by Emma Rowley
“I’ll certainly see what he says, dear.” I have the distinct sense I am being fobbed off. “What have you planned for the rest of the day?”
I get the message. Joey walks me out not long after that. He looks a little deflated.
“She might still ask him,” he says.
“I won’t hold my breath. Thanks, though.”
* * *
But before I set off again in my car, I pull up the browser on my phone. I search for Sam Gibbons on the directory inquiries website I use. He might be dead, but maybe he has a widow who remembers the fire.
Searching for Sam Gibbons and Annersley brings up an entry for the Old Barn, Back Lane, Annersley. He is listed on the electoral roll for 1995–1999, and a Marjorie Gibbons for the very same dates—so that that must be his wife. There is also an Edward T. Gibbons listed at the same address, just for their first year there—their son, I’d guess.
So I just need to find an up-to-date number for Marjorie if I can.
But while several entries for Marjorie Gibbons come up when I search in Cheshire, they are not promising—all out of date. However, I do find an Edward T. Gibbons currently living at an address in Chester. Better yet, the phone number isn’t ex-directory.
When I dial, it goes straight to voice mail, an anonymous automated message:
“Hi, my name’s Nicky Wilson,” I say. “I’m trying to reach Edward Gibbons regarding his late father. I’d be so grateful if you could give me a call back.”
I leave my cell-phone number. “Thank you.”
Chapter 19
Back at Annersley House, for want of anything better to do, I take a shower. I hear Olivia returning, then noises from the rest of the house that I interpret as Bea’s teatime, bath time, bed.
I throw on jeans and another sweater, and I am sitting on my bed toweling my hair when out of the corner of my eye I see a slow movement. The door to my room is open now, ever so slightly. But no one’s there.
I look down. Two small hands are hanging off the doorknob, then a small girl swings into view, bare feet pushing herself along.
“Hello,” I say. “You must be Bea.” She does look like her mother, the same silky ash-blond hair and determined chin. “Are you looking for Mummy? Or Daddy?”
She drops off the handle and stands still, eyeing me cautiously.
“No,” she says finally. “Why are you in my house?”
“I’m Nicky. I’m staying here this week.” I think about what I know about three-year-olds. “Um, shouldn’t you be in bed?” She’s in a long blue nightie.
“No,” she says, firmly. “I’m tree.” She tries again. “Tree. I stay up later now.”
And she starts heaving herself up beside me, but the silk-lined throw at the foot of the bed is slippery.
“Do you want a hand, Bea?”
She assesses me, then reaches out a small hand. “But are you sure?” I say theatrically. “Are you sure you want the hand . . . the monster hand?” And I whip up my hand and bracelet my wrist with the other. “Oh no,” I say, “I can’t stop it, it’s going to get you. It’s the tickle monster hand!”
This is my default move with all children. Soon she is shrieking in delight, as I pretend the tickle monster hand is going for me now, but then she stops, looking to the door. I am laughing, still tossing the damp hair out of my eyes, as I do the same.
Olivia is standing there, white-faced.
“We were just—”
“Come on, Bea,” she says in a controlled tone. “You should be in bed. I heard the screams all the way down the corridor,” she says to me.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize we were so loud.”
“She’ll enjoy it now,” she said tightly, “but she gets scared later.”
“I’m really sorry,” I say again, at a loss.
Bea looks between us uncertainly. “Mummy cross?”
At that Olivia seems to collect herself.
“Well, I’ll get this one back to bed. Why don’t you come down in half an hour, have supper with us? You can use it to ask a few questions, if you like.”
* * *
I know parents can be strict about routines. Still, I don’t quite understand why Olivia was so angry. I am braced for an awkward atmosphere when I go downstairs.
But everything is calm and tidy, soft music playing, the kitchen table set for three: a roast chicken, plump little cheeses, a fresh green salad.
“This looks amazing,” I say.
“It’s nothing fancy,” says Olivia, pulling bowl-sized wineglasses out of a cupboard.
I realize I am twisting my hair round one finger, and stop. “Can I help at all?” I need something to do with my hands.
