I don’t reply. I’m thinking about the fact she cooks all my meals, and about all the chances she has to drug me should she so wish – and then it hits me: the nights she’s left my cholesterol tablets out for me; nights when I’ve been drinking. What if they weren’t actually my cholesterol tablets? I was usually worse for wear. I wouldn’t notice if they were slightly different to usual. But she wouldn’t do that? Surely she wouldn’t?
‘Those prescription sedatives are strong,’ says Harry. ‘If you mix them with alcohol, you could easily end up with memory loss, confusion and blackouts – there’s a plethora of side effects you could be experiencing.’
‘Pounding heart?’
Harry nods. ‘Georgie-P, I think you’ve just found your answer. You’re not losing your mind.’
But I’m shaking my head. Stell wouldn’t do that! Anyone knows it’s dangerous to mix sleeping tablets with alcohol – but then… the blackouts…
‘I don’t believe it. I just don’t. She wouldn’t do this. You can’t possibly think she would – God!’ The scale of what Harry’s implying is impossible to get my head around. She loves me! ‘You’ve always liked your conspiracy theories. But this is my life we’re talking about.’
Harry takes a final swig of beer. ‘Maybe I’m wrong, little bro. But maybe I’m right. Why don’t you start another diary? A secret one. Somewhere where she won’t find it. Write it in your own handwriting so she can’t change it – unless forging hand-writing is one of her life skills.’ He snorts as if that might be entirely possible. ‘Compare it to the one on the laptop. That’s what I’d do.’
*
Stell’s in bed when I get home. I don’t know what to make of what Harry’s said. The further the train clickety-clacks me away from central London, the more ridiculous it seems and, by the time I’m home, I’ve discounted 99 per cent of what he said. His own marriage never worked out: he’s just jealous I got a second stab at it and he didn’t. I fire up the laptop and, with fingers that feel like thumbs thanks to the beer, start typing.
Saw Harry tonight. He made me realise how I’ve lost myself a little lately; reminded me of who I am. He reckons I haven’t lost my memory at all. ‘Gas-lighting.’
With the number of clutzy typos I make, even those four sentences take five minutes so I stop there. Bedtime.
FIFTEEN
George
The kitchen smells of fresh air and coffee when I come down in the morning. Stell’s at the island with the papers. She’s wearing a little summer dress with flowers on it and has one leg tucked under her and the other dangling from the stool, long and bare. Her ballet pumps are next to the stool as if she’s kicked them off to walk barefoot in some imaginary meadow, and the back door’s open. It’s one of those glorious days when the sky’s as blue as anything on a Pantone chart and you really feel the summer’s arrived.
‘Morning, darling.’ Stell untangles her legs, comes over to me, snakes her arms around my waist and kisses my lips as she presses herself against me. ‘I didn’t wake you in case you needed a lie-in, but there’s coffee ready if you want it now you’re up.’
‘Thanks.’ I disengage from her and go over to the coffee machine.
‘How’s Harry?’ she asks.
‘Fine.’
My sleep was sweaty and fractured – the stuff of nightmares. The first thing I did when I woke up was check the sleeping tablets in the bathroom cabinet. The sticker said the prescription was recent but there were only four tablets left and I’ve never been aware of Stell taking them. As far as I know, she sprays some arty-farty lavender spray stuff on her pillow and sleeps like a log. I’d popped one out and brought it down to compare with my cholesterol tablet. Almost identical. So is there any truth in what Harry said? In any of it?
‘Did you sleep well?’ My tone is light; I keep my back to her.
‘Yep.’ She’s back at the newspaper.
‘No sleeping tablets?’
‘No.’
‘I saw them in the cabinet the other week. Prescription, right? Do you use them often?’
She slaps the newspaper shut. ‘What is this? Twenty questions?’
‘I was just wondering. They can be addictive.’
‘Don’t worry. I barely use them and I’m not addicted. Did you have a good time last night?’
‘Yes. Was good to catch up.’ I busy myself pouring the coffee. Has she seriously been drugging me?
‘I’m popping out in a bit,’ Stell says. ‘Do you have any plans?’
‘No. I think I’ll just potter at home today. There’s a bulb in the bedroom needs changing and I want to de-clog the bathroom sink.’
