‘What I would like to do,’ she said, shakily, ‘is finish it all right now. Tell you to clear out and never come near me or our children again—’ She halted, feeling dizzy.
‘Lizzie?’ He took a step towards her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Don’t you dare come near me,’ she snarled suddenly. ‘Of course I’m not all right, you bloody, bloody fool.’ She looked at him again. ‘Not because someone’s beaten you to a pulp – I wish to God they’d done a better job.’
‘You don’t mean that.’ Christopher sank down again, back onto the sofa.
‘Jack’s in hospital.’
‘I know he is.’
‘Not in Windsor,’ Lizzie told him. ‘In Hammersmith.’ She stood up, went to the fireplace, put out a hand to the mantel to steady herself. ‘Which you’d know, if you hadn’t been . . .’ She shook her head.
‘Why?’ Christopher’s voice, behind her, was sharper. ‘Why’s Jack been moved? What’s happened, Lizzie?’
She turned around, slowly, saw the terror on his face, chalky now around the bruising, knew that the fear, at least, was real. ‘Don’t panic,’ she said. ‘His breathing got a bit worse, but it’s not too bad. They were concerned they might not be quite up to it, if he were to deteriorate, and I chose Hammersmith because you were here.’
‘So why aren’t you with him now?’ he asked.
Anger returned in full force. ‘Because Jack didn’t want me to stay,’ she said coldly. ‘He doesn’t want people thinking he’s a baby.’ Strength was coming back with the fury. ‘He said you’d understand, if you were there.’
‘Oh, Christ.’ Christopher began to rise again, then stopped. ‘I can’t let him see me like this. Oh, my God, what have I done?’ His eyes filled. ‘Lizzie, what are we going to do? You can’t tell him, you can’t.’
‘I have no intention of telling Jack, or Edward or Sophie – remember them?’
‘Lizzie, please.’
‘And clearly this isn’t the moment to discuss separation or divorce.’
Christopher covered his face with his hands and began to weep.
‘For God’s sake,’ Lizzie said in disgust. ‘Your ten-year-old son’s got a thousand times more courage than you have.’
Christopher’s face emerged from above his hands, tear-streaked. ‘I knew that was what you were planning,’ he said, still weeping. ‘I knew it as soon as Alicia told me someone had been snooping in our computer system, in my files.’
‘I don’t know what you’re rambling about,’ Lizzie said, ‘and I don’t care.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I was going to make some tea, but I think I deserve something stronger.’ She looked down at the bottle on the carpet. ‘If you’ve left anything.’
He didn’t answer, and she went to the cabinet, found a bottle of Glenfiddich, poured herself a single, knowing anything more might tip her over the edge, and she needed to be capable in case the hospital phoned.
‘Do you need a doctor?’ she asked him abruptly, then took her first swallow, felt it brace her just a little.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing broken.’
‘Then you may as well go to bed, don’t you think?’
‘What about Jack?’ he asked, pitiful again.
‘I’ll telephone in a while, check on him. With a bit of luck, he’ll be sleeping, so I won’t have to make excuses for you not speaking to him.’
‘I can speak to him, surely?’ He raised his face, aggrieved.
‘Not till you’re sober and sounding like yourself,’ Lizzie said. ‘And you’d better do something about your face, patch yourself up a bit, or God knows when you’ll next be fit to see him.’
‘Oh, Lizzie,’ Christopher said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She took another swallow of her drink and looked down at him.
‘Go to hell, Christopher,’ she said.
Chapter Eighty-Two
When Clare had told Novak, that morning, that she intended to take the day off, he had been surprised and concerned, had asked her before leaving if she was sure she was okay, if she needed a doctor or wanted him to stay with her.
‘Yes, no and no,’ she’d told him, exasperated but lighthearted. ‘I just feel like taking a day off, which is what you’ve been on at me to do, isn’t it?’