“No, just relax,” said Olivia, coming to pour a glass of white wine. “Help yourself.”
I can’t read her that well, but she doesn’t seem annoyed anymore.
After we have both filled our plates, I hesitate, conscious of the third place.
“Please start,” says Olivia. “Josh is running late. Anyway, about the rest of the week . . .”
“Sure,” I say brightly.
“I won’t have much space in my schedule, I’m afraid, probably can’t do more than a session a day. Annie’s helping me with Bea, but she’s not as young as she was . . .”
“OK, we’ll do what we can . . .”
“But I hope you can use the rest of the time to work, too,” she says. “Did you get much done today?”
For a tense moment I think she knows what I’ve been doing, then realize she means the writing.
“Well . . .” I start.
“I’m keen to get a sense of the shape it’s taking,” she says, as behind me I hear noise, and turn round.
Josh is coming through from the utility room in his blue jacket, rubbing his hands theatrically, though it’s not cold. There is a woman following him in, tall and rangy with long caramel hair.
“So sorry I’m late, darling,” he says, leaning down to kiss Olivia’s cheek. “But look who I bumped into in the village.”
Olivia stands to greet her—“Sabrina, how are you? No Leo?”—and the woman waves her back down, heading toward the cupboards over the sink.
“Oh, don’t get up, Liv,” she says over her shoulder, opening cupboard doors until she finds what she wanted and fishes a large glass out. “No, no, I won’t eat with you. I told Josh I’d just come and say hello, I really had to talk to you both about—”
As she turns back to the table she seems to notice me for the first time.
“Sabrina, this is Nicky,” Olivia says, adding to me: “Sabrina’s an old friend.”
“Oh. Hi,” she says, her light eyes skimming over me, before she leans forward. “What does that say—Nicky. Haven’t seen one of those for years. Sweet.”
I reach up, automatically, to touch my necklace. She is closer to forty, a bit older than Olivia.
“The ghostwriter—remember?” says Josh, rooting through the fridge.
Sabrina’s brow clears. “Oh yes,” she says absently, sitting down, as Josh joins us with a chilled bottle in his hand.
“This looks great,” he says, enthusiastically, pulling out his chair with a screech. “Darling, the garden’s a bit of a mess. What’s that man doing?”
“I’ll check,” Olivia says.
“Pay him enough to sit in his shed and glower at me all day,” he says.
“I’ll check.”
For a moment there’s silence. I feel like the interloper I am, but Josh charges on jovially. “So, Nicky,” he says. “You’re a writer.”
“I am.” We haven’t really had a chance to talk properly yet.
“And have you written many books?”
“Yes, quite a few.”
Josh shakes his head and laughs, like I’ve made a joke. “And now Liv’s getting a book!”
“Who would have thought it,” says Sabrina coolly. “That Liv would have all these—fans.” She makes it sound like a rash.
There’s a
nother pause. Whatever Sabrina wanted to talk to them about, she’s not going to do so in front of me. I didn’t think Olivia’s invitation included my digital recorder, but I might as well use this dinner.
I clear my throat. “So Josh. What do you do these days?” I ask, then wonder if that is some sort of solecism.
“Property mostly,” he says easily. “I kept doing stuff for my old company for a while, after we moved up here, but it wasn’t practical. I’m doing up a house over in Allerton at the moment.”
“You’re doing it up yourself?”
Sabrina snorts.
“Certainly feels like it sometimes,” he says politely. “Builders wouldn’t do a thing if you’re not there to keep an eye on them.”
“Tell me about it,” says Sabrina. “Always on a coffee break, that lot.”
“You were at the site?” says Olivia. She takes a sip of her wine.
“Just passing by.” She shrugs.
I plow on. “And are you from round here originally, Josh?”
“God no, not me,” says Josh. “Middle of nowhere. Very strange bunch of people. Just look at the locals.” He jerks his chin at Sabrina, who rolls her eyes at his joke. “I grew up near London. And you drove up from there, Liv said?”
“You don’t sound like a Londoner,” says Sabrina, before I can reply.
