‘Go on,’ Charlie said.
‘It doesn’t make sense.’ The line she’d heard so often, delivered with the same frustration. Except this time he wasn’t talking about some bizarre murder scenario. ‘There couldn’t be anything more private, but it’s not allowed to be, is it?’ he said, angry again. Because it was easier than being embarrassed or ashamed? ‘You have to do it in front of other people. Or, if you do it on your own, you’re a pervert. There’s—’
‘Hang on. In front of other people?’
‘I’m not talking about in public, in front of an audience,’ Simon muttered, staring at the floor. Both his fists were clenched. ‘Just . . . whoever you’re with.’
Charlie got it. He’d meant her. She was ‘other people’.
‘You’re saying it’s private, so you’re uncomfortable doing it in my presence?’ Don’t sound as if you can barely believe it. ‘Even though I’m the person you’re doing it with?’
‘Which makes me a freak,’ Simon said impatiently. ‘Everyone does everything in front of the whole world these days. No one cares, no one thinks it’s strange. If I need a piss while I’m at work, I’m expected to do it in front of anyone else who happens to be hanging around the gents’ khazi. That’s always been true, but now . . . Nothing’s private any more. People are giving birth on telly, getting the results of paternity tests and lie-detector tests, accusing each other of all kinds of shit that they shouldn’t be talking about in public. People are dying on-screen, celebrities having their deaths filmed, euthanasia advocates documenting their own send-offs. You can watch Saddam Hussein getting executed on YouTube, for fuck’s sake! And, no, before you ask, I’m not comparing sex with you to a dictator getting what’s coming to him. All right?’
Charlie saw the mistake she’d made: she’d assumed it was about her, that Simon didn’t fancy her enough, or couldn’t shake off the memory of how promiscuous she’d been when he’d first met her. When she thought only about him and took herself out of the equation, what he was saying made sense. No, she corrected herself, it didn’t make sense and never would, not to her, but it was consistent with some of Simon’s other hang-ups. Until a couple of years ago, he had been unwilling to eat in front of her; he still hated the idea of being seen eating by other people. If Charlie ever suggested they go to a restaurant, he would pretend he was too tired and suggest ordering a takeaway instead.
He locked the door when he used the bathroom, every time. Charlie didn’t. Sometimes she didn’t even close it. Simon had never walked in, not once.
His parents were people who trembled with fear when the doorbell rang. Charlie had seen it happen, more than once. ‘Who’s that?’ they said, or even sometimes, ‘What’s that?’, as if they no longer recognised the sound of someone from the outside world wanting to interact with them.
Yes, it made perfect sense insofar as anything about Simon made sense. Charlie told herself to be happy that at last she knew, at last she understood what the problem was. Solving it could come later. There had to be a way.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Simon. ‘I don’t do that either.’
‘Do what?’
‘I don’t mean private like that – with a porn film, or a wank mag.’
‘I didn’t think you did.’
‘I’m not some kind of . . . deviant.’
‘I know that, Simon. I understand, but . . .’ God, this was hard. Being able to laugh would have helped. Or cry, or scream. ‘You’re kind of trapped then, aren’t you? Your inhibitions apply equally to having sex with me – in front of me, as you see it – and to what you’d call being a pervert. Which a lot of people wouldn’t think was perverted or wrong at all, by the way. Contrary to what your mother might have told you, it isn’t a sin. Everyone does it. Not necessarily using pornography, but—’
‘I don’t.’
‘Everyone else does. Ask around. And it’s not an either-or, on your own or with someone. You can do both. Both come highly recommended,’ she couldn’t resist adding. The basics of sex explained, in nutshell-compliant format.
Simon pushed past her to get to the stairs. Conversation over. Charlie wanted to ask what the plan was. They’d discussed the problem openly; that had to be a good thing. Did it mean Simon would be more self-conscious and awkward in future, or less so?
She followed him up the stairs, then nearly fell down them when he swung round to face her. ‘Jo,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Jo Utting.’
‘Even Jo Utting,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sure she wanks up a storm.’
