hers at all, and now the world wanted it back and intended to rip it from her if she wouldn’t surrender it. Take it! she wanted to scream. Just let us get out alive, that’s all I ask.
‘But you’re strong. You’ll get through this.’ His voice rumbled through the wool of his jumper and buzzed around her face. ‘I know you will.’
If only you knew how strong I’ll have to be, she thought. No one knew yet. But she wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret much longer. She felt that she’d been staying silent in order to keep her old life for as long as she could. But now that was no longer possible. She turned her head and glimpsed the hall floor, the children’s coats and shoes left by the door, the mat, the bump on the skirting board from the buggy. She knew it all so well. It felt so permanent and yet it wasn’t at all.
Because all of this has to go.
‘Mrs Conway?’
‘Yes.’
The young man on the path outside the front door put out his hand. ‘I’m Ollie from Loxley’s. Hi. Great to see you.’ He shook her hand as she gave it to him and cocked his head at the girl standing behind him on the path. ‘This is Tanya. She’ll be helping me out today. May we come in?’
‘Of course.’ Emily stood back to let him come into the hall.
Ollie, smart in a suit, a clipboard and pen in his hand, stepped inside, looking about appreciatively as he did so. ‘Oh wow. This is nice. Isn’t this lovely, Tanya?’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Tanya. She was also neat and professional in a black trouser suit and red lipstick.
‘How shall we do it?’ asked Emily. ‘Shall I show you around first?’
‘I think that’s best,’ Ollie said cheerily. ‘Let’s have a nice look around and then I can talk you through our service. Oh goodness!’ He looked down at her leg in concern. ‘You’ve been in the wars! How did you do that?’
‘Oh . . . just a silly accident,’ Emily replied.
‘Are you all right to show us around?’ His brow was creased with worry for her.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m used to limping about with it now. They’re taking it off next week.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ His equanimity was restored and he looked cheerful again. ‘Right then. Let’s take a look.’
Emily showed the agents around the entire house, unable to take any pleasure from their gushing admiration. They loved her kitchen and the extension she and Will had put on at the back of the house when Carrie was born, so that they had a playroom with doors to the garden. (‘Never a-bloody-gain,’ Will had declared when at last the builders had departed. ‘That was the worst experience of my life! No more building work. Next time we need more space, we move house.’) They adored the period features, the original tiles in the hall, the fireplaces, the airy rooms, and the en-suite and dressing room off the master bedroom.
Back in the sitting room, Ollie was full of enthusiasm. ‘You’re going to have no problem selling to a family,’ he said happily. ‘There’s loads of demand for good properties like this, especially in this area, and you’re bound to get lots of peop
le through the door immediately. In fact, I’d suggest that we keep it off the market for a bit to show to our registered clients first, then perhaps sort out an open day—’
‘How much?’ interrupted Emily.
‘Oh.’ Ollie blinked at her. Tanya looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. ‘Of course you’ll want to realise the absolute best price you can and the good news is that the market is very healthy at the—’
‘I need a quick sale. A really quick sale. If possible, a cash buyer without a chain.’
Ollie stared at her again, absorbing this. ‘Okay. Well, that might cut down your options. Most buyers of a property like this will be families moving up the property ladder, with something to sell to fund the move, but you might be lucky—’
‘All right, give me the best- and worst-case scenarios. I want to know how much the house is worth, and what you think I can get for it if I have to sell in, say, six weeks.’
‘We’ll find you a buyer in six weeks, no worries,’ Ollie said, looking relieved.
‘No.’ She tried not to sound impatient. ‘I mean sell. Complete the sale.’
‘Complete? In six weeks? From now?’ He blinked at her, his mouth in a little round O, and he exchanged glances with Tanya before recollecting himself. ‘Well, that’s a tall order but . . .’ His tone became confident again. ‘If that’s what you want, then Loxley’s can deliver. You might have to be prepared to take a bit of a hit on the price but then again, you may be lucky.’