“I’m not really. My apartment’s there. But I mostly grew up in the Midlands. Outside Wolverhampton?” I catch myself sounding doubtful, like I can’t imagine them having heard of it.
“And are you . . .” Josh glances meaningfully at my ring finger.
“Nope. Just a recent ex.”
“Josh!” Olivia scolds.
I smile. “I don’t mind.”
“And have you done many, uh . . .” Josh wiggles his fingers toward Olivia, reaching for the word.
“Influencers?” I finish. “Olivia is my first.”
“And last, I bet,” Sabrina finishes.
I laugh, genuinely. “I doubt it. It’s the way things are going.”
“Seriously?” Sabrina grimaces, like she’s bitten into a lemon. “How depressing.”
“Seriously,” I say. I wonder if she realizes she’s just insulted her host.
“So who else’s book have you done?” she says. “Anyone really famous?”
“Sorry, I can’t say,” I reply.
“Oh, go on. You can trust us.”
“Really, I would, but I can’t . . .”
“Or wouldn’t I have heard of them?”
“She can’t tell you, Sabrina,” says Olivia, evenly.
“Fine.” Sabrina purses her lips. “I suppose you’re not one for the limelight yourself,” she says to me then, her tone a little pointed.
Suddenly I am conscious of my shabby outfit and frizzing hair, sitting next to these three gleaming people. But I look back at her squarely, my chin up.
“No, I suppose not.”
Chapter 20
Sabrina seems to feel snubbed by Olivia backing me up just now; she goes off into the house to “powder her nose.”
But the rest of the meal is not too bad, really, as Josh talks about life in the country, the excitement of finding out their favorite supermarket delivers (“civilization!”); he seems to like an audience. Olivia is the grown-up in their relationship, I’d guess, but I can see how they work together. Sabrina is quiet, clearly not interested in my attempts to find out more about my hosts, and eventually fishes a pack of Camels out of her bag.
At Olivia’s look, she stands up—“OK, OK, I’m going outside.”
When she comes back in, I am asking them about when the house was first built—
“God, you really do want to know everything, don’t you?” Sabrina snaps, slumping back down into her chair. “Now Liv, has Lucy spoken to you about that weekend? I’m happy to leave the kids, they’re old enough, but Leo was digging in his heels, so I said . . .”
She launches into a long, involved account of some trip that’s being planned, not bothering to explain the background to me.
I concentrate on my food as they talk. It’s not personal, I tell myself, until I look up and catch Sabrina’s pale gaze on me; her expression is not friendly.
I am wary of overstaying my welcome. I yawn theatrically, a hand over my mouth. “Excuse me! I’ll head up. Thanks so much for a lovely dinner.”
We say our good nights—Olivia and I agreeing to meet in the morning at nine again—then I leave them there in the warmth of the kitchen.
As I walk down the corridor to the main hall, I pause for a second. Sabrina is still talking, but she sounds different now—hushed, more urgent, perhaps?
I wait, trying to make out what she’s saying, before she stops, and I realize they might be able to hear my footsteps—or lack of them. I start off again.
In the main hall, I can’t find the lights, and make my way up the staircase in the dark, replaying the meal in my mind.
I think of Olivia just now, telling her friend that I couldn’t talk about who I’d written for before; that was nice of her, I suppose. Then I wonder what Olivia would do if she knew I’d been looking into the things she won’t talk about. I don’t know . . .
But whatever lies hidden in her past, this evening has left me sure of one thing: that this woman has moved on, built a new life, a new family. Sitting at Olivia’s table, being hosted by her and her husband, meeting her daughter earlier—it made it all real to me, in a way it wasn’t before. And suddenly I wish, quite clearly, that I hadn’t started any of this. I don’t want to pry anymore.
* * *
My room is cool—I’ve left the window open—and I close it quickly, before I change into my pajamas: oversized, patterned with unicorns. What would Sabrina think of them? Not much, I imagine.