‘What? That’s disgusting. I wasn’t, or I never will be again, talking about that. You called her Jo, not Johannah.’
‘It’s what she calls herself,’ Charlie countered.
‘You asked me who she is,’ Simon snapped. ‘If you don’t know who she is, how do you know what she calls herself?’
‘You’d have the answer to that question by now if you hadn’t assumed—’
‘Tell me what’s going on!’ Simon roared in her face. ‘This is important.’
Unlike what we were talking about before?
‘No,’ Charlie said. ‘Not until you apologise.’
‘I’m sorry. All right?’
‘Not all right. Too quick and therefore not at all satisfying. What are you apologising for?’
‘I don’t know.’ He looked around, as if he was hoping to see the right answer somewhere near the stairs or on the landing. ‘Anything, everything. Tell me. Please.’
‘I need a drink first, and to sit down.’ She wanted to add that she’d had a shock. It was true.
Simon sighed heavily, ran his hand over his face, and Charlie had a sense of a pulling apart, though they hadn’t been touching. Some binding force had been broken, and it was a relief; she had regained the ability to move and think freely, independently of his movements and thoughts. He had liberated her. Temporarily. He would always be able to stop her in her tracks at will, twist her perceptions, warp her sense of herself. Crazy to imagine that the likes of Ginny Saxon would ever be able to change that.
They didn’t speak as they poured drinks and went to sit in the lounge. Pretending to be civilised, normal people, Charlie thought, grabbing a beer and settling in for a nice relaxing evening. She knew she would have Simon’s full attention as soon as she started to tell the story. That was the difference between them, one of many. Even as she told him about Amber Hewerdine and Little Orchard, part of her mind would be on what she’d discovered about him, what he’d confessed to. Was that how he saw it also, as a confession? Would he think about it again later, or pretend to himself that the conversation had never taken place?
Charlie felt the need to match his confession with one of her own; if she could have added his shame to hers and felt all of it, for both of them, she gladly would have. She hoped he’d be able to forgive her what she now knew about him and not resent her understanding as another invasion of his privacy.
She told him about having posted copies of some of the Katharine Allen notes through Amber Hewerdine’s letterbox the previous night. She started to apologise, but Simon stopped her, told her he didn’t care, that he’d been thinking about doing it himself. ‘What else?’ he asked.
Charlie described her meeting with Amber at the internet café, the favour she’d refused to do for her, the email she’d sent to Little Orchard’s owner.
‘Why did you bother?’ Simon interrupted her. ‘So what if some French woman who once rented a house to Amber Hewerdine doesn’t want to do it again?’
‘That’s what I thought with most of my brain,’ said Charlie. ‘But there was a tiny part of me that wondered if this Little Orchard place had something to do with Kat Allen, or the fire at Amber’s house last night, or . . . I don’t know. I just couldn’t see why she’d ask me to do it, me of all people, unless it was because she knew I was married to you. I had a feeling she thought Veronique Coudert and her house were connected somehow – but she wasn
’t sure enough to talk to you about it, in case she was wrong, so she came to me with it instead. Almost hoping I’d tell you, or look into it, or . . .’ Charlie shrugged. ‘I couldn’t see any other reason why she’d ask a police officer she hardly knows to do that.’
‘Okay, so you sent an email to Veronique Coudert,’ said Simon. ‘And?’
‘I sent an email to Little Orchard’s owner,’ Charlie corrected him. ‘As an innocent holiday home seeker, I don’t know his or her name.’
‘And?’
‘Stop saying “And”. Shut up and I’ll tell you the and. I got an email back saying yes, fine, when did I want to book for?’
‘So Amber’s hunch was right,’ Simon said thoughtfully. ‘She’s the one who isn’t welcome there, her specifically. And she had no idea why that might be?’
‘No, but that’s not the most interesting part. The email from the owner, an email that made unambiguous reference to her being the owner, wasn’t signed Veronique Coudert. It was signed Jo Utting.’
‘What?’
‘Now, I’m guessing Jo Utting and Johannah Utting are the same person,’ said Charlie. ‘So I ask you again, with not a jealous bone in my sex-starved body: who is Johannah Utting?’
