by Laura Elliot
‘Yes.’
‘Obviously the wine has loosened your tongue.’
‘Probably.’ She knew this was true. Alcohol begot recklessness and blunted her fear.
Unable to endure the sight of his face any longer, she ended the call. She entered the small room she used as a home office and rummaged through a folder of documents. She removed some, including the house deed and the copy of her father’s will that she had secretly requested from David Smithson. She stored these in a separate folder and replaced the original one in its filing cabinet. She shredded her marriage certificate, shoved the pieces into an envelope and added it to the new folder. Tomorrow, she would remove it to the ice house. No danger of Nicholas ever finding it there; the hostility between him and Billy Tobin had become irreconcilable since the removal of John’s cross. He and Jodie, Billy’s late wife, had been like second parents to Amelia when she was a child. Now, her life had reached such a pass that she only visited Billy in secret.
She collected albums of photographs and spread their contents over the desk. How carefree she and Leanne looked; all those different teenage phases: brash Spice Girls, theatrical goths, the edgy post-punk rebellion of their late teens and the androgynous stage when they were in art college. Jay was in the photographs until he was sixteen. All those tears after he left. Amelia had believed she would never stop crying. She laid her hand over the dark eyes that stared back at her from a photograph taken at a school disco. Tonight, he had been wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a print of a music festival he had attended in Australia. His world seemed so expansive compared to her own narrow confines. Heat flowed through her as she recalled how they had danced together, laughing over his clumsiness when he stepped on her feet. The music had slowed and silenced them, late-night blues stirring old longings. Like a dream that had lain dormant for years until the touch of their hands brought it back to life. Could the past be resurrected so easily? she wondered. Or had she simply snatched a brief respite from the heartache of her marriage? Afraid to answer the question, Amelia switched off the light and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.
The doorbell rang as she was undressing. She dressed again quickly and ran downstairs in her bare feet, alarmed in case something had happened to Billy. No one else would call at this hour of the night.
Jay was standing outside and the lights of a taxi were disappearing round the bend in the driveway.
‘What is it?’ She was instantly alert. ‘Is everything all right with Leanne?’
‘She talked to me—’ He stopped, swallowed, steadied his voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
She opened the door wider and walked ahead of him into the living room. ‘What exactly did she say?’
‘Enough to know you have to leave him.’
She sank down onto the sofa. That was the worst thing about confiding in others. Pretence was no longer possible. A truth she had tried to contain was loose and already beginning to change its form.
‘This is my home. I can’t just walk away from it. I’ve already discussed this with Leanne.’
‘Yes, I know. Like me, she can’t understand why this house is more important than your own safety.’
‘It belongs to me. My father refused to allow Nicholas to have any share in Woodbine. I didn’t understand his reasons for doing so but now, even though it’s too late to make up for anything, I’m going to honour his wishes. I accused him, you see, and hurt him deeply. I deserve everything that’s happened to me.’
‘Accused him of what, Amelia?’ Jay sat beside her on the sofa and pulled her into his arms.
Overwhelmed by this memory, she began to cry. How easily she had allowed Nicholas to warp her mind, seeding it with innuendo and resentment, while the truth, the undeniable spark of his violence, had been hidden from her behind a gloss of charm. All this she told Jay, who gave her space to cry when she found it difficult to continue.
She was acutely aware of his nearness, and that his body, having shed the gangling awkwardness of those teen years, had the strength and fullness of a man in his prime. Finally, when she fell silent, it seemed so natural to lift her face to his, and to kiss his lips, as she had longed to do when they had been dancing together.
When did comfort change to passion? A spontaneous surge of desire that was at once familiar, yet thrillingly new. They undressed and lay together, skin on skin, electricity running through their fingers, everything forgotten; all swamped in the tumult of desire. He stayed with her until dawn had lightened the sky. He begged her to come with him to California. She had spent holidays in New York with Leanne and had the necessary documentation. But she remained firm in her decision to stay. Unlike Woodbine, love and passion were transient and she had learned to mistrust the storms of the body. Nicholas would never force her to abandon her home.