Emily sat back in her armchair, her plastered leg sticking out stiffly in front of her. ‘I want all I can get in the fastest possible time. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Emily!’ Polly came in, hauling Ruby with one hand and pushing the buggy holding a sleeping baby with the other. Stanley had already run in to find Carrie and Joe in the playroom. ‘There’s a For Sale sign outside your house!
‘I know,’ Emily said, hopping up the step from the kitchen, steadying herself against the wall.
‘Well, is it a mistake? Ruby, let me take your coat off, for goodness’ sake! And don’t scream, you’ll wake Bert.’ Polly looked up from her struggling toddler and noticed the change in Emily at once. ‘Oh, your bandage has gone!’ She lowered Ruby to the floor and strode down the hall towards Emily, looking anxiously at the side of her head. When she saw the scar, she gasped. ‘Oh shit!’ She put out a hand and pressed it over the scar. ‘Oh God, honey. What happened to you?’ Her eyes filled with tears and her lower lip trembled suddenly.
‘Hey,’ Emily said, touched. She took her friend’s wrist and gently lifted her hand away from the scar. ‘I was in a car crash, remember? Quite a while ago now. What’s wrong?’
Polly sobbed, two tears overflowing and running down her face. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve just realised . . . it’s just hit home what happened to you. How you nearly died. The scar . . . it makes me understand how terrible the accident was.’
‘I don’t seem able to forget it,’ Emily said wryly. She brushed her hair away from the scar, catching a glimpse of its jagged red line in the hall mirror. ‘I can’t now, even if I want to.’
‘Oh darling, don’t worry about that. It’ll get better. And you can get utterly marvellous camouflage make-up too. I’ve got a friend with a birthmark right over her face and she’s learned how to cover it completely whenever she wants to hide it. You’d never know it was there.’ Ruby trotted past, on her way to join the others in the playroom. Polly looked bewildered. ‘But what about the For Sale sign?’
‘Come with me.’ Emily turned back to the kitchen, where the long refectory table was covered in piles of letters. She pointed at it. ‘That’s what it’s all about.’
Polly stared at the piles and frowned. Her eyes were still damp from her tears and she wiped them with the back of her palm. ‘What is it?’
Emily took a deep breath. It had to happen. People had to know. Tom had gone off to work but he’d know too, when he got back and saw the sign that had gone up outside the house today. There was no hiding it any more. In a way, it would be a relief to let the dirty secret out. Now her bandage was off, with her plaster soon to follow, she was feeling stripped away and left naked and new. That process was only just beginning. There would be a great deal more to lose before it was over.
As they stood by the kitchen table, Emily took a deep breath. ‘Will made a big mistake just before the accident,’ she said. ‘He’s lost all our money. All of it. His job has gone, the hedge fund has imploded. There’s no salary, no insurance, nothing. Even his critical illness cover had run out and he hadn’t renewed it. He was looking for a new provider. He emptied our savings, cashed in pensions and shares, and all the rest of it. If I can sell the house within six weeks and get the mortgage paid back to the bank, I’ll be able to keep what’s left – such as it is after I’ve paid the agents – and that will be all the money I have.’
Polly listened open-mouthed, evidently shocked. She moved to a chair and sank down onto it. ‘What? I . . . I can’t believe it. Are you sure?’
Emily gave a hollow laugh as she sat too. ‘I’m afraid so. Last week I saw the bank manager and our financial adviser. And a lawyer. Two of them, actually. And they might not be the last, either.’
‘Oh Em. Oh God.’ A look of horror crossed Polly’s face and she seemed to blanch. She whispered, ‘Shit. How did you find out?’
