Since sending the contents of Clive’s diary to Harry, replete with every appointment with every associate mapped out until Christmas, I had earned myself a brief period of respite from the constant prying. With Harry not just appeased but apparently delighted by the access my role in the family afforded him, my attentions turned sharply to the job of working my way up the ranks of the magazine.
I heard the brisk clacking of Clarissa’s heels before I saw her that morning, Margaret Howell suit in pristine order, hair pulled into a tortoiseshell clip at the back of her head. Pulling myself straighter, I ran my hand over my own hair, my fingers catching at the ends.
I had hardly slept. The girls were teething with their molars and while I had tried to tune out Stella’s low growling as Maria padded gently back and forth in the hall, her voice remaining even as she comforted the baby, it had felt as though my daughter’s distraught moans were emanating from within my own head.
‘It’s just a maternal response to the sound of a child’s pain, which can’t be switched off. No matter how hard you try,’ David had said under his breath as I sat at the dresser, pressing concealer under my eyes, earlier that morning.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
I kept my voice even, watching him tightening his tie in the mirror, turning myself in my seat to face him as he continued moving around the room.
He held up his hands but his voice sounded accusing.
‘You’re being overly sensitive again. You’re clearly tired and … it’s not surprising, given how much you’ve been working.’
It was the constant push and pull of David’s remarks that wore me down, but I should have been more robust. That was the nature of family life. The tiredness, the resentment; these were textbook post-children domestic dynamics, and their mundanity should have been reassuring.
‘Are you coming or not?’
Before I had time to reply, Clarissa disappeared back into her office, returning moments later with a trench coat folded over her arm.
I followed dutifully across the office floor, my back held straight as a sea of ponytails flicked right, and quickly back again, to watch us disappear into the lift.
‘Do you know Frederick’s? It’s an institution.’
She swung out a wiry arm and a taxi ground to a halt in front of us.
‘You’ll love it … Camden Passage …’ she called through to the driver. ‘We timed that well.’ Ducking in first, she shuffled along to make space for me as a roll of thunder clattered above us.
The rain started to fall as the taxi headed along the wide open streets that ran between Clerkenwell and Angel.
‘Here we are.’
Clarissa stepped out first, leading the way into the restaurant with its high glass ceiling and leather chairs, the conservatory beyond, all exposed brick and made-to-measure wall art.
‘Shall we sit in the bar? I can’t be bothered with dining rooms at lunchtime.’
I was relieved. The idea of a formal meal in an upright chair made my body ache.
‘What will you drink, red or white? I tell you what, I fancy the steak. You must too, it’s exquisite. Let’s go red, then. We’ll have a bottle of the Montepulciano …’
By the time the main course arrived, Clarissa had swept aside the proofs she had laid out on the table, the conversation turning seamlessly from a spread on modern florals to idle gossip.
‘You know Clive and I used to date, don’t you? Oh, moons ago, before you were born, I imagine. Before I … well, I wasn’t always so honest with myself.’
She took a sip of her wine, regarding me over the top of her glass.
‘Sadly, they weren’t nearly so rich then. That came later.’
‘Really?’
‘God no, it’s only in recent years that Clive’s company has really taken off. Since his wife …’
The waiter arrived with two coffees and Clarissa squared her elbows on the table.
‘Frankly, I’m just thrilled for David. You and he, and the girls … I mean, if anyone deserves happiness it’s that boy. After what he went through …’
I took my coffee, grateful for its strength.
‘I mean, it’s bloody criminal what he had to bear … That woman. I’ve never known anything so selfish in all my life, though to be fair I suppose there was no way she could have known that he would be the one to find her. Her own bloody child.’
I felt a knot gather in my belly, tightening and then releasing again. Swallowing, I pressed my napkin against my mouth, silently willing her to continue.
But as she met my eye, Clarissa faltered, her expression changing. The room was so hot all of a sudden, airless.
‘Fuck. He hasn’t told you, has he? Oh God.’
‘No, I don’t …’
I felt my hands drop to my lap, shame tingling over the tips of my fingers.
‘Oh God, what have I done? I assumed, I just assumed he would have … Fuck. I’m so sorry.’
CHAPTER 47
Maria
Anna had already left by the time I woke with the girls. Settling them a safe distance away from the doll’s house David had commissioned – a microcosm of their home built as an exact replica, from the plush velvet curtains to the mid-century furniture – I called out Anna’s name as I padded down the hallway towards her bedroom.
As I moved through the hallway, I thought of Artemis, picturing her moving through this hallway, the day it had happened. Had she cried? I imagined her pain too far below the surface.
Satisfied that Anna had left the house, I moved quietly through the room towards the cupboard and slid my hand expertly into it, towards the clutch bag where she kept her second phone, as I did every few days. It was a mystery to me that she would so brazenly leave it here, where anyone could find it. Yet it never moved, and presumably David never found it. Why would he? Why would a man choose to rummage through his wife’s clothes cupboards?