* * *
Yvonne arrived at noon with home-made soup and a bowl of mixed salad. She heated the soup and set the table in the conservatory for two. The soup, thick and creamy, smelled delicious. Amelia barely tasted it.
‘You have to start eating properly again.’ Yvonne gazed reproachfully at the bowl. ‘Nicholas is worried about you. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Is he really?’
‘What kind of question is that, Amelia? Obviously, he’s worried. This depression―’
‘I’m not depressed.’ She brought her attention back to her mother-in-law. ‘I’m recovering from a miscarriage and a blow to my head that could have killed me.’
‘If only you’d had the good sense to let Nicholas take care of painting the nursery.’ Yvonne sighed heavily, resignedly.
‘You’ve made that point already, Yvonne. Please, don’t let’s go over it again.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Yvonne patted her knee. ‘I don’t mean to keep reminding you of what you’ve lost.’
‘You’re not reminding me. I remember what I’ve lost every moment of the day.’
‘Well, that’s not good either.’ Joining her fingertips together, Yvonne pointed them towards Amelia like a gun. ‘Sad things happen. We have to put them behind us and move on with our lives.’
Tearful and reproachful when Amelia was discharged from hospital, Yvonne had chided her for being so reckless. What on earth had possessed her daughter-in-law to climb a ladder in her condition? Why take such a risk when it was her responsibility to protect not only herself but her unborn son? ‘Sad experiences teach us hard lessons,’ Yvonne had said. ‘But you’re young and strong. You and Nicholas will move on from this unfortunate event and have a brood of children.’
Tell her… tell her the truth now. End this charade once and for all. The thought had surged through Amelia’s mind but Nicholas’s hand in hers, the warning pressure hurting her fingers, had kept her silent.
Amelia stared out at the garden, where the glass butterflies glinted, their incandescent wings poised in suspended animation. ‘Yvonne, I know you’re anxious to help and I appreciate the food. But now, I just want to be left alone.’
‘I drove over here to oblige Nicholas. But I certainly don’t want to intrude where I’m not wanted.’ Yvonne pursed her lips. Engorged from a recent injection of collagen, they dominated her small face and reminded Amelia of plump garden snails. Hurriedly banishing the image, she attempted to pacify her mother-in-law. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. I told Nicholas not to bother you.’
‘He was anxious about leaving you alone. I promised him I’d have a chat with you, woman to woman.’ Yvonne pulled her chair closer to the table. ‘I’ve had my share of ups and downs in my marriage so I feel qualified to give you some advice. Nicholas loves you, Amelia. He wants to help you to get back on your feet again. Antidepressants are not the way forward and it’s―’
‘I don’t take―’
‘Have you considered counselling? It doesn’t do any harm at certain times to let someone else help us to recover. I know an excellent woman―’
‘I don’t need counselling.’
‘How do you know until you’ve tried it? Unresolv
ed issues can arise during pregnancy and, sadly, also after a miscarriage.’
‘What unresolved issues?’
‘Your father’s death, for instance. Nicholas said you accused him of having that cross you erected on the embankment removed.’
‘Does he always run to his mama when he’s upset?’
‘You’re being rude, Amelia. He’s my son and I can always tell when he’s upset, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. He had nothing to do with the cross’s removal but it suggests to me that you should talk to someone about… well, you know…’ She paused. As always, her carefully bland expression was hard to read but Amelia, her senses painfully attuned to her mother-in-law’s reaction, noticed the speculation in her gaze.
‘Know what?’
‘I’m not trying to upset you, dear. But I need to ask you a very sensitive question. Was your father always kind to you?’
The question oozed across the table towards Amelia. ‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘John drank a lot.’ Yvonne stared at a spot above Amelia’s head, the lift of her eyebrow suggesting she had noticed a cobweb dangling from the wall. ‘He was killed coming home from a pub. The coroner said the alcohol in his system―’
‘My father was walking along a dark road and was knocked down by a hit-and-run driver. How dare you talk about him in that way?’