Which was true, of course, so he’d done as she asked, gone to the agency and spent most of the day paying the bills that still flowed in at a frighteningly faster and higher rate than their invoices went out, aware that now there was a baby on the way it was more vital than ever that he kept their heads above water.
He had phoned to check on her twice during the morning, but the second time she’d bitten his head off, told him he was stopping her from relaxing, and he’d backed off after that, not ringing her again till around four pm, when she’d been out.
He’d tried her mobile, but she’d switched it off, and after that he stewed for a while, picturing all kinds of emergencies, then went home, found the flat empty and went on stewing, until just after nine o’clock, when she finally came home.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he said the instant he saw she was okay.
‘At Nick’s,’ Clare said.
‘You’ve been with Nick Parry?’ He was incredulous.
‘That’s what I said.’ She began to take off her coat.
‘You were meant to be having a day off, not nursing.’
‘Have you finished shouting at me?’ she asked, quite mildly.
Novak leaned back against the wall, weak with relief and anger. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for yelling, but I’ve been worried sick.’
‘Why?’ Her surprise was genuine.
‘Because I didn’t know where you were, and your mobile was turned off.’
‘I didn’t take it.’ Clare walked into the kitchen. ‘Nick phoned me at lunchtime, very pissed off, and I was bored, and I knew you’d be cross if I changed my mind and came to the agency, so I went to spend some time with him instead.’
Novak’s anger had already dissipated, and he felt, if anything, ashamed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I know I drive you nuts sometimes.’
‘Pretty much all the time just now,’ she said.
‘It’s not my intention,’ he said.
‘I know.’ Clare picked up the kettle, swished around the water already in it, put it down and switched it on. ‘Being with Nick takes my mind off things.’
‘Unlike me,’ Novak said, trying not to sound hurt.
‘Unlike you,’ Clare agreed.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Christopher had been asleep in his room for a while, and Lizzie had spoken to the sister on Jack’s floor, who’d assured her that he, too, was sleeping peacefully, before she remembered to check the voice mail on her mobile phone and found a message from Robin asking how the tour was going, and saying that he hoped she’d have enough strength left when she got back to London at least for a drink.
‘And dinner, too,’ he’d added, ‘if you’re up to it.’
Lizzie listened through to the end of her messages, called home again, spoke to her mother first, then Gilly, then Sophie – who was refusing to go to bed until she heard the latest about Jack – and then, finally, to Edward.
‘Is Dad okay?’ he asked after he’d learned about his brother.
‘Dad’s fine,’ Lizzie told him. ‘But really worn out, so he’s gone to bed early.’
‘Send my love,’ Edward said.
‘You bet,’ Lizzie said.
She called Susan next, thanked her again for being such a true friend, asked her to send more apologies to Howard and all at Vicuna, said she promised faithfully to make up for this unprofessional streak, and Susan said that frankly, good as Pure Bliss might be, it was still only a book, and hardly to be compared with Jack’s health.
Lizzie said goodnight to Susan, made herself a cup of hot chocolate, took it into the living room, found Allbeury’s number and dialled it.
‘What a lovely surprise,’ he
said, hearing her voice. ‘What’s wrong?’
She wondered, briefly, at his intuition, and told him what had happened, felt warmed by the intensity of his concern for Jack, and his sympathy regarding the abrupt ending of her tour.
‘Shall I have a quick word with Christopher?’ Allbeury asked, easily, as if they were old friends who regularly chatted.
‘He’s gone to bed actually,’ Lizzie said.
‘Nothing like kids being ill to drain you,’ Allbeury said.
He made it sound almost as if he’d had first-hand experience of that, and Lizzie wondered why that might be, if, maybe, he had nephews and nieces, and realized, not for the first time, how very little she knew about him.
‘I’ll let you go,’ he said, gently. ‘If you need anything, Lizzie, please don’t hesitate to call me.’ He paused. ‘Any time.’
She thanked him, said goodnight, put down the phone.
‘Who was that?’