‘Great.’
She disappears off to gather her things, then kisses me goodbye. The door slams behind her and then I sit and soak up the silence of the house. More uncomfortable than usual in the house, I have the strangest sense that I’m a zoo animal, out of my natural habitat and here entirely for someone else’s amusement.
‘But that’s nonsense,’ I say out loud. I get up and rinse out my coffee cup then rifle through the drawers in the utility room looking for spare light bulbs. None there – then I remember the cabinet in the hall, which has become a gathering ground for odds and sods. I find the key in the bureau and open the cabinet: bingo – light bulbs galore. Stell’s a sucker for ensuring we never run out. I rummage around, and open a Tesco bag. Inside are loads of white envelopes. I pull one out and I know as soon as I see the hand-written name what it is. The breath goes out of my lungs: it’s an invitation to our house-warming party. Judging by the heft of the bag, the majority of the invitations are in there: the ones Stell was supposed to deliver. So that’s why no one came. Nothing to do with me at all. I’m still standing there barefoot in the shorts and T-shirt I slept in when I hear footsteps and voices outside the front door. I freeze, the bag clutched to my chest. The doorbell rings and I bundle the bag back where I got it and lock the cabinet quickly, gripped with the ridiculous feeling that I’ve been caught red-handed snooping through someone else’s belongings.
‘She said he’d be here,’ says a woman’s voice outside the front door.
‘Try again.’
The doorbell rings again, twice this time, then the letterbox rattles. I leap into action before they peer through and catch me standing there.
‘Coming!’
I open the door and take a step back as I see a sea of faces gathered like carol singers. Only they’re not singing; they’re looking serious. There’s Derek, Dr Grant, that woman Rachel, and some woman with loads of facial piercings. Before I can get a word out, Derek speaks.
‘George. We’re here to stage an intervention.’
I’m speechless. An image of a drug addict shaking on the floor with his friends gathered around fills my mind. What does this have to do with me?
‘Can we come in?’ Derek starts moving towards the door as if I’ve invited him into the house and, automatically, I stand back and let him. One by one the group files past me, none of them meeting my gaze. Derek walks purposefully; Dr Grant has an aura of importance about him; Rachel holds her chin high; the other woman’s eyes look anywhere but at me.
‘Where shall we…?’ Derek asks, and I indicate towards the living room. They troop down the hallway and I close the front door and follow. None of them sits down. They all face me and Rachel loops behind me and stands by the living room door. I’m blocked in. Did they discuss this beforehand? Did they plan how they were going to corner me in my own home?
‘What’s all this about?’ As I put my hands on my hips, I catch a whiff of my own sweat and wish I’d had time to shower and dress. It makes me feel at a disadvantage before we’ve even begun.
‘It’s an intervention,’ says Derek.
‘But… for what?’ Seriously, not the drinking?
‘May we?’ Derek indicates the sofas and I nod. He pulls a chair to the middle of the room and they seat themselves on the sofas facing it.
‘Please,’ says Derek, indicating that I should
sit in the chair.
‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’
‘Dr Grant,’ says Derek, and Dr Grant clears his throat.
‘We believe you’re harming Stella and we want you to know we’re here to help. Obviously this could ultimately be a police matter but Jude here—’ he indicates to the woman I don’t know ‘—thought we should try to intervene before the police are involved.’
‘Appeal to you as a reasonable man,’ says Rachel.
I bristle. They’re a bunch of village vigilantes. ‘And do you have any evidence?’ I ask.
‘She came to yoga with bruises,’ says Jude.
‘We’ve all seen her bruises,’ says Rachel.
‘They were handprints,’ says Jude. ‘Clear as day.’
‘What makes you so sure I caused them?’ I ask.
‘I’ve seen you get rough with her,’ says Derek.
‘Hardly!’
‘I know what I saw,’ he says, nodding.
‘But none of this is evidence! It’s all supposition.’
‘That’s why we’re warning you before going to the police,’ says Rachel. ‘We wanted to give you a chance to give your side of the story.’
