by Isabel Wolff
‘So that’s why you became so attached to Sam.’
‘Yes. He’s exactly the same age.’
‘And do you ever see Gabriel?’
‘No. Because he’s no more my child than Sam is. I have no role to play in his life—now I’m simply his mother’s ex. Amy and I parted on terrible terms, and she went to Canada with Andy, and in time I learned to think of Gabriel in a different way. But when I go back to Montreal it’s hard, because I have to pass within a mile of where they live.’
‘So that’s what you meant when you said your trip had been “stressful”.’
‘Yes. But of course I have to go, because my folks are there. So that’s what happened, Laura. And the reason why Christina said what she did was because she assumed you knew the truth, and didn’t want you to think badly of Amy, who she’d always liked. But you got it all back to front and ended up thinking badly of me.’
‘I’m really sorry. But then…you see, the stuff in the papers confused me as well. There were a couple of pieces saying that you and Tara were an item and that Amy was distraught about it.’
‘Laura, what have you learned recently about what you read in the tabloids—and the broadsheets come to that?’
‘Well, yes,’ I sighed, ‘but it sounded convincing, and the thing is, Tom, that you never denied it. You never came in to work and said to us, “Look there’s something about me in the papers today, but I just want you to know it’s not true.”‘
‘Ah. Well you do have a point there,’ he said. ‘Tara had a very pushy agent at that time, and he fed the story to the press about me “seeing” her—I think he thought that a little controversy would be good for her career. I didn’t like it—but once it had gone in, I didn’t deny it, no, because I preferred people to think I’d been a cad rather than…’ His voice trailed away. ‘So, yes, I can see why that fed your misapprehension. But the fact is that Tara and I were friends—no more than that. I couldn’t have looked at another woman, let alone…’ I heard him sigh. ‘I was a total mess.’
I cast my mind back. ‘You concealed it well. I could see that you were very low, but I assumed that it was because of the divorce. Plus you never talked about your personal life—not even when you used to come and bring me things inthe first few weeks after Nick disappeared. You could have talked about it then. I wish you had done—then I would have known the truth, instead of which—’
‘I didn’t want to talk about it—plus you had such big problems of your own. And at work I hid my feelings because I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me—you should understand that—and because I had a business to run. I wanted to fall apart—but I couldn’t. I did talk to Tara about it, though. We went to the movies and to the pub. She consoled me. But not in the way you obviously thought.’
‘I did think that…although deep down I still couldn’t believe it…’
‘You did believe it.’
‘But only because it appeared to be true, because a) that’s how it looked, especially with the newspaper coverage and b) I was misled by that awkward conversation I had with Christina…’
‘You never seem to get beyond a) and b), do you Laura,’ Tom said wearily. ‘But what about c) to z)—which were that I would never do that. You should have given me the benefit of the doubt—you knew me well enough.’
‘Yes, I did. I’m sorry. I was judgemental.’
‘You were—but, you know, Laura, I’ve never been judgemental about you.’
‘That makes me feel even worse.’
‘You’ve had such crap thrown at you these past few weeks, but I know that’s all it is—crap—and that Nick had his own reasons for doing what he did. And if anyone had asked me whether you were capable of hurting your husband so much that he’d have a breakdown then I’d have answered, “absolutely not”.’ I didn’t say anything. ‘All this “guilt” rubbish the press have tried to pin on you—especially that nasty piece of work from the Semaphore.’
‘Yes. But then…’
‘What?’ We could hear the clock chiming the three quarters. It would soon be midnight.
‘But…actually, Tom…he was right. I do feel guilty about Nick leaving.’
‘Why?’ There was silence. ‘It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t responsible for what was going on in his head.’
‘Wasn’t I? I think I was.’ From outside we could hear the wail of an ambulance.
‘What do you mean?’
I paused. ‘Something happened…something he couldn’t get over.’
‘You don’t have to tell me, Laura.’
‘I want to tell you. But you’re the only one I will tell.’ I realized now that I had never told Luke. ‘We had that car crash—a few days before Christmas.’
‘Yes, I remember—Nick took a bad knock to the head. You said afterwards you thought it might have precipitated what happened to him.’
‘Yes, I did say that—but I didn’t believe it, because I knew the real reason. I’ve known it for the past three years. It was something I did, or rather said, that he couldn’t cope with.’
‘What did you say?’ Tom asked.
I could hear myself breathe.
You killed our baby…
‘I made this terrible accusation…’
You killed our baby…
‘I was pregnant…’ I explained. Then I told him what I’d said to Nick.
‘You were pregnant?’ Tom murmured.
‘Yes. In the autumn of 2001.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘I didn’t tell you—or anyone—and in any case you had so much else on your mind—it was a couple of months after Gabriel was born. And it hardly showed, plus I had very little morning sickness.’
‘So…was it that…?’ He paused. ‘Did Nick want you…to have a termination? Was that it?’
‘Oh…no. No, he was thrilled about it—we both were. We’d found out in late September, when we were on holiday in Crete.’ I remembered Nick, standing on the hotel balcony, in that blue silk shirt of his with the tropical fish, his face alight with joy. ‘But then I had a slight scare in the October, so we decided not to tell anyone—not even my sisters—until I was at least sixteen weeks. At fourteen weeks I had the first scan, and it was fine.’ I paused, remembering hearing the rapid beat of the baby’s heart—like a bird’s—as the Doppler was pressed on to my abdomen; then the miraculous sight of the tiny form rocking in its uterine cradle, one dainty hand uplifted, as though in greeting.