It only took a moment to enter her pin number, which was the same as the one on her regular phone: 1211. The numbers I had watched her key in so many times, occasionally wondering what their significance might be.
CHAPTER 48
Anna
He was lying on the sofa, a blanket spread over his legs, when I got home from work that evening, immersed in a book on the history of humankind, a beer balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa.
If you disregarded the geometric furnishings, the Scandi-inspired log pile and wood-burning stove where the traditional fireplace once stood, this could have been David when I first moved in with him and the memory of it warmed me briefly.
‘The girls are already asleep.’ He looked up from the book before taking a swig of his beer.
It was nearly 8 p.m. I had spent the afternoon walking around Islington, my mind whirring with what Clarissa had told me.
‘Where’s Maria?’
‘She’s out. It’s her night off, remember?’
Did she know? The thought struck me for the first time. Their mothers were friends, weren’t they? So there was no way she could not have known. It was the first time I had felt jealous of her in the whole time she had been with us. Despite her easy manner with the girls, her natural flair for parenting, which served to highlight my shortcomings, the confidence she was able to imbue in them as if by the process of osmosis, despite all that it was this new knowledge that really cut deep.
‘What happened to your mother?’
The words came out before I was ready.
‘Excuse me?’
David rested the book on his chest.
‘Your mother – she killed herself, in this house, and you found her.’
There was a pause and then David moved to sitting position, his cheeks reddening.
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘What? Who told you that?’
‘Clarissa, she assumed I knew. I am your wife, David. It would make sense for me to know something like that.’<
br />
He looked at me, and I felt a shiver across my chest, my nipples hardening.
‘Why would you not tell me?’ My voice was less certain this time.
‘Are you serious?’ There was a pause while he gathered himself. ‘You are going to lecture me about openness, Anna?’
His eyes flared as he moved on the sofa.
‘You? You tell me everything, do you? You tell me everything about your past, about your parents?’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
David stood now.
‘How fucking dare you? You tell me nothing, Anna. Nothing. And you know what? I accept it. Like a fucking mug, I accept all of it. And you know why? Because I love you.’
His eyes were shining with fury.
‘I don’t ask questions about your dad, who you refuse to introduce me to. I don’t ask about your mum, who is also apparently dead, and actually no, I don’t know how, either … You know why? Because I choose not to make you go through it. I choose to let you say as much or little as you like. Because I know that is the person you are and I know that I take that or I take nothing.’
David’s words whipped through the air.
‘But you? You expect me to go through it all, to relive all the sordid details, so that you can feel better about yourself? More self-assured in front of your boss?’
He wiped his wrist against his mouth and turned away from me momentarily. When he turned to face me again his eyes were wet.
‘It’s always about you, isn’t it, Anna? Always about your needs. But what about me. What about us?’
There was a scuttling sound from above, followed by Stella’s voice on the landing – she had managed to climb out of her cot.
‘You know what? Fuck this.’
David’s shoulder slammed my arm as he barged out of the room, the front door slamming behind him.
I knew as soon as I awoke that David had already left. He had arrived home some time before 2 a.m., when I spotted from the safety of the hallway his body splayed across the sofa in the living room.
I gathered the bag of snacks Maria had left out for me on the table, together with spare nappies for Rose and a stash of perfectly folded pants for Stella, who had, just shy of two years old, decided it was time to start potty-training, whether we were ready for it or not.
‘Right, let’s go then, shall we?’
I spoke to no one, giving my brightest impression of a young mother ready for a Saturday morning in the park with her girls. As I swung the bag over my arm, I turned to see Stella marching towards me, and for a split-second Clive’s black eyes looked back at me. I stumbled before steadying myself.
‘Mama!’ she called out, and I moved forward to scoop her up, tossing the thought away.
‘Gosh, aren’t you a clever girl? Shall we go to the park, yes? Oh, you’re a clever girl! Come on, let’s get Rose.’
The weather, heavy and black for so long, had brightened into the kind of crisp late-autumn day that lifted even the dullest spirits. I had started to take pleasure in walking across the hills and vales of the Heath with the girls on Saturday mornings while David had taken to playing football on Market Road with a group of former colleagues, and Maria spent weekends studying at the British Library.
This morning we made our usual circuit of the playground by the running track, before heading up through the densely packed trees that led to Kenwood, skirting the house, following the dip of the valley.
Taking a seat at one of the benches overlooking the pond at Mill Lane, I let the girls out of the buggy to toss crumbs of bread for the ducks, hanging behind them as a band of coots and pigeons lurched towards us, a swan in the distance puffing her wings.
By the time we reached the bench at the top of Kite Hill, both girls had fallen asleep. I watched their faces, barely moving as they blew breath in and out of their lungs. It was a month since I had last called Harry. The distance between us by now was a matter of fact.
‘Anna, isn’t it?’
The voice came from behind, pulling me away from my thoughts. ‘Gosh, so these are your girls …’
It was the voice I recognised first, followed by the face, sharp and self-assured.
