by Tina Seskis
‘Christie,’ Piers said then. His voice was low and layered and sad, as if he were hiding some kind of terrible secret. ‘You’re the only woman in my life. There’s nothing else I can say.’
As Christie sat opposite her lover, she felt pity for him then, could see how much he was struggling.
‘OK,’ she said, at last. And then she smiled the smile that could light up a thousand rooms, even now, and allowed herself to relax again.
60
ELEANOR
The toaster popped, and Eleanor took out the perfectly browned bagel, smothered it in butter, followed that up with a thick slathering of cream cheese and a slice of smoked salmon. After a squeeze of lemon juice and a final flourish of black pepper she placed one half on top of the other, put it on a plate and took it over to the kitchen table. And then she sat down and stared at the bagel, almost as if it were an adversary, knowing that it would taste delicious but that it wouldn’t be enough to quell the craving in her soul.
The house was too empty.
Eleanor missed her children. She missed the fact that when Alex had been away working, there’d always been someone to look forward to welcoming home, at least once a day. Even after Brianna went off to Coventry, her son had provided the clockwork routine to the house. Mason used to get up, spend an age in the shower, come down to have breakfast reluctantly foisted upon him, rush off to school, come home again. They would nearly always have dinner together, albeit laconically, and then he would disappear up to his room and talk animatedly to his friends over the computer while allegedly doing his homework, until she’d yell at him to go to bed. It had given a rhythm to the house. Provided her with a purpose.
But now Mason was gone too, and so when Alex was away there was no need for her to get up at a certain time, no need for her to cook. No need for any routine at all.
Eleanor knew, though, that she couldn’t put too much pressure on her husband at the moment. It wasn’t Alex’s fault that Mason’s going off to university happened to coincide with possibly the tensest period in recent times in terms of national security. It felt to her now that you couldn’t turn on the radio in the morning without hearing of another atrocity in Paris or Brussels or London or Manchester. It was no wonder that Alex was having to work harder than ever, nor that he seemed more on edge these days. Ever since their trip to Venice she’d known her husband was struggling somehow, and she even wondered if he might need some kind of counselling – but she knew not to go there, as he’d only tell her again that she took after her father. Yet she wished Alex was allowed to open up to her at times. It might make his life less stressful – and, in so doing, hers too. It might make continuing to resist answering Rufus’s calls that little bit easier.
Eleanor took a bite of her bagel and almost enjoyed the forbidden feeling it gave her as much as the taste itself. Screw Alex, she thought mildly. How dare he tell her to maybe lay off the eating for a bit. She’d spent years watching her weight, letting it yo-yo, and for what? He wasn’t even here to tell her not to. He was lucky she hadn’t resorted to a bottle of wine a night, like more than a few of her friends had. Eleanor smiled. At least she had her annual afternoon tea with Lizzie to look forward to later. She and her old boss were as close as they’d ever been, possibly because Lizzie’s twins had moved overseas, albeit supposedly temporarily, and so both women felt lonely. They spoke at least once a week on the phone, and met up regularly in town, where Lizzie would insist on doing something nice, like going for lunch somewhere old and stately, like the Goring, or else to one of the season’s events, such as the Hampton Court flower show, or perhaps Queen’s Club for the tennis, and Lizzie would always insist that it was ‘her treat’. And although Eleanor would try to object, she had to admit that it was a welcome respite from the unheralded role of undercover policeman’s wife.
Eleanor finished her bagel and stood up. It would be good to see Lizzie. Perhaps Eleanor could tell her oldest friend how she was feeling, try to ease the pressure building inside of her. She’d definitely tell Lizzie that she’d seen Rufus again, perhaps even confess what was bothering her about him, now that she’d finally realised.
Eleanor crossed the kitchen and put her plate and knife in the dishwasher. Still she couldn’t stop thinking about it, going over it, trying to make sure that she wasn’t mistaken. But no, she definitely wasn’t.
