by Jane Rogers
Con didn’t much like leaving the kids in the evening, despite the au pair. El had learned that he made excuses, like tiredness, to take them home early; it was often difficult to feel his attention was fully focused on the play or whatever it was they had gone out to do. It would be better, she reasoned, to steal time from work rather than from the kids. That would disarm him.
Four days after Glenn’s mid-December departure there was a sharp frost. As El cycled to the station through the dark blue morning she willed the day to be clear, and when she looked out, mid-morning, it was. She went straight to phone him at work. ‘Con? It’s such a beautiful day. Shall we play hookey? Meet for lunch and a walk, and go home early?’ It was carefully calculated.
They agreed he would pick her up from work and they’d go for lunch in Greenfield, so they could collect her bike from the station. As they drove through the bright sunlight she tried to gauge his mood. He was quiet, rather absorbed in himself, not as exultant in escaping work as she had hoped. ‘Such a beautiful day. It makes me want to plan holidays. Shall we go away at Easter next year instead of the summer?’ She spoke at random. But the baby would be due in July; as soon as she had said this El realised how strange it would seem, when he looked back on it, that she should have suggested this departure from routine without telling him why. And then realised forcibly how strange it would seem, altogether, that she had been hugging the information to herself. Having children made him happy. In the normal run of things she would have told him as soon as she guessed she might be pregnant. This big deal, this afternoon off work, built it up – made it suspicious. Then she realised she was going to tell him the truth. Admit what had happened, tell him she was sorry. She could have an abortion, or not. It would be up to him.
She had not considered saying this, before, and thinking it now as they drove in silence made her nervous. Con would not see infidelity in the same light as she did. He would be upset. He spoke suddenly into silence. ‘I want us to get rid of the au pair.’
‘Hélène? Why? I thought you liked her.’ An argument about the au pair was the last thing they needed.
‘She’s pleasant enough. But she’s…’
‘What? Not good with the kids?’
‘No, she’s OK. But – well, I think we should get someone else.’
El readjusted. So he wasn’t reviving the argument against au pairs. He was simply wanting rid of Hélène. ‘OK. If you like. What’s wrong with her?’
There was a silence as Con slowed for traffic lights, waited, moved off again, seemingly deep in thought. ‘Well, to tell the truth, she makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want you to say anything to her —’
‘Then I won’t. But tell me.’
‘Oh, you know. Flirting. Flitting about half dressed. She’s – you know…’
El realised. It would be better probably if she laughed, but she couldn’t quite trust herself to make the right noise. The timing of this felt terribly unfair. ‘I see.’
‘Nothing’s happened.’ He glanced at her quickly. El finally located her laugh, and a suitably light tone.
‘That’s very restrained of you. She’s beautiful!’
‘It makes me uncomfortable,’ he repeated, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I want you to ask her to leave.’
‘What can I say to her?’
‘Say we’ve decided to do without an au pair for a bit. Anything, it doesn’t matter. We can give her a good reference.’
‘OK.’ She should have said more, but her mouth was dry. It would be best to laugh it off, to tease him about how fatally attractive he was. But how could she say to him… how could she now…? Con virtuously resists advances of beautiful nineteen-year-old French woman while El falls into bed and gets pregnant by American lover. If only they matched one another in crime, how much easier it would be; tears and forgiveness all round, and on to the next chapter.
‘El? You’re not upset, are you? I wanted to tell you the truth —’ Con negotiates into the pub car park.
‘Of course not.’ There is nothing to do but plunge on, and rediscover control where she can. They need to have this conversation in the car, not in the pub. ‘Anyway, I’ve got something more important to tell you. I’m pregnant.’ She feels him turn in his seat to stare at her, and has to force herself to meet his gaze.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
His astonished face suddenly cracks, and he is leaning in to her, arms encircling her. ‘Oh El! El!’
His body is shaking, and she realises he is crying. ‘Con – it’s OK, it’s OK —’
‘I’m so glad.’ His breath is hot in her ear. ‘I’m so, so glad. You don’t know how glad I am.’ He draws back far enough to look at her, his face alight and happy. She knows she must press on, not let this joyfulness distract her.
‘But we weren’t planning to have another —’
‘It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. It’s like Paul, it’s meant to be. It’s exactly what should happen now. I don’t know how I didn’t guess. Have you tested?’
‘Yes.’ She needs to tell him why she didn’t mention it before. ‘But there’s something I must tell —’
‘You’re wonderful! You’re perfect! Come on – we’ll have champagne.’ He is out of the car before she can reply, bending to lock his door. She gets out slowly, and he is looking across the car roof at her, still grinning from ear to ear. ‘When you rang this morning – I should have guessed! What an idiot!’ He takes her hand as they approach the pub and doesn’t drop it even when they reach the bar. He asks for champagne and they have to wait while some is found in the cellar and apologies are made about its not having been in the fridge.
‘Celebrating?’ asks the barman and Con nods. El is afraid he will tell the man, but he just smiles at her and squeezes her hand.
When all the business of opening it and pouring and toasting and sitting at a table is out of the way, El tries again. ‘We need to slow down a bit, Con. There’s a reason I didn’t tell you before —’
He reaches over and puts his finger against her lip. ‘Remember when you wanted to get rid of Paul?’
