by Tess Stimson
I don’t care what the doctor says now: I’m not letting Bella out of my sight.
‘Look,’ Min says, ‘I’ll leave you to it. I just wanted to chat with you about something. Can you give me a call when it all settles down?’
‘Sure. Is something wrong?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. It can wait.’
I promise to call her later, then drive back to the ED, and text Bella that I’m outside. A few moments later, my daughter emerges into the hot July sunshine, her head swathed in bandages. Leaving the engine running, I get out and go around to the passenger door to help her into the car.
Caz beats me to it.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her since the night I drove to London and confronted her about Bagpuss. I dig my fingernails into my palms, fighting the urge to scratch her eyes out. ‘What are you doing here?’
Bella deliberately puts herself between us. ‘She came to see if I was OK. It was really nice of her,’ she adds firmly.
‘I got your text, Louise,’ Caz tells me. ‘I was worried when I didn’t hear back from you. I had to come down and make sure Bella was OK.’
‘How thoughtful of you,’ I say acidly. ‘But there was no need. Everything’s fine.’
‘Obviously I didn’t know that, since you didn’t reply.’
I’m aware of Bella next to me, the tension in her shoulders. She will never know how much it costs me to be civil to this woman. ‘No phones allowed in the hospital, I’m afraid,’ I say, forcing a tight smile. ‘I had to switch it off. Sorry you had a wasted journey.’
‘What about Dad?’ Bella asks her. ‘Is he coming here too?’
Caz hesitates just a fraction too long. ‘He’s at work. It’ll depend on what time he finishes.’
Her tone is light, deceptively casual, but I hear it: that giveaway note in her voice, the combination of doubt and fear and denial. It’s subtle: only a woman who has wondered where her husband is, and with whom, would notice it. ‘He’s not working,’ I contradict swiftly. ‘I called INN this morning. They said he’d taken the day off today.’
‘He’s out in the field.’
‘Not according to his secretary. Jessica always knows where he is. And she said specifically he’d cancelled a shoot they’d set up for this afternoon so he could take a personal day. Didn’t he tell you?’
‘I don’t keep tabs on him,’ Caz says tightly.
I smile. ‘Perhaps you should.’
She smiles back, her eyes cold. ‘I’ve never needed to.’
Bella abruptly gets into the car. ‘You shouldn’t leave the engine running, Mum,’ she says, buckling her seatbelt. ‘It’s really bad for the environment.’
On the way home from the hospital, I stop briefly at my mother’s to pick up Tolly, but I don’t stay and chat as I usually would. Apart from my anxiety to get Bella home, I’m still too angry with Mum after our fight yesterday. No doubt I’ll get over it, but invoking Roger’s name was a low blow. The episode with Jennifer Lewison wasn’t my finest hour, certainly, but it all happened a long time ago now. The situation with Caz is wholly different. I’m not fabricating what she’s doing to my family. Why won’t anyone believe me?
Bella eats a large bowl of tomato soup without complaint for dinner, so my worry about her eases a little. I send her up to her bedroom to rest, and bathe Tolly and put him to bed, then pour myself a large glass of cheap Tesco plonk, and go outside. The late evening sunshine casts long shadows as I curl up in the wicker basket chair at the bottom of the garden, cradling my wineglass. I love this house; it’s my home, the only one the children have ever known. But I’m honestly not sure how much longer we can afford to live here. Our finances were pretty ropey even with the job at Whitefish; without it, we’re in serious trouble. I don’t want to acknowledge it, but a large part of this ridiculous vendetta with Caz is my fault. I shouldn’t have retaliated the way I did. But I still don’t understand what set it all off. For four years, we’ve muddled along in a wary Cold War without either of us reaching for the nuclear button. What’s brought us to crisis point now?
I dig a bare foot into the dry grass, and rock the chair back and forth as the roseate sky deepens to indigo. I can’t help a tiny spark of sympathy for Caz. Andrew only ended up in her arms because I drove him away. If I hadn’t screwed up, he’d never have left me. Maybe the seeds for what’s happening now were sown then, when she realised she would never know the security of being his first choice.