What was bothering Eleanor was this: when she and Rufus had bumped into each other, he’d told her quite definitely that he knew she was married. And yet she never ever wore her wedding ring when she went running, and her finger rashes were long gone – so if they really had bumped into each other entirely by accident, how on earth would Rufus have known?
61
CHRISTIE
It had taken Piers another three months to finally tell Christie. It was a Thursday evening, and he’d just returned from a business trip to Hamburg. It was the second or third time he’d come to the house, and Christie had cooked dinner, and now they were in front of the TV, sharing a rather nice bottle of red wine. She was lying lengthwise on the couch with her feet in his lap, and he was giving her a foot massage, something Paul had never done. She tried to suppress the comparison, but it was too late. It was out there.
‘Christie,’ Piers said. ‘There’s something about me that you need to know.’ Christie tensed, as if she were driving and her car was slowly planing and all she could do was wait for the collision – perhaps into the back of him this time. This was it. This was the moment the dream was about to be smashed. It was a relief in a way. She could go back to being just nice, normal Christie Ingram, one-time history teacher, mother of two, recovering widow.
‘My wife died,’ Piers said.
‘Oh.’ Christie was sideswiped, didn’t know what to say. It seemed so weird that he hadn’t told her before. That she hadn’t asked. She’d asked him if he was married, or divorced, the answer to both of which had been an emphatic no, but she’d never asked if he’d been married. And whenever she had asked, it had felt awkward somehow. Clearly this was why.
‘How?’ Christie said finally. As she swung her feet off his lap and sat upright on the couch, her heart felt as if it had been overfilled, stretched too thin, and was in danger of rupturing. Piers looked like a little lost boy, and she almost wanted to put her arms around him, tell him that it would all be OK. But not quite.
‘How did she die, Piers?’ Christie repeated, when he still hadn’t said anything. Suddenly she dreaded the answer. Thoughts flitted through her mind, flickering in and out of sharpness, the possibilities varying from inane to hopelessly tragic to frighteningly gruesome. Nothing felt right.
‘She died in childbirth.’
Christie could feel her mouth slacken and hang half open, like an idiot. Of all the options she’d considered, this wasn’t one of them. She didn’t know what to say. What could she say? Her mind was melting into a morass of conflicting feelings, stuck in the middle of the before and after . . . until at last everything started to fall into place. No wonder he’d not wanted to tell her the truth at the start of their relationship. She would have run a mile, as how can a man ever move on from that? But what had happened to the baby? Had it been a double tragedy, or had the child lived? She could hardly bear to ask.
Christie stared at the TV, the canned laughter of the American sitcom discordant to the scenario, trying to find the words, the feelings, that would be appropriate. It was almost surreal. How did she feel? She was a widow. And yet he was a widower. Did that make them right for each other? It certainly seemed they were both tortured souls, in their different ways, who had been brought together entirely by accident. And although Christie felt so sad for Piers’s wife, who’d been cut down in the very act of giving life, it changed everything. How could Piers ever love Christie as much as he’d once loved his wife, when she’d died in that way? Weren’t the most dangerous ex-lovers always the dead ones?
‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she managed at last. Piers was looking down at his shoes,
his hands tightly locked together between his thighs.
‘It was a long time ago,’ he said. He turned and gazed at her, and the hurt in his eyes was something she’d never seen before, almost as if his wife dying had been some kind of rejection of him. It left an impression on her, made her want to look out for him, shield him from any further pain.
‘I never talk about it,’ he said quietly.
‘So why are you telling me?’
The air grew still, and thick. The moment could have gone one way or the other.
‘Because I love you.’
Christie felt a tightness in her chest. Hope mixed with fear, coagulated.
‘What happened to the baby?’
Piers appeared perplexed for a second, as if he couldn’t handle even the memory. She watched his eyes glisten, the lashes long and dark, as she waited for him to reply.
‘He died too,’ he said at last. He spoke quickly now, his words running one into the other, as if, now the story was out at long last, he couldn’t hold it back. ‘He only lived for an hour, and he was tiny, and beautiful and . . . well, it was horrendous.’