‘It wasn’t Paul then, it was a five-week embryo, no bigger than a pin head.’
‘Yes. And what a mistake it would have been. Left to ourselves we’ll never decide to have another – how can we? You’re too busy, I’m too busy, life’s too short. And so, like a blessing, it just happens. If you even for a moment imagine us talking about not having it – forget it. It would be the worst and stupidest thing we could ever do.’
‘But —’
‘No buts. Drink.’
She sips, bites the inside of her cheek, starts again. ‘I have —’
But Con is speaking at the same time. ‘It’s a new beginning. Let’s start again, El. Look how we’ve drifted – I didn’t even notice you’d missed a period —’ His voice catches and El glances quickly at the barman, afraid Con may be about to cry again. But he gathers himself. ‘No wonder you couldn’t tell me before. Why should you tell a man who isn’t even aware —’
‘Con. Stop it. I didn’t tell you because… because I didn’t believe it myself.’ Is she? Is she going to tell him now he’s said they must have it, is she going to break his heart? ‘I thought my period was just late because I was tired. It didn’t dawn on me for ages, I felt stupid when I realised —’ El is out of breath. Is she going to lie to him after all? She is astonished at herself. But what can be gained by telling him about Glenn, when it’s gone and over and done with? When he will read far more into it than there ever was? What can be gained by souring his joy over this baby which may, for all she knows, even be his? (But she knows it’s not.) Wouldn’t honesty be self-indulgent?
The turnaround is giddying. But it is clear now: she must lie. Better for Con, better for the baby, better for Paul and Megan, better for Glenn. Better for everyone,
to lie. To let life be as Con would like it to be. As Con deserves.
And the lie had taken, and beautiful blonde Cara was born, and Con loved her more than any of the other three. He was her father, a wonderful father, and she was his daughter. And El had hugged her past to herself and imagined herself safe from discovery. As indeed she was for nineteen years. This house was wonderful then – they had bought it the year before, with money El inherited from her grandfather. A big old weaver’s house, right on the road, with the back rooms facing south, and sunshine pouring in. A previous owner had installed rather inappropriate French windows, but when they stood open on a summer’s day, letting onto the stone-flagged garden area which was bounded by a wide lawn, ending in an overgrown vegetable garden, it was idyllic. Con planted roses and honeysuckle and buddleia, and the children wore little pathways in the flower beds to their favourite hidey-holes behind the bushes. It seems it was always summer, when they were little.
She is dragged from her memories by Paul, who claims he also could not sleep, and says they must call the police today.
‘I’ll tell them,’ he says. ‘You don’t need to do anything.’
‘They’ll want to come round and question us all.’
‘So?’
‘They’ll go through his things – his computer.’
‘Of course. That’s how they’ll try and trace him.’
‘Paul, I just don’t think it’s necessary yet.’
‘I’m phoning them now, Mum, right now.’ He heads for the kitchen.
El has realised she has not scoured Con’s computer as thoroughly as she meant to. What if they take it today? She dresses quickly and goes to Con’s study. She’ll have to call in sick, there’s no way she can do the departmental meeting and the lecture. She’ll try to go in later and finish the grant application.
Turning on the computer and sitting at his desk, she feels sick with dread. The dread of finding something out, something secret, shameful, something he has chosen to keep hidden from her. The grey box on the desk in front of her is basically an extension of his brain; flicking through its files and folders, its Work, Home, Contacts, is fully as invasive as prying into his mind. She imagines a surgeon peering into an opened skull, delicately probing the dense grey tissue, pressing apart the folds in the living cortex with his blunt pink fingers.
As the computer slowly churns to life and opens its programs, she steels herself. Bad as his disappearance is, to find out the truth of it will be worse. Because then she will have to know. People talk about closure, thinks El. The first time she saw it in the press, she thought it typically American. Part of a culture that talks too much, faking understanding with the glib vocabulary of therapy. In so far as she understands closure, she surely doesn’t want it. How can the end of this story be good? As long as it is unknown there is a chance it might be OK. There is a tiny space for hope. With closure, there will be none.
Scanning his emails is not as big a job as she imagined. His desktop is only a year old, and the email traffic is tiny in comparison to hers. His emails are mainly junk and intermittent exchanges with colleagues about research papers. The Deleted box is empty, but to judge from the spam in his Inbox, that is because he has never deleted anything, rather than because he is a scrupulous PC housekeeper. There are storage folders labelled HOUSE, ADMIN and MAD. She clicks on MAD. There are seven emails, the first dated four months ago. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten you, wanker. The subject line is empty and there’s no signature. The sender’s address is [email protected].
The second says, Oh Conrad I have something very special up my sleeve for you.
The next, Why so quiet? Squeal piggy squeal. You will.
Next: You looked cute on that hotel bed. Shall I send the photo to your wife? Pity about my bra n panties on the bed.
El pauses, the words dancing before her eyes. OK, she knew. It had to be a woman. But what kind of woman is this? A blackmailer? The following one, sent in December, reads, What punishment is good enough for what you’ve done? I should rip your heart out.