‘Amber Hewerdine’s sister-in-law and closest friend,’ Simon murmured. ‘Except Amber doesn’t like her much.’
‘If they’re so close, how come Amber doesn’t know that Jo owns Little Orchard? And who’s Veronique Coudert? Simon?’ She’d lost him to his own thoughts. ‘Simon!’
‘She was willing to let you book, you say?’
Charlie gritted her teeth. ‘Forget it, Simon. I’m not—’
‘Book it,’ he said, standing up. ‘Soon as you can. Is it empty at the moment?’
Should she pretend she hadn’t noticed that no one was due to stay at Little Orchard this weekend? Too late; he could see the truth in her face.
‘You could set off tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Me? Why me? No! No, I couldn’t set off tomorrow. I have a job, and a—’
‘Phone in sick. You’ve done it before.’
Nothing’s been decided or arranged. Nothing can be, unless you agree to it. Don’t agree. Don’t. ‘Why don’t you go?’
‘Jo Utting knows my name and my face,’ Simon said. ‘I’ll meet you there, but she can’t know it’s anything to do with me. Whatever she’s hiding . . .’
‘This is crazy, Simon. There’s no need to go tearing off to some random house in Surrey. You don’t even know why Amber’s so desperate to go back there. Why don’t you talk to her, or Jo Utting, or both of them?’
‘I’m going to. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. And you’re going to book Little Orchard for this weekend, so that I’ve got instant access, soon as I’ve spoken to Amber and know why I need it.’
Charlie closed her eyes. My entire life could legitimately phone in sick, she thought.
‘What are you waiting for?’ The sound of his voice chipped away at her attempt to form a judgement of her own. ‘Open your eyes.’
Nowhere to hide. So much for privacy. And autonomy.
‘Book Little Orchard,’ he said on his way out of the room. A few seconds later, Charlie heard the front door slam shut.
Let’s have a few minutes of silence, breathing slowly and deeply, calmly and quietly, letting go of all stress and tension. You too, Simon. I’m concerned that the jagged rhythm of your breathing’s going to affect Amber. Breathe deeply into your chest, right down into your diaphragm. Better. Much better.
All right, good. Now let me explain why it’s vital that we stay calm. A memory’s surfaced and there’s every reason to think it’s an important one, but that doesn’t mean it’s the only one that’s likely to come up. Often when you unlock one repressed memory, others spill out with it. So instead of getting excited about what Amber’s remembered, let’s put it to one side, take it for granted, start to talk about it as if it’s part of what we’ve always known. Though of course it isn’t, and that’s what’s so fascinating about repressed memories when they surface. One never doubts them. Amber, you say you’re certain. This latest detail is an integral part of the scene as you remember it. Hard as I might try, I wouldn’t be able to persuade you that you imagined it. And yet, five minutes ago, it was missing from your mental picture. Now that it’s slotted into place, you perceive it as having always been there, but at the same time you know it wasn’t. So if you didn’t know it before, if it was totally absent, and now you know it as surely as you know your name is Amber, where did that knowledge come from?
That’s how it feels when a repression breaks the surface: one minute it’s not there at all, next minute it’s always been there in its entirety. It’s very different from the sense that something’s hovering around the outer reaches of your memory, the ‘Ooh, it’s on the tip of my tongue’ feeling. Those tip-of-the-mind memories are ones we’ve left lying around and forgotten about because they don’t matter to us. When we realise we need them and look for them, they usually present themselves without too much trouble – first as a tickle in the brain, then a partial answer, then a whole one. Like a baby being born – first the head, then the shoulders . . . you get the idea.