My wine is a little warm, but I drink it anyway. What I did to Andrew was no worse than what he’d done to me. The difference was, he couldn’t forgive me for it.
I found out about his affair in the most banal of ways. He’d left a phone, a second phone, in his jacket pocket when he went out jogging one Sunday morning, and I’d found it when it rang. I wasn’t stupid; I’d known immediately what it was, and what it meant. Andrew always had to have the latest, all-singing, all-dancing technology; this phone, his second, secret phone, was a cheap pay-as-you-go with just one number in the call log. If that hadn’t given the game away, the photos in the camera roll would have done.
Much as I’d wanted to confront him the second he got back from his run, to scream and cry and change the locks, a deep, atavistic instinct had told me to play the long game. This Caz, whoever she was, this pretty blonde snuggling against him in her pink Puffa jacket and tight jeans in the selfies on his phone, wasn’t his wife. I’d had the advantage of Bella, of more than a decade of marriage and entwined lives and friends and family. I was still the one he loved, I’d been certain of that.
Somehow, I held it together and said nothing. Looking back now, I don’t know how I managed it; I think it drove me a little mad. For months, I waited and prayed the affair would burn itself out, and in the meantime, I endured. If Andrew slipped away to make a ‘work call’, I’d pretend I had no idea he was calling his mistress. I allowed him to think he’d got away with it when he disappeared for six days on assignment to ‘Glasgow’ and came back with a tan. I let him make love to me every week, as he’d always done, and tried not to ask myself if he did it like this, with her.
He didn’t leave me. But he didn’t give her up, either. And the months of waiting almost killed me. I couldn’t sleep; I could hardly eat. I felt as if I was being eaten away by acid from the inside out. I was vulnerable, distraught; hardly in my right mind. And I made a mistake.
I startle now as I hear the sound of a car on gravel. Spinning the basket chair around so I can see the driveway, I spot Andrew climbing out of a taxi, almost as if my memories have summoned him. He knows Nicky’s history; he’ll have been almost as worried about Bella as me. He must have come straight here from the station.
He reaches back into the cab for a battered holdall I recognise from every foreign assignment he ever went on. Slipping my bare feet back into my sandals, I leave the chair swinging and hasten around the side of the house.
The red tail-lights of the taxi illuminate Andrew’s face as he stands in the middle of the drive, his expression weary and defeated. As soon as I reach him, he drops the bag at our feet and clings to me like a drowning man.
I pull back anxiously and search his face. ‘What is it, Andrew? Has something happened?’
‘Oh, Lou,’ he says thickly. ‘I’ve been such a bloody fool.’
Chapter 32
Caz
I’m on my way to the station to get the train back up to London when Andy finally responds to my hail of texts. On my way.
I stare at the screen, waiting for more, but that’s it. No need, I type back. Bella’s fine. I’ll be back in London in an hour.
He doesn’t respond. The Uber driver pulls up in front of the station, and I’m about to pay him and get out of the car when I get another text, this time from Lily, our next-door neighbour in Fulham. Andy has dropped Kit off with her for the night; she’s checking in to see if we need her to collect him from kindergarten tomorrow too. Why on earth didn’t Andy bring our son down with him? I
t’s not like it matters if Kit misses a day of nursery.
There’s no point going back into London if Andy’s already left. I lean forward between the front seats and tell the Uber driver to take me to our house here instead, anxious and angry. I should be worrying more about what Andy’s up to, but I can’t stop thinking about those ugly scars on Bella’s arms. I know cutting is almost a rite of passage at some expensive girls’ schools these days, but what could possibly be causing that lovely, smart, funny girl to do such terrible harm to herself? I pray to God what happened to me isn’t happening to her—
No. No! Andy would never do that.