Christie stood up and walked over to the window. She was freaked out now. It was all too much.
‘Christie, I’m over it, honestly,’ Piers said, standing too. It always surprised her when he stood, how much shorter he was than Paul. Not short, exactly, but shorter. It was a visual tic, a reminder of the past. ‘I’ve had other girlfriends since, of course,’ he continued. ‘I even lived with one for a while. But it was when you got out of the car, and I saw you . . .’ He paused. ‘It was almost as if I knew you.’
Christie looked at Piers, who had taken hold of her arm, a fierce intent in his eyes.
‘And?’ she said. She wanted him to leave now. She didn’t want to fall down this rabbit hole, where the world would be odd-shaped and twisted, and unlike anything she’d ever known before. She wanted life to feel certain again, anchored into the solid dark earth.
‘Christie,’ Piers said. ‘Will you marry me?’
62
ELEANOR
Lizzie and Eleanor were meeting for tea in a grand old hotel in Piccadilly, and it was one of Eleanor’s favourite places, with its golden splendour and overt, yet relaxed, Britishness. And even though Eleanor was early, Lizzie was earlier. She looked tired, though, and her hair had been cropped short, and instead of making her look more youthful, it aged her. Her manner was spiky. Eleanor was immediately worried for her friend’s health, although she tried to disguise it.
‘And so how’s Alex?’ Lizzie asked, after Eleanor had settled into the padded satin chair the waiter pulled out for her. Lizzie picked up the menu and perused it in the manner of someone who knew exactly what was on it. Her nails were long and expertly painted a pearlescent shade of mushroom.
‘Oh, he’s fine,’ said Eleanor. ‘Busy. Working all the hours.’ She sighed, took a sip of sparkling mineral water. ‘But it’s the way it is in the police at the moment – it just seems to be one thing after the other . . .’ She trailed off, the recent catalogue of horrific incidents requiring no mention.
‘And the children?’
‘Oh, they’re good. Brianna’s doing well on her art course, and Mason, well, he’s just Mason.’ She grinned. ‘I hardly hear from him, but I guess that’s normal . . .’
‘Hmmm,’ said Lizzie, and her tone was dubious. There was something wrong, Eleanor could feel it.
‘And how’s Oliver?’ Eleanor said now, to ease the silence.
At this, Lizzie’s smile faded completely, and there was a pain in her eyes that Eleanor had never seen before. Eleanor looked at Lizzie’s hands, as if by instinct, and noticed the fat ruby engagement ring was gone, as was the wedding band.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Eleanor, but Oliver and I are separating.’
Eleanor blanched, unsure what the story would be. Whether it had been Lizzie’s decision or his.
‘Oh, Lizzie, I’m so sorry,’ she said. She leaned across and took the other woman’s hand. ‘That’s too bad.’
Lizzie shrugged Eleanor off. ‘I wanted to tell you in person,’ Lizzie said, ‘rather than over the phone.’
‘Of course. But that’s awful news.’
‘Well, not really,’ said Lizzie. ‘There comes a time when you tire of your husband’s affairs.’
‘Lizzie!’ said Eleanor. She looked about her, to check that no one had heard. Lizzie had never once admitted to doubting her husband, although Eleanor knew, from the rows she’d occasionally overheard when Oliver had come home late and drunk, that Lizzie had.
The waiter bustled by, and Lizzie ordered two champagne cream teas, without asking Eleanor what she wanted. It was clear to Eleanor now that the older woman wasn’t ill, after all. She was furious. But at whom? Eleanor felt a low spiral of dread start in her stomach, work its way up, around and through her internal organs, towards her heart, stabbing it.
‘Eleanor,’ said Lizzie now. ‘I took you in. I gave you a job. I supported you throughout all that business with your stalker. I let you look after my children.’
‘Lizzie . . .’ said Eleanor, horrified at what her friend was about to say, trying to stop her saying it.
‘Don’t you “Lizzie” me!’ She took a breath, looked about the shimmering room, and raised the volume even further, so it won out against the clatter of teacups, making the couple at the next table turn their heads in barely concealed glee.