She looked up, saw Christopher, looking cleaner but still dreadful, standing in the doorway in a white towelling robe with CW embroidered on the breast.
‘I was returning some calls,’ she said. ‘That was Robin Allbeury.’
‘Why’s Allbeury calling you?’
‘He thought I was still touring, wanted to know how it was going.’ Lizzie paused. ‘You know we had dinner together last week.’
‘Cosy,’ Christopher said.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Anger returned.
‘Dinner with a divorce lawyer.’
‘He would have dined us both if we’d been together.’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘Why the hell am I explaining myself to you?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Christopher remained in the doorway. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘Just now? That Jack’s unwell, obviously.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Of course not,’ Lizzie answered coolly.
‘Thank you,’ Christopher said.
‘I didn’t keep silent for your sake,’ she said.
By morning, Jack was responding well to his new antibiotics, Christopher’s bruises were purple, green and black, and he and Lizzie had settled on the cover story of a mugging, though when Jack, on the phone, told his father that he wasn’t going to believe he was really okay unless he could see him for himself, Christopher had come away from the call and begged Lizzie to reconsider.
‘Now he thinks I’ve been mugged, it’ll be okay – he’ll probably be impressed.’
‘It won’t be okay,’ Lizzie said. ‘It’ll be a lie.’ She paused. ‘And even if you don’t care about lying to your son, as soon as you set foot inside the hospital, everyone will be asking you for the gory details and what the police are doing, and—’
‘All right,’ Christopher said. ‘You’ve made your point. Jack just sounded so upset about not seeing me.’
‘Whose fault is that?’ Lizzie said.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Glad as he had been to hear from her, Lizzie’s call last night had been, from Allbeury’s perspective, unsatisfactory. Too brief and too disturbing.
She’d explained away the tension in her voice; Jack was in hospital and she was, naturally enough, afraid. Yet Allbeury had sensed more than that in her strain, something perhaps not greater than, but on equal footing with her fears for her son.
Wade at the root of it.
Christopher, the fine father, the one-time kerb crawler.
It had taken him a long time to get to sleep after that, and when he had, he had dreamed of her, an abstract dream in which nothing had been clear but her face and a soprano singing something operatic and painfully shrill.
Leaving him even more disturbed, because he was becoming more certain than ever that Lizzie Wade was a woman in need of help.
The kind of help he was in the habit of giving women.
Who, ordinarily, he did not dream about.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Christopher returned to Marlow on Monday with Lizzie and Jack, for his bruising was a little less horrifying to look at by then, and the mugging tale had, as he’d predicted, quite thrilled Jack once he had, finally, seen his dad for himself. And with the spectre of tracheotomy blotted out again for now, Lizzie found that she was more grateful for that gift than she was repulsed to have her husband still at her side.
‘Did you fight back, Dad?’ Edward wanted to know.
‘I tried,’ Christopher said.
‘Much better not to,’ Lizzie told her older son. ‘Better to hand over what they want and be safe.’
‘Better catch the bloody bastards,’ Jack said.
‘Language,’ Christopher said.
‘Well, they were, weren’t they?’
‘Bet they don’t catch them,’ Edward said.
‘Probably not,’ Christopher agreed.
‘Does it hurt, Daddy?’ Sophie asked.
‘It did hurt, my darling,’ Christopher told her. ‘But it’s much better now I’m here with you all.’
Lizzie was repulsed now, knew that this time she would not, would never be, able to forgive him. No matter how wonderful he was with the children, no matter how perfect a daddy they all believed him to be, it was, in the privacy of her heart and mind, finished for her.
‘Poor Christopher,’ Angela, scheduled to leave later that evening, said after she’d seen his face. ‘What a dreadful thing to happen.’
‘Dreadful,’ Lizzie said.
‘And so much worse for him than most of us,’ Angela said. ‘At least if any of us are ill or injured, we have Christopher to take care of us, but he has no one.’ She smiled at her daughter. ‘Not anyone like him, I mean.’