I let myself into the empty house, shivering as if someone’s just walked over my grave. I promised Bella I wouldn’t say anything, but what if this escalates? Most girls who self-harm aren’t suicidal. They’re looking for release from emotions they can’t handle, escape from feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing; cutting brings relief from the intense emotional pain. But what about the few who are? I couldn’t live with myself if Bella did something terrible and I could have prevented it.
It’s not just that she’s cutting herself, either. The girl looks ill. She’s pale and drawn, and she’s lost weight in recent weeks. Something’s sucking the life from her and driving her to hurt herself.
Frustrated and scared, I open a bottle of Pinot Grigio, one of the few items in the near-empty fridge, and pour myself a generous glass, pacing anxiously through the empty house. I honestly think Bella is in real trouble, and I don’t know what to do. I’m twenty-nine years old; I’ve no idea how to deal with an angst-ridden teenager coping with divorce and peer pressure and God knows what else. The fact that I was a damaged kid myself doesn’t qualify me to offer expert help.
I’m going to have to tell Andy what Bella’s doing to herself, I realise suddenly. It’s the only responsible thing to do. Bella will hate me for a while, and I don’t blame her, but in the end, she’ll understand why I had to do it. I want to be her friend, yes, but my role here is to be her parent.
Dammit, where the hell is Andy? He said he was leaving hours ago. He should be here by now.
I check the spyware app on my phone, and Andy’s locator dot immediately appears: he’s on the Brighton-bound train from Victoria, currently just outside Crawley, less than half an hour away. It’s already six o’clock, so he’ll probably just want to come here and drop off his bag, then go straight over to Louise’s to check on Bella. I knock back a large gulp of wine. Like he needs an excuse to see her.
On impulse, I go into the study and log into Andy’s email account, scrolling swiftly through the messages. They’re nearly all related to work, other than a few charity solicitations and a couple of emails from a CNN editor who’s been wooing him to jump ship. Nothing to set off any alarms; but Andy’s not stupid. When we were seeing each other behind Louise’s back, he bought a separate pay-as-you-go mobile, just in case she ever checked his iPhone. He knows better than to leave a virtual trail of incriminating emails.
I pull up his browser history, still not really sure what I’m looking for. All I find are news sites and a few innocuous links to pages for fishing and outdoor sports. I stop on one web address I don’t recognise, and quickly click away again when an underage chatroom comes up. Andy’s been working on a documentary about teenage sex trafficking, but those aren’t images I want stuck in my head. Instead, I keep scrolling, going back through the last three weeks of his browser history, but there’s nothing remotely untoward. So why do I suddenly feel so uneasy?
Those teenage chatrooms. But it’s just for work. Andy isn’t like my father. What happened to me is not happening to Bella. I know the signs. I’d have realised.
With a sigh of exasperation, I shut down his computer, and make space on the desk for my own laptop. Enough. I’m going to drive myself mad.
For the next half-hour or so, I use work as an escape from the storm of worry in my head, replying to emails and signing off on a few outstanding briefs awaiting my approval. Several clients have already heard on the bush telegraph that AJ is leaving, and are anxiously checking in to see who’ll be handling them from now on. AJ has always been so good at managing their needs and expectations. I know Univest is important to Patrick, but why he’s allowed Tina Murdoch to dictate terms and sabotage us like this is beyond me.
My stomach rumbles, and I realise I still haven’t eaten all day. I go into the kitchen, scavenging some dried macaroni and a tin of tomatoes from the cupboard, keeping an eye on the progress of Andy’s little red dot as I quickly knock up some spaghetti pomodoro. He arrives in Brighton just as the pan comes to the boil, but instead of heading towards me, the flashing locator starts moving along the road towards Petworth.
I suppress a surge of anger. He’s obviously getting a taxi straight over to Louise’s, instead of coming here first. He knows Bella’s concussion wasn’t serious. The least he could’ve done was pay me the courtesy of checking in before rushing off to his other family.