‘In what way?’ Yvonne dismissed the imaginary cobweb and stared at her daughter-in-law. ‘I simply asked if he gave you the respect and privacy a father should allow his daughter? Nicholas told me you and John had a painful conversation before he died.’
‘Nicholas had no right to discuss that with you. No right whatsoever.’ Amelia locked her fingers together, nails digging into the skin. ‘But I’ll answer your question. My father’s love for me was unconditional and pure. I made a dreadful mistake and will never forgive myself for doing so. Unlike your son, he had no dark side to his nature.’
‘Dark side?’ Yvonne’s shoulders shot back, her arms rising and opening out in a puzzled V. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nicholas beats me, Yvonne.’ Saying it aloud at last. Naming it, the accusation flat, ugly, free. ‘I’m your son’s punchbag when he’s upset. Does he discuss that with you?’
‘Heavens above! What absolute nonsense.’
‘It’s not nonsense. I’ve stayed quiet for far too long. You must know that Nicholas has a vile temper. When he doesn’t get his own way, he can lash out without thinking about the consequences.’
‘I know nothing of the sort.’ Yvonne was on her feet, her cheeks enflamed. ‘How dare you turn this conversation round and imply that my son is violent towards you? Your father―’
‘My father saw right through his charms. He never wanted us to marry. I should have listened to him.’
Yvonne pulled on her jacket, her fingers trembling as she buttoned it. ‘It’s just as well I have an understanding nature and can appreciate the stress you’re going through. Otherwise, I’d find it impossible to forgive you.’ Her lips puckered in a bow of disbelief. ‘You need help, young woman. And soon, if you want to have any hope of saving your marriage.’
Come away with me, Jay had begged until he ran out of words.
Bricks and mortar, Leanne had said. Not important enough to risk her life. With each entreaty, Amelia had felt her resolution harden, her determination growing. But, now, with Jay on a flight back to California and Leanne leaving soon for Kerry, her fear came crawling back. Nicholas would be home tomorrow. Would he, with his knack of burrowing into her thoughts, somehow realise that she had been unfaithful to him? A bloodhound feeding off suspicion, he was bound to notice something – a stray hair, a non-aligned cushion, her lips bruised with pleasure, her heart breaking.
After Yvonne drove away, the wheels of her car stirring dust into a fury, Amelia entered the ice house and hid the folder that held the tattered remnants of her marriage certificate.
Thirty-Two
She waited for Nicholas to bring up her conversation with Yvonne but, instead, he talked about New York. The limitless energy and opportunities in a city that never slept. They would sell Woodbine and with his severance package from KHM, they would begin again over there. A fresh start for both of them. He had bought her gifts, a cashmere pashmina, perfume, gold earrings that she had seen in a magazine and admired. He poured champagne into slender glasses and toasted their future. She answered him in monosyllables and sipped the champagne slowly, reluctantly, yet afraid to offend him, or upset his affable mood. Did he really believe she would sell Woodbine and leave her beloved home for a future with him? He filled her glass again, ignoring her protests that she had drunk enough, seemingly unaware, or uncaring, that she showed no interest in his plans.
The following morning, Amelia awoke to the sound of music. Gentle and soothing, it floated in and out of her consciousness. Her mind drifted, then gained force as she gathered her thoughts. The curtains were still drawn, the light in the bedroom dim. The ceiling began to spin as soon as she sat up. She fell back against the pillows, closed her eyes and lay perfectly still. Vertigo – she had had it once when she was a teenager. Her doctor had diagnosed a middle ear infection. She remembered the nausea, her staggering footsteps and her belief that the floor would pitch her forward if she wasn’t holding on to the wall.
The door opened and Nicholas entered. ‘Breakfast is ready,’ he said.
She heard him set the tray down on the bedside table, felt the mattress sag as he sat on the side of the bed. His hand on her forehead was cool, his touch light as his fingers massaged her temples where two pincers of pain jabbed deep.