He must have dumped her. What else could it mean? Next: Long distance torture is easy, eh. What the eye doesn’t see. You will see, shitface, trust me.
Only one left, dated two weeks ago. See you soon, sweetie.
El’s heart is pounding. She clicks wildly, looking for replies in the SENT folder. There are none. There is not a single email addressed to [email protected]. She checks the MAD folder again – none of them shows a replied symbol. She becomes aware of a hubbub in the hall. Cara’s taxi has arrived. Swiftly she closes the folders and runs out to say goodbye. Should she say anything? No, not yet. Not till she knows more. But this woman – why has he kept these emails? As evidence? In case she really harms him? Has he left them here for El to find?
Cara’s face is white.
‘Did you have breakfast?’
‘No time, Mum.’
‘For God’s sake. Have some at the airport. Here – and for the taxi.’ El thrusts £60 into Cara’s hand. ‘Ring me when you get to your hotel. Promise.’
‘Yes, Mum.’ They hug and Cara is gone. Paul – police-botherer Paul – is mysteriously quiet. Unless he has gone to work. El heads back to Con’s office.
I should rip your heart out. Meaning he had ripped out hers? And that last message – a reconciliation? An agreed meeting? Or is the ‘sweetie’ a threat? El stares at the emails, opening them one after another, and eventually printing each one off. If she gives these to the police, won’t the police be able to trace an email address? If anyone has harmed Con it must be her, Mad. But what if he has changed his mind and run away with her? What if he has chosen to be with her? But how could he be with someone so abusive and hateful? A blackmailer, a woman who makes threats?
El is going round in circles. There is something missing here, there is something that doesn’t make sense. She will email the woman herself, she thinks. When she has a clear enough head to work out what to say.
She glances at her watch. There’s still time to get to the meeting, and she might as well go. As she’s putting on her coat she calls Paul’s name and he appears at the top of the stairs.
‘How did you get on with the police?’ she asks.
‘Someone will call me back.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘OK. Are you here all day?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ve got to go to work. Ring me if —’ She hesitates.
‘Yeah yeah. Bye.’
Chapter 6
Conrad is sitting on the floor under the window. There is a revolving light outside. The orange glow flashes across the room from left to right, chased by darkness. It must be an ambulance or a police car. But there’s no siren. Breakdown truck? Roadworks? It doesn’t really matter. But he can’t close the curtains because of the suffocating dark, and if he leaves them open the room is filled with this measured flashing. You can count to ten between each turn. On the bed it was going over him. Under the window he is sheltered.
It’s 2.30. A long time till daylight. Reaching forward he pulls the pillow and duvet from the bed and curls around it, foetal under the window. He can’t remember when he last slept. He tries to imagine the children. But all he can see is Cara, crying; it’s an image from a dream, he was willing El to pick her up because he couldn’t reach but El raised her eyebrows as if he was stupid. He sits upright again.
The people next door have stopped. That was the other thing that drove him from the bed. The increasingly frenzied knocking of the other bed against the wall; then he thought he heard a woman crying. Maybe it was pleasure; what does he know? Just get through the night. It will feel better after dawn. A primitive understanding.
The lights in the monkey house go out at 8pm. It’s pitch dark in there, apart from the red safety light above the emergency exit. He used to think it must be a relief to the mo
nkeys, when the switch is flicked. In the dark, no humans come to stick needles in you, or carry you away to the knife; no one rams a tube down your throat and force-feeds you drugs; no one peers at you critically through the mesh, weighing up your chances. You are at peace in the dark with your dreams and warm sleep and the fug of other monkey snores all around. But now he thinks of their terror. The recently operated upon, alone in the dark with their pain, fighting waves of nausea. Unable to see either friend or foe, smothered by blackness. And the healthy, on borrowed time, knowing their turn will come; in the dark there’s no possibility of the slenderest imagining of escape. At least in daylight the mesh is visible, the lock is visible, the door is visible. At least a way out exists; at least on the clothes of rapidly passing humans, there is the scent of outside, the reassurance that another world still exists. In the dark there is only absence.
He considers himself as the subject of an experiment. Watches himself with a note-taking eye. Subject not sleeping. Huddled by wall. Rejecting food. Irregular bowel movements. He is here in this box. Surrounded by the noisy lives of strangers. What has he ever done to deserve more? He is alive. That’s what he has got. His life, in this box. His fifty-year-old life.
In fact he is hungry. That’s a thought. He’s hungry and what can he do about that? He struggles to his feet and the revolving light catches him, flooding his retinas and blinding him so that he has to put his hands to the window ledge and rest there a moment, waiting for the dark to re-form. You can’t get food at 3am. You have to sleep. You can only get food in the morning. He wraps the duvet round himself and curls up on the floor again. In the morning he must find something to eat. He tries to remember what he last ate. Before this night – before this night – he was walking. There was a train. Yes, a train. The train was stuffy; as it warmed up, the compartment he was in began to stink of orange peel. But he was afraid to go to another compartment, because she might be waiting for him. He hunted for the peel in the luggage rack and in the armrest ashtrays, but it was nowhere to be found.