What time will you be home? I text furiously.
The three circling dots again. It’s several minutes before he actually replies, which means he’s composed his answer several times, then erased and edited it, before finally settling on this: Trains delayed, security scare. May not get in till late. Don’t wait up.
The water hisses as it boils over, and I snatch it from the stove, cursing as I burn my fingers on the hot handle. He’s lying. Why? He’s already here, heading in a taxi to Louise, so why not just tell me that?
My brain beats like a bird trapped against a closed window. He doesn’t want me to know he’s already on his way to see Louise, because then I’ll expect him home sooner rather than later. And he evidently plans to stay longer than a check on his daughter requires.
Before I have a chance to frame a response, my phone buzzes again. I snatch it up, thinking it’s Andy, but the text is from AJ. Sorry to leave you in the lurch.
Don’t be daft, I text back. We’ll sort this out, I promise.
He doesn’t respond. I call him, and it rings a few times, then cuts to his voicemail message. I end the call, and hit redial. The third time, he finally picks up. ‘AJ, where are you?’ I ask anxiously. ‘I can come back to London if you need me—’
‘No, it’s OK,’ AJ says. ‘I’ll be fine.’
His voice sounds as if it’s coming from far away, and I have to press the phone hard to my ear to make out what he’s saying. ‘You don’t sound fine,’ I say uneasily.
‘You’ve been a great boss, Caz. A great friend.’
A tight knot of fear settles in my stomach. ‘AJ, where are you?’ I ask again.
‘Honestly, it’s OK. You’ll be fine without me.’
He’s not talking about leaving Whitefish. This is something darker. I’ve seen despair before: I know what it looks like, what it sounds like, and I hear it now. ‘I know this feels like the end of the world, but things will get better,’ I say urgently. ‘We all love you, AJ. There’s light out there, even if you can’t see it right now.’
There’s a long silence. ‘I’m going to miss this place,’ he says finally. ‘It was my life.’
This place. Abruptly I realise where he is. The clock chiming in the background, the wind whipping away his words. He’s on the terrace atop the Whitefish building.
I run into the hallway and pick up the landline, dialling 999 with rigid fingers as I keep talking to AJ on my mobile. ‘I know you think it’s hopeless, but I’ve been where you are, AJ, and there is hope,’ I say. ‘There’s always hope.’
‘Not for me,’ AJ says, but I hear a note of hesitation in his voice.
I hold my mobile against my chest as I tell the emergency dispatcher to get someone to the Whitefish building in London as soon as possible, then put my mobile to my ear again. I keep up a stream of chatter, not knowing if I’m making any sense, but I can hear AJ’s breathing, so I know he’s still listening.
I don’t know how long it is before I hear the noise of sirens in
the distance, and then a few minutes later, there are voices in the background. The paramedics must have arrived. The knot in my stomach finally eases, and I realise just how frightened I’ve been. In the space of a few weeks, AJ has lost Wayne, and now a job that meant everything to him. I have no idea how close he just came to doing something irrevocable, but if he had, there would have been only one person to blame. God, I hate that woman.
‘I have to go,’ AJ says. ‘I’ll call you later.’
I sink into a kitchen chair and press the heels of my palms into my eyes, my whole body trembling. First Bella, and now AJ. This is one of the worst days I can remember, and I’ve had to cope with everything alone. I wish Andy was here to tell me it’s all going to be OK, but thanks to Louise, I have no one to turn to. I keep picturing AJ standing on the edge of the terrace, staring down at the street below, nerving himself to jump. I swallow hard, trying not to vomit.
I text Andy again, but I’m not surprised when he doesn’t reply. Bitterness sours my blood. Louise thinks she’s winning, taking back what was hers, smashing my life like a wrecking ball. Well, I hope she enjoys tonight. I hope she still thinks it’s worth it, once she sees the consequences.
I didn’t want to go nuclear, but she’s given me no choice.
I have one card left to play.
RUTH CLARKE