I look at them one by one. Dr Grant is still now he’s said his piece, his face a picture of self-righteousness. Funny how your perception of a person can change in an instant. I’d imagined he was a professional and upstanding member of the community; now I see him as a man past his prime; a bored, interfering busybody. And, as for this village: I don’t care what Stell says, we’re selling this house and moving back to London. I hate this place; I loathe these meddling, interfering busybodies.
‘I suspect you didn’t want to take it to the police because you have no evidence,’ I say. ‘And you have no evidence because nothing’s happened. This is outrageous.’ My voice rises. ‘I’ve never raised a hand to Stell, and I never would.’
‘Ah, but we do have evidence,’ says Derek.
I swivel to look at him. ‘What “evidence”?’
Dr Grant steps forward. ‘Her diary.’
‘What diary?’
‘I happened to read some of her diary. It’s a catalogue of domestic abuse.’ He levels his chin as he looks at me, as if challenging me to some medieval duel.
‘She doesn’t write a diary,’ I say.
‘She was writing it in the kitchen when I came over,’ says Dr Grant. ‘She left it open on the counter.’
‘And what did she say in this “diary”? That I push her around? That I hit her?’
‘Yes. Some things like that. But that you control her. Tell her what to eat and what to wear. That you stop her from going out.’
‘Oh please,’ I say. ‘You’ve all seen Stella out and about. Don’t be ridiculous. That wasn’t her diary! That’s her book. A novel she’s writing. It’s fiction!’ Then Harry’s words finally crystallise in my head. The penny drops. ‘She set me up! She planned all this! She wanted me to look guilty!’ I whack my hand to my head. ‘You have to believe me. I haven’t done anything! She set me up!’
I look at them one by one, trying to make eye contact, trying to get one of them on my side, but they’re all staring at me as if I’m a two-headed gorilla and then, from behind me, I hear Stella’s voice.
SIXTEEN
Stella
‘What did I set up?’
George spins to face me. There’s panic in his eyes and it doesn’t suit him. Hemmed in by the villagers on the sofas, and still unwashed from sleep, he looks like a caged animal; ragged around the edges and slightly insane. He’s a far cry from the smooth George who seduced me in London. But then he should have thought of that, shouldn’t he? He should have thought of that before he got Ness pregnant while telling me he loved me.
‘These friends of yours are accusing me of domestic violence,’ George says, ‘but you and I both know I’ve never raised a hand to you!’ He’s almost shouting and he looks like a lunatic. Rachel’s eyes are wide. ‘You set me up! You wanted them to think this!’
I shake my head and go over to George. I stand in front of him and place both my hands gently on his forearms. ‘Darling, what are you talking about? Why would I do that?’ I give his arms a little squeeze then whisper, ‘Come on, honey. Calm down. You’re sounding a little deranged.’
George shakes me off. ‘What the fuck’s going on, Stell?’
I turn to the group and shrug. ‘I haven’t set him up with anything. I don’t know what he’s talking about. What’s the problem? Maybe there’s been some sort of misunderstanding.’
Dr Grant says, ‘I’m so sorry, Stella. We were just trying to help by confronting George about the way he treats you.’
‘The way he treats me?’
Dr Grant coughs. ‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I hope you forgive me but I read your diary. Just a couple of pages. That day I visited. You left it on the counter. I know it was wrong but I couldn’t stop myself and – well, now I’m glad I did.’
‘My diary?’
‘You don’t write a diary!’ George says, and I hold up my hand.
‘I read your diary,’ Dr Grant says again, as if to wipe out George’s words.
‘Hang on,’ I say. I dash to the kitchen and pick up the notebook in which I’m writing my novel. On the front, there’s the title I never got around to deciding on: ‘Diary’. I hold it up for Dr Grant to see. ‘This?’
Dr Grant nods. ‘Yes.’
I burst out laughing, perhaps slightly too raucously, but I’m genuinely finding this funny. Those people with their serious faces, thinking they’re saving me from my husband, who couldn’t actually harm a fly. It really is funny when you think about it. My laughter is the only sound in the room. Do I look unhinged? Maybe.