‘You don’t remember me, do you? God, don’t worry, you’ve been busy …’
The woman gave a warm glance towards the buggy.
‘I’m so sorry …’
‘Don’t be. Felicity. We met, well, pretty much here …’
Spreading her hands towards the bench, she took a seat beside me.
‘I was somewhat more rotund then.’
‘Of course, you were pregnant too …’
Slowly the memory came into focus – the runner on the Heath, the woman who was doing it alone. She looked so different now, her hair folded over her shoulders, a Burberry trench pulled in at the waist.
Felicity noticed the memory click and nodded. ‘Mine’s a boy. Arthur. He’s with the nanny, I needed to get out.’ She gave me a knowing look.
I laughed. ‘Sounds familiar.’
She smiled back at me. ‘Hard, isn’t it?’
The question caught me off-guard, or rather the way she asked it. Some days I saw being with the girls as a relief, a brief respite from the constant lies. Other days I would look at them and feel like I could not breathe.
‘I’m back at work,’ I said.
‘What do you do?’
I felt a quiet stab of pride. ‘I work at a magazine.’
Felicity raised an eyebrow.
‘Fantastic. And how does your husband feel about that?’
Rose stirred under her blanket. Subconsciously clocking Felicity’s interest in the stirring toddler, I leaned forward, moving the buggy slightly closer to my leg, adjusting the blanket around Rose’s face, the soft angles of her lips rearranging themselves into a kiss shape.
I let the question hang awkwardly in the air for a moment, before she continued, as if to clarify her point.
‘I just remember you saying before, he was … unsettled, by the pregnancy.’
There were so few times when I had the chance to be on my own, to stop thinking, to stop pre-empting, and I longed for silence now, for the chance to sit and look out over the distant buildings that disappeared into the haze of the skyline.
Felicity must have seen the look on my face, and for a moment I thought she was going to leave, and then she sat, close enough that I noticed the veins on the back of her hands as she pulled a cigarette from her pocket, holding out the box. I hesitated before shaking my head.
‘No, I’m fine, thanks. I don’t …’
‘That’s brilliant, though, about David, that he’s come round. Sometimes men … Sometimes people aren’t who they seem.’
David. I felt my throat constrict. When had I mentioned his name?
Suddenly, Stella cried out, and her arm shot out from under the blanket. Quickly standing, I lifted my daughter, her toddler frame going limp again as I held her to my chest, my other hand on Rose’s arm, willing her to stay asleep.
Turning my head discreetly towards Felicity, I saw her profile, impassive, looking out across the skyline. Her mouth pursed around the white filter tip, leaving a thick print of red as she pulled the cigarette away.
The range of possibilities circled my mind like birds, swooping in and out of focus. Had Clive found out, sent this woman to draw me out of my hole?
‘It must be hard.’
Her voice was deliberate, her eyes still focused ahead.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
I felt my jaw tighten as I spoke, frozen to the spot, hoping my terror would not show. My eyes darted around us, over the brow of the hill: families wrapped in colourful scarves on weekend outings, men talking loudly into their phones.
‘I’m a friend, Anna. I’m sorry to have to approach you like this but I need your help.’
The breath caught in my throat and for a moment I imagined that if I were only to stay still enough, if I could just maintain my sil
ence, the woman might somehow disappear.
‘Your father-in-law, Clive, I don’t know how much you’re aware of, but he is caught up in some serious business, and the organisation I work for, well, we need a friend on the inside.’
Felicity turned to face me, dropping her cigarette.
‘I beg your pardon?’ But as I said it, I was already gathering my scarf from the bench, while Felicity watched me, calm and unapologetic.
That was when she said the name of the organisation. Three tiny syllables, each of them a punch in my gut.
‘Have a think about it,’ she added as I kicked the brake of the buggy away. ‘It’s always good to know what you’re getting yourself into.’
Struggling to pull together the words, I watched the embers of her cigarette slowly dying on the ground, glowing, then flickering faintly, until finally they were gone.
‘Take this, have a think.’
She held out a card – but I turned, leaving it in her hand, the buggy pounding down the hill, my fingers holding onto the handles for dear life.
CHAPTER 49
Maria
The address on the piece of paper in my hand led me through Hatton Garden, a single road lined with jewellers on both sides.
Following the curve of the pavement, in line with the map I had memorised before I left, I turned right into a mews street and headed towards the inconspicuous entrance, as instructed, knocking twice before a man in a Metallica T-shirt stretched tight across his gut pulled open the door.
Inside, the beige decor in the narrow hallway was indicative of a shared student house. Following the man’s bulbous silhouette, tentatively at first, up a steep flight of steps which wound round to the right, we emerged in a room with floor-to-ceiling shelves, each lined with a different form of camera.
‘Not what you expected?’
‘I didn’t know what to expect.’
‘So, according to the brief I’m looking at here, you’re after a buttonhole camera.’
I nodded grimly, a lump rising in my throat.
The Most Difficult Thing Page 24