‘Quite,’ Lizzie said.
‘You all right?’ her mother asked, then shook her head. ‘Silly question, after all you’ve been through.’ She paused. ‘Sure you want me to leave? I’d be glad to stay on a while longer.’
‘No need.’ Lizzie drew brightness determinedly around her. ‘William’s missing you, and Gilly’s here to help.’
‘Quite sure?’ Angela laid a hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘I’m still your mum, Lizzie. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time with me.’
‘I know I don’t,’ Lizzie said.
Over the next few days, Christopher seemed, in the presence of the children, to be able to hold himself together well enough to deceive them, but when they were at school or with friends or asleep, he became, increasingly, more morose.
‘I’d be grateful,’ Lizzie told him on the Wednesday, ‘if you could try a little harder in front of Gilly. She’s no fool, and she knows something’s wrong.’
‘She thinks it’s the mugging.’
‘I’m asking you to make an effort,’ Lizzie said.
‘Oh, I am,’ Christopher said. ‘You’ve no idea how great an effort.’
‘Am I supposed,’ she asked, ‘to thank you?’
On Thursday night, Hallowe’en, with Gilly out at a party and after an evening of sitting around the drawing room, decked out with pumpkins and candles, telling spooky tales, because Jack wasn’t quite fit enough to go out trick-or-treating and the other two hadn’t wanted to go without him, Christopher went to bed before Lizzie, giving her an hour or so of peace before she checked on the children and then went to bed herself.
It was just after midnight when she heard the knock on her door.
None of the children ever knocked, so it was either Gilly – back from her party – or Christopher.
She turned on her bedside lamp and drew up the covers.
‘Yes?’ she called, softly.
The door opened, and he was there, in his black silk dressing gown.
‘What is it, Christopher?’
She saw right away it had nothing to do with the children, since then he would have banged or just come straight in, and he was wearing his new hangdog expression, and he might as well have stamped PITY ME on his forehead, only she had no pity left for him now, just contempt.
‘I seem to have run out of
painkillers,’ he said.
‘I thought you had plenty.’
‘Plainly not enough.’
‘All right.’
She got out of bed, pulled on her robe, walked into the bathroom, opened the cabinet and took out a pack of Nurofen.
And heard his step behind her.
She turned around, saw him in the bathroom doorway.
‘I’d have brought them out.’
‘No need.’ He came into the bathroom, shut the door behind him.
‘What are you doing?’ Fear hit her hard, instantly. ‘Christopher, open the door.’
‘Don’t be afraid.’ In the bathroom’s bright light, his grey eyes appeared brighter than usual against the dark bruising. ‘You smell wonderful,’ he said, softly.
Lizzie stepped to her right, then smartly to the door, certain, suddenly, that he was going to try and block her, but then she was gripping the handle and safely out of the bathroom again, feeling faintly foolish.
‘The pills?’ Christopher came back into the bedroom, held out his hand.
‘Here.’ Lizzie thrust the pack at him, but it fell to the floor.
Christopher looked down at it. ‘I’m afraid I can’t bend very well just yet.’
Lizzie said nothing, just bent to pick it up, straightened again, took his left hand and slapped the pack firmly into his palm.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome.’
He took three paces towards the door – closed now, Lizzie noticed, and he must have done that when she’d gone ahead of him into the bathroom – and stopped again.
Turned back to face her.
‘Look at me,’ he said.
‘Go to bed, Christopher,’ Lizzie told him.
‘Not at my face,’ he said.
She looked, despite herself, saw what he wanted her to see.
Rage filled her.
‘Get out,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to get out,’ he said.
‘Get out.’ Lizzie came at him, her right hand outstretched, shoved at his chest. ‘Get out of my room.’ She moved past him, heart pounding wildly, reached for the door handle.
‘I told you.’ Christopher turned, grabbed her arm, held it. ‘I don’t want to go.’
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