‘George is right,’ I say, straightening my face. ‘This isn’t my diary. This is a novel I’m writing. Based on the case we spoke about at the party, Dr Grant. The domestic abuse case that had just been tried? Where the guy went to jail? I decided to do a fictionalised version from the point of view of the woman.’ I’m trying to catch Dr Grant’s eye; trying to make sure he’s understanding what I’m saying. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Derek’s shaking his head, Rachel’s mouth is hanging open and Jude, my yoga teacher, is rubbing her eye.
‘Honestly, it’s not a diary,’ I say.
Dr Grant takes a deep breath and stands up, brushing at his trousers as he does so.
‘There’s no need to lie, Stella,’ he says when he straightens up. ‘You’re with friends, and you can speak the truth. There’s no need to hide any more.’
‘But I’m not hiding anything,’ I say.
‘I told you!’ says George. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. You’re lucky I’m not calling the police on you. Now, if you…’
‘Just know that we’re here for you.’ Dr Grant looks intently at me as he says this, and the others stand. Rachel and Jude start to edge towards the door. ‘Any time, day or night, you can come to any of us. OK?’
‘Thank you. But, really, there’s no need!’
‘Right,’ says George. ‘If that’s everything cleared up.’ He opens the living room door forcefully and stands by it like a bouncer while everyone files past him. ‘I trust this will be the last of this nonsense. An apology would be welcome. When you’re ready.’
‘Sorry,’ says Rachel, her eyes downcast.
‘We’re here any time you need us,’ says Jude.
‘I know what I saw,’ says Derek.
‘Remember, Stella, any time at all,’ says Dr Grant.
George closes the front door quietly, then turns to face me. We stare at each other for a moment and I can’t read his expression. Then he pushes past me and races straight up the stairs.
SEVENTEEN
George
I run up the stairs two and a time and close the bedroom door behind me. I can’t be near her. I don’t want her coiling herself around me, kissing me and whispering sweet noth
ings in my ear. Into my head comes an image of Ness: warm, welcoming and so genuine and it’s as if the blinkers have come away. I can’t stay here any more. I want my old life back so badly the emotion catches in my throat: my old house, my dog, my friends, my life. It’s as if the past year has been a bad dream. I want to wake up in bed with Ness and find that none of this happened.
Think, George.
What was it that Harry said? Gas-lighting. I open my phone and type the phrase into the browser. The first sentence that comes up is from Wikipedia: ‘Gas-lighting is a form of mental abuse in which a victim is manipulated into doubting their own memory, perception and sanity.’
I can’t breathe. ‘Doubting their own memory, perception and sanity.’ I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to read any more. The months that I’ve been in the house with Stella run through my mind like a film. Memory loss. Blackouts. Losing things. The whisky that disappeared. The party invitations that I found just now. Did she honestly forget to deliver them? Or did she deliberately sabotage the party? Did she want me to believe no one wanted to know me because of the investigation? Suddenly everything comes into focus; I see the last few months of my life from a completely different perspective and I stagger back onto the bed as my knees buckle.
Oh God. The investigation. It was her idea I borrow the money, and… was she the one who tipped off the trustees? She works with that charity. She had a lunch with the trustees. I remember her going! Could she have told them that I’d taken the money? Why would she do that to me? Why would she destroy our life together?
And then I remember the lasting power of attorney she mentioned so casually. Did she really plan this whole thing so she could transfer ownership of the house and my business to her name? I shake my head. She’s a successful business owner in her own right. I pace the room again, filled with the sense that there’s something missing: there’s a link I just can’t grasp. Why would Stell do any of this? I don’t know, but what I do know is that I can’t be with her a moment longer.
I pull out my overnight bag from under the bed, pull open the wardrobe doors and start whacking things into the bag. Clothes, underwear, toiletries – and then, as I stare unseeingly at the wardrobe, I freeze: outside the room, I hear Stell’s footsteps approaching, one lighter than the other as she still favours the ankle she sprained on the stairs. I turn to face the door as the steps come closer, then I watch as the door handle slowly depresses. My heart’s thumping so loudly I imagine she can hear it. I hold my breath and press my hand against my chest, but my traitor heart still thumps. Outside the window I’m suddenly aware of a blackbird singing, singing, singing, but on the other side of the bedroom door is something other than my beautiful Stell; something I no longer recognise.
The One That Got Away Page 27