Emily leaned back in her chair, remembering the long night she’d spent in Will’s study. She’d opened the stack of post, reading all the letters and taking in what they all meant. After a while, she’d had to stumble to the loo and retch down the bowl, the fear making her vomit. Will had been telling the truth: he’d cleaned out all they owned and remortgaged the house for as much as they would let him. The repayments were emptying what was left in their current account at a frightening rate. There were letters from his stockbroker advising Will not to cash in his shares at the current price. There was even a letter to her confirming the instructions to empty her personal ISA and to access her e-savings, where the legacy from her parents had been held. Will had not scrupled over hiding her post then. He must have been very, very sure that the gamble was a good one. But he had guessed she would never have allowed him to risk everything they had on it.
Sitting on the floor of the study, her plastered leg sticking out awkwardly, she’d turned her face upwards and addressed his absent spirit in a shaking voice. ‘What did you want, Will? What the hell did you want? We had everything! We had enough money, a lovely house, a family. We didn’t need more . . .’
But she knew that Will had been dissatisfied. Their house was not big and impressive enough. He wanted a private education for the children and had calculated that it would cost them the best part of a million to put them both through good London schools. He hankered after a really special car, something Italian and low-slung that could reach ridiculous speeds. Their holidays had to be hot and frequent, and there was talk of a boat if Will took up sailing as he’d always wanted to. He’d been thinking about throwing a really splendid party to celebrate his fortieth – a castle, fireworks, a famous band . . .
Bitterness and disbelief had swamped her, along with a kind of cold pity for his stupidity and shallowness. He threw away everything for a load of glossy magazine dreams. In the end, he even preferred to die than face losing his status.
She’d sat there weeping until the day broke.
Now Emily looked Polly in the eye. ‘There was no way I couldn’t find out. I’m not that far off penniless.’ She laughed lightly. The fear had become something she could handle by pushing it away, keeping herself apart from it all. She’d already begun to detach from all her possessions. All that mattered now was the children. ‘It seems crazy, doesn’t it? Here we are, in this big house in London, with all the stuff we’ve accumulated. I’ve got designer clothes upstairs. Jewellery. Art on the walls. Gadgets galore. And I’m almost broke.’
Polly shook her head, appalled. ‘But what does it mean?’
‘The house has to go. I h
ave to sell as much as I can.’
‘But what will happen to you?’
‘Honestly? I have no idea.’
‘Where will you go? Where will you live?’ Polly’s face contorted as she began to absorb the extent of it. ‘Will you be able to buy a house?’
‘Not without a job,’ Emily said grimly.
‘Can Will’s mother help?’
‘She doesn’t know.’
Polly looked shocked. ‘You must tell her – tell her what Will’s done. She’ll have to do whatever she can to make it up to you. She’s got money, hasn’t she? And a decent-sized house?’
‘We’re not going to live with her,’ Emily said decisively. ‘I do know that. I couldn’t bear it. The way she is – her utter stupid faith that her beloved boy is going to wake up, like some miracle in the Bible. I can’t stand it.’
Polly stared at her. A realisation began to dawn in her eyes. She whispered, ‘You don’t want him to get better.’
Emily returned her gaze. It was, at last, a relief to admit it.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’
Chapter Eight
Cressie stood in front of the blackboard, scrawling white chalk on the shiny surface. The blackboard was a bad one. It seemed to reject the chalk so that only dotted, unstable lines were left behind.
‘I’m going to talk to you about Keats,’ she said as she wrote the name out. ‘John Keats. He’s one of the most famous English poets. Now.’ She turned to face the class. Outside the windows the day bloomed blue and gold, almost as hot as summer. No wonder the pupils were restless. The old radiators were blasting out heat as though it was mid-winter and the room was stifling. Faces were turned away from her – to the window, to desks, to each other. Girls were huddled and whispering, exchanging notes and secrets. Boys fidgeted, slinging small objects at each other or swinging on their chairs, hands in pockets. Only one face, near the front, was fixed on hers, that of a boy she had noticed before. He had a thin, pointed face and round glasses with bright blue eyes behind them. He was neatly turned out, his tie always properly tied, his shoes clean. What was his name? She racked her memory but it delivered nothing.