‘Look, Eleanor, I just need to know. Did you ever sleep with my husband?’
Eleanor dropped her gaze helplessly to the table, noticed that the jam for the scones looked too red, too shiny – and it reminded her of clotting blood. She didn’t want to have to explain herself. Not here. She needed time to work out her response. Lizzie was her oldest friend, and yet she’d hurt her, was in danger of losing her. She still felt ashamed at what had happened, but it was so long ago. She’d been so young. How could she possibly explain it all now?
63
CHRISTIE
‘You’re what?’ Jake had stood up and gone over to the butler sink, and was standing against it, staring at his mother, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher at a mildly errant child. Daisy was still sitting at the solid kitchen table, trying her best to look neutral, but Christie could see that her lip was quivering. A freshly baked cottage pie was steaming in the middle of the table, a gash out of its end, the remaining contents seeping inexorably into the dish, settling.
Christie dolloped the portion she’d been holding mid-air on to Jake’s plate and put down the serving spoon. She tried again. ‘I said that Piers and I are getting married.’
‘But you hardly know him, Mum,’ Daisy said quietly. She picked up her glass of white wine, took a sip, patted her glossy lips delicately, perhaps playing for time. ‘Don’t you think it would be better if you waited a while?’
‘Waited for what?’ said Christie. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned since your father’s death, it’s that you never know what’s just around the corner . . .’ She trailed off as the triteness of what she’d said bounced around the walls and then settled uneasily, somewhere in the steamy air. Neither of her children offered a response, as Jake continued to glare at her. He was home for the first time in over a year, purely because Christie had effectively summoned him, and when he’d turned up, he had tattoos up both his forearms and his beard was longer than ever. Christie had been shocked but had known better than to cast judgement. It was so hard to get through to her son now, and it felt as if they might as well have been absolute strangers. When she’d opened the front door to him this afternoon, he’d looked too big, alien almost, as though he were standing too close to her, invading her personal space. Their greeting had been brittle and brusque. It broke her heart, but she didn’t seem able to find a way back to him. Sadly, now she knew how Paul must have felt.
‘Well, Mum, if you’re sure you know what you’re doing . . .’ Daisy said at last.
‘And what’s
that supposed to mean?’
Daisy looked as if she’d been punched. Christie paused, took a breath. ‘Sorry, love,’ she continued. ‘I just thought you two might be happier for me, that’s all. You’ve both got your own lives, after all, and Dad’s been gone for nearly two years now . . . It’s not as if it was yesterday.’ She wiped a stray tendril of hair out of her eyes and tried to calm her breath.
‘Well, where are you going to live?’ said Jake. ‘Isn’t he based in Bristol?’
‘He’s going to move in here for now.’
Daisy started to cry. ‘Oh, come on, Daisy love,’ Christie said. ‘It’ll be all right.’ As she put her arm around her daughter, Christie felt Daisy shrink away from her, and it exacerbated the strange feeling of foreboding she’d had ever since Jake had arrived home. She could feel the beginnings of a migraine. Was she being selfish? Was that why she felt so uncomfortable, because the reaction of her children was highlighting that fact? Or were they the ones thinking only of themselves? Jake was busy doing God knows what and had almost nothing to do with her these days. Daisy had graduated and was trying to get her career going. Paul’s absence didn’t stare them in the face every single day, like it did her, where every morning when she opened her eyes he wasn’t there next to her, even when he’d been there in her dreams, until that very last moment. Somehow Christie had found those light-filled, flower-strewn hallucinations, where she and Paul were barefoot hippies running hand in hand through meadows, even worse than the nightmares. The realisation upon waking that the dream wasn’t true was always a terrible stomach-punch of a blow, whereas being jolted from the nightmares at their most depraved point was an unmitigated relief. Fortunately, the nights were rare now that she’d wake up shuddering and screaming, as she plunged down a well into hell, or saw Paul hanging, swinging, his skeleton head mouthing rebukes at her.