Then I wash my face in the bathroom mirror. I look drawn, a crease between my eyebrows. I am just tired, I tell myself, and I rub moisturizer between my hands and smooth it over my face, the familiar nighttime ritual soothing me, before I rummage in my wash bag. Why can I never find anything in here? There it is, my lip balm—I smear the stick onto my bottom lip in a practiced stroke—
“Ow!” I suck at my lip, tasting copper.
At first I can’t understand, as I stare at the smear of red on the white waxy stick, then something glints under the overhead light, and a chill runs through me.
I twist the tube so the stick of balm is exposed as high it goes, and scratch away with my thumbnail, unconcerned about wrecking it.
I can see it now, shining silver and sharp: a needle.
* * *
Did the top of the balm come loose in my wash bag? I cart all kinds of things about in there, headache pills, a sewing kit. I am ready for anything . . .
Or Bea was in here earlier, wasn’t she, maybe she has been playing around in here while I was out, too. Kids get into everything.
But as I twist the stick up and down again, I think: you’d have to press the needle in very carefully, so that the sharp end was just below the surface . . . wouldn’t it have to be deliberate?
I shudder and throw the thing in the trash. I don’t want to look at it anymore.
No, it could have been an accident. It could. It would be easy for things to get mixed up in my bag.... But I keep picturing Olivia’s white face earlier this evening, when she found her daughter in my room. She seemed so unlike herself. So angry.
* * *
And I’m still standing there thinking about that, growing cold in my thin pajamas, when my phone rings on the dresser.
“Nick Wilson, please.” It’s a man’s voice I don’t recognize.
“That’s me. Nicky.”
Whoever it is digests that.
“Well, Nicky”—the voice is thin, almost a whisper—“I must say, I don’t appreciate you trying to kill me off.”
Chapter 21
“Because I can tell you right now,” says the voice on the phone, “I don’t think it’s very funny at all.”
“I think there
’s been a mistake—”
“Did you leave a message with Gibbons, zero, one, two . . .” Slowly, he starts to reel off a phone number.
“Ah yes, I left a message for Edward Gibbons, I was trying to reach him about Sam Gibbons.” I go to blot my lip with tissue paper. The scratch is really starting to sting.
“Well, I can tell you, I certainly am not—”
In the background another man’s voice cuts across: “Who are you on the phone to so late? Dad, it’s not good for you to get worked up.”
“Just a minute Ed!”—as I realize what’s happened. “Now, I may have one foot in the grave, young lady,” he says to me. “But you can’t push me in there yet.”
* * *
After I apologize repeatedly for accidentally killing him off in my message to his son Edward, Sam Gibbons mellows.
“No harm done, let’s hear no more about it.”
Did I misunderstand Joey’s gran? I can’t remember completely, but I’m sure she said he’d died.... But now Sam seems interested more than angry, as I tell him I’m working on a book about Olivia Hayes, daughter of Alex Vane who died in that awful fire—his former neighbor, I understand.
“A book, hm? What kind of book?”
“A memoir. I’m Olivia’s ghostwriter There are just a few blanks I’d like to fill in.”
“A few blanks, I like that.” He chuckles darkly.
He doesn’t mind telling me about what happened that night. “It’s the recent stuff I’m a bit shabby on nowadays.” He sighs comfortably. “Now, we were living in the barn, we’d just finished doing it up . . .”
“And had you ever met the Vanes—your neighbors?”
“I’d seen him about. You know, we’d wave when we were out walking the dogs. But we weren’t neighbors, really. It was a bit isolated out there. Too quiet for my wife, Marjorie, though it was her idea to move in the first place, God rest her soul.” He laughs to himself. “That’s why we didn’t stay that long.”
“So what do you remember of that night?”
“Now,” he says, “let me think.”
I make myself stay quiet. I sense he has to tell it his way to get the story out at all.
“So. The dog we had then, Bess, she was called, lovely nature. On the night in question”—he spends some time trying to remember the date—“Bess had decided to have her puppies and I’d stayed up with her, until they were all nice and settled. Then I’d gone up, trying not to wake Marjorie—it was late, after midnight. And I had got into bed, I was falling asleep myself, when I heard this great big bang.