‘Wake up, darling,’ he said. ‘It’s almost noon. I’m going to open the curtains and let some light into the room.’
She felt the sunshine press against her closed eyelids when he whisked the curtains across. Cautiously, she opened her eyes. He was back on the bed beside her, smiling. The warmth of his gaze, his tender touch. Terror cramped her stomach and she was afraid she would throw up over the duvet.
‘Let me help you.’ He moved behind her and lifted her upright, plumped the pillows behind her. Why was he treating her like an invalid?
He suggested she start breakfast, but she shook her head. The tray was set with freshly squeezed orange juice, scrambled eggs, slivers of smoked salmon. The same breakfast as that previous occasion when she had tried to struggle her way out of the blackness. The morning after the KHM Christmas party, those images ingrained. He had fed her like a timid fledging then. Not this time.
‘I don’t want anything.’ Thankfully, the dizziness had passed and she was able to speak clearly. ‘Take the tray back downstairs.’
‘You’re obviously still in shock but you must try to eat something. If you can’t manage the scrambled eggs, at least have some tea and toast.’ He buttered toast, spread it with lime marmalade, poured tea.
‘I’m not in shock,’ she snapped. ‘And I’m not hungry. I’ll make something to eat later.’ Her headache was so intense that she was only vaguely aware of a stinging pain in her arms. Now, as that pain pulsed more strongly, she noticed the bandages for the first time. She stared at the white strip wound round her right upper arm. On her left arm a bandage had been wound below her elbow. Was she dreaming? No – the pain was too real to belong to a nightmare, throbbing, sharp as a blade. What had happened? She was unaware she had asked the question aloud until Nicholas clasped her face too tightly between his hands and said, ‘Thank God I found you before it was too late.’
‘What did I do?’ Her skin felt dry and abrasive when she pressed her palms together. ‘Why are my arms bandaged?’
‘Don’t you remember?’ he asked. ‘You did it in the bath. Both arms cut.’ His voice broke. ‘How could you do this to yourself? To us?’
‘I wouldn’t go near that bath.’ She pulled back from him and began to scrabble at the bandage on her right arm until she found the opening.
‘I stopped the bleeding and cleaned you up. You kept
talking about your father. I’d suspected as much but to hear you admit it was horrendous. All that hurt and resentment finally pouring out of you. My poor love, what you were forced to endure.’
Insinuations. How many tentacles did they grow? Each one clinging to the same lie. Blood had seeped into the inner wrapping, rust-coloured and sickening to see. She unwound the last stretch of bandage. It had stuck to the wound, which began to bleed as she eased it off. She took the tissues he handed to her and stemmed the flow. The swipe of a blade. Pain, so sharp, the warm spill of blood, cries that no one but Nicholas could hear. This chilling certainty stayed with her.
‘You can’t make me believe I did this to myself,’ she whispered.
‘Who else would do it?’ He flung the challenge like a gauntlet before her. ‘You were zonked on those tablets you take at night and not responsible for your actions.’
The bleeding on her arm was slight, the wound clean, superficial. The cuts on her other arm would be the same, she thought; but they came with a warning.
‘You found release in pain,’ he said. ‘But cutting yourself is not the answer, my love. It’s destructive, dangerous. Do you remember anything about last night?’
She shook her head, numbed by the horror of her suspicions. Her breakfast was cooling on the bedside table. Why had he chosen the same menu? That night had also been a shadow, dark and threatening. Then, as now, she was unable to emerge from its shade.
‘Do you remember?’ he repeated.
Numbly, she shook her head.
‘Could you have double-dosed on those tablets?’
‘Why would I do that?’ She had taken a sleeping tablet shortly before she went to bed, welcomed the relief it would bring for the next six hours. Nicholas had remained downstairs, working on his laptop.
‘Only you can answer that question, Amelia.’ He walked to the laundry basket and removed a bloodstained towel and her nightdress, similarly stained. ‘We need to talk about what you’re going through. Self-mutilation is dangerous. Repressed memories equally so. I’m going to arrange an appointment with a therapist for you.’