Repression’s different. We repress things for a good reason: to protect ourselves. Amber, you expressed disappointment because, although you’ve solved a mystery – yes, you have, whether you realise it or not – it isn’t the mystery you were hoping to solve. You still don’t know where you saw those words written on that lined sheet of paper. Relax. That might be the next memory that presents itself, now that we’ve oiled your unconscious mind’s lock mechanism. And so what if it doesn’t? Sometimes the right answer doesn’t take the form you expect it to take. Going out on a limb, I’d say your disappointment is denial in disguise. It’s a safety net. You’re still trying to pull the wool over your own eyes because you’re scared of knowing the truth. If you’re disappointed, that must mean we haven’t got anywhere today, our session has been a waste of time. But it hasn’t. We have got somewhere. You’ve taken us somewhere, with the missing detail that you remembered, and it’s somewhere that’s frightened you so much, you’re trying to put your awareness into reverse.
No, don’t . . . sorry, Simon, you’ll get your chance to speak to Amber afterwards, but . . . it’s important that I continue to lead this session.
Amber, much as I understand the temptation, you mustn’t give in to it. If you force yourself to deny what you know, you’ll make yourself ill – physically, psychologically, or both.
So, what do you know? Let me throw professional behaviour out of the window again, because if I wait for you to put your new knowledge into words, I suspect we’ll be sitting here for another year.
I’m going to tell you exactly what you’ve just told me. Listen, and see if you can hear how obvious the truth is.
When you, Jo and the rest of your party left Little Orchard in 2003 – sorry, on New Year’s Day 2004 – the key to the locked study wasn’t hanging from the nail behind the kitchen dresser.
Everyone was outside, getting into cars, saying goodbye, talking about what a lovely time they’d had, nobody mentioning the disappearance and reappearance of Jo, Neil and their sons. You and Jo were the last two people to leave the house. ‘Can you get out?’ Jo said to you, abruptly, as if you’d done something wrong. ‘I need to set the alarm. You’re standing in front of the sensor.’ You were next to the door. Before you stepped outside, you glanced into the gap between the dresser and the wall, and you saw that the key wasn’t there on its string, where you found it when you and William were looking for it on Boxing Day.
Jo keyed the code into the alarm, joined you outside, closed and locked the kitchen door. She then went to replace the house keys in their hiding place in the garage, and after telling us that she did that, Amber, your exact words were, ‘I didn’t see her do it, but I assumed she did.’
What do you assume now? Did or didn’t Jo return the keys to their hiding p
lace in the garage, to be collected later by the owner, or the cleaner? Or do you think she put them in her handbag and took them home?
You’ve already told us that the cleaner, when you went to Little Orchard yesterday, didn’t recognise the name Veronique Coudert, said she wasn’t the house’s owner. I’d like to pick up something else you said before, too. Dinah and Nonie wanted to have a go on the trampoline in Little Orchard’s garden yesterday, and you told them they couldn’t. If they waited till the weekend, they could have a go on William and Barney’s trampoline, which is exactly the same kind, and which I assume was chosen and bought by Jo, since she makes all the decisions in that house? And if Jo knows which she thinks is the best kind of trampoline . . .
Amber?
All right, since you won’t say it, I will: I think Jo is the owner of Little Orchard. Jo and Neil. They didn’t rent it for the whole family to stay in over Christmas in 2003 – they invited everyone to stay in their second home. Replacing the key on the back of the dresser didn’t matter. Guests have to leave things as they found them, but if a house is yours, you can move whatever you like.
Simon, you’re nodding. You knew? No, sorry, don’t answer me. This can’t become a three-way conversation.
Amber, keep your eyes closed, keep breathing slowly and deeply. Think about that locked room, Little Orchard’s study. Think about what might be in it: everything in the house that proves it belongs to Jo and Neil. That’s why Jo was so frightened when you wanted to go in there.
Think about what else you know. It’s odd that Jo and Neil chose to keep their ownership of Little Orchard secret. Think about whether you know the reason for their secrecy. You know more than you think you know. Is anyone else in the family well-off enough to afford a large, luxurious second home? From what you’ve said, I doubt it. Jo and Neil might be embarrassed to be seen to be as wealthy as they are. They give money to Jo’s brother Ritchie, you said before. Neil, who earns all the money, doesn’t mind Jo supporting her work-averse brother. That would make more sense if they have plenty to spare. If they don’t want people to envy their wealth, perhaps that also explains why they live in a house that you’ve said several times is too small for them.
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