‘So we decided that we’d tell everyone on New Year’s Day: I was worried about telling Felicity, because she was desperately trying for a baby herself. But that’s when we planned to let them know.’
‘So what happened then…?’ Tom murmured. As we sat there whispering in the dark, I felt as though I were in the confessional, and that he was the priest.
‘On the Saturday before Christmas, we’d gone to a party in Sussex—it was a fund-raising thing for SudanEase, so we had to go, although I hadn’t really wanted to, as I hadn’t been feeling that great. But as we were driving back, we had the accident—we spun off the road and went into a ditch. We were taken to hospital, and I told the nurses I was pregnant, and they said that I’d be fine, and not to worry, because babies are so safely cocooned. And when I got home I looked it up in that book—What to Expect When You’re Expecting—and it said that women can be in really serious accidents and break their bones, and still not lose their baby. So I must have been very unlucky, because I hadn’t been seriously hurt, but two days later I lost mine.’
Suddenly I felt Tom touch my right hand, then he cupped both his hands over it, as though it was an injured bird.
‘I’m sorry, Laura,’ he whispered. ‘And I’m sorry that I didn’t know.’
‘I got Nick to tell you that I had ‘flu—but I was in hospital. The doctor told me that it was a girl.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Tom said again. ‘I must have been too wrapped up in my own misery to notice yours although, I do remember, now I think abo
ut it, how sad you seemed then.’
‘I was. Nick and I were both distraught. And three or four days later, we had this awful row. He’d had a glass of wine at that party, so I’d told him that I’d drive home, but he insisted that he was okay, plus he knows I hate driving in the dark. He was well under the limit, but I became obsessed with the idea that it had affected his judgement…and I said this terrible thing. And the next day I said I was sorry, and that it was only because I was still so distressed, but I don’t think it was enough. Because, although on the surface he seemed to be coping, it was ten days after that, that he went—on January the 1st.’
‘On the day when you were due to tell everyone.’
‘Yes. And he’d clearly planned to go, because he’d drawn £5,000 out of his account ten days before he went. So yes, I do feel responsible for Nick going. I did “hurt him,” I did “treat him badly”, I did “drive him away”. “My Remorse” was just about the right headline.’
‘Oh Laura…But it’s understandable…in the circumstances. You were in a very bad way—’
‘But Nick had other things going on at the time—his father’s death six weeks before had hit him badly—they’d had a terrible row and hadn’t made it up—so he was already in a fragile state. But to feel that losing the baby might have been his fault and to know that I blamed him—and that I might always blame him. I suppose that’s what he couldn’t bear.’
‘He probably did blame himself, Laura.’
‘Yes—so he didn’t need me saying it as well. But that’s why he went missing.’ I could hear Tom sigh. ‘So that’s my sad story.’ I thought of Cynthia’s psychic reading that night, and how disturbing I had found it.
There isn’t one person missing from your life—there are two.
‘I think of her often—she’d be almost three. A little girl in a pink dress and Startrite shoes.’ We heard the clock strike twelve.
‘But how terrible then to leave you—whatever his turmoil.’
‘Yes—because we could have got through it, in time, and put it behind us. Tried again.’
‘But he left you…’
The last chime sounded. It was the second of May. Our anniversary.
‘Yes, he did. Just when I needed him most.’
FIFTEEN
Tom and I had no idea what time the power had come back on, because after that we fell asleep. He offered to sleep on the floor, but we slept on the sofa, with him slumped against one arm, while I was half stretched out, my head on his lap. We awoke, aching in every joint.
‘God, it’s five past seven,’ Tom croaked. He reached for the radio. ‘Ow, my neck.’
‘Power has now been restored. The failure is thought to have been caused by a fault at the Hurst substation, near Bexley in Kent. It lasted a total of six and a half hours…’
We heard a van drawing up outside. Tom got up and looked out of the window.
‘It’s Arnie. He said he’d be here at seven.’ We heard the van door open, then slam, then male voices. I looked out; there were three painter-decorators in white overalls. Tom ran downstairs to let them in.
‘Morning,’ said one of the painters as I came down the stairs. He was clutching a huge tub of paint in one hand and a step-ladder in the other.
‘Good morning…I’m just going.’
‘Thanks for your help,’ said Tom. He hugged me, then held me to him for a moment. ‘I’ll call you later.’
I went home, blinking in the bright sunlight as I walked through the deserted streets—then crawled into bed, and slept.
I woke at midday, still aching, and steeped myself in a hot bath, with a flannel over my face, thinking about the conversation of a few hours before.
…like a hole in the heart…
-She made me suffer
-She had the “coup de foudre”…
-Do you seriously think…?
…abandon my child…?
-You should have given me the benefit of the doubt.
I should have done. Instead, I’d spent three years believing that Tom had done something awful. If I hadn’t thought that—how then might I have regarded him, I wondered…
Through the open bathroom window, I could hear the shriek of whistles, and the honking of bicycle horns. May Day protestors. The streets would be full of them, especially with the General Election. I decided I’d go and look. As I got dressed, my mobile beeped—there were five missed calls—three from Luke, and two from Felicity. Then I listened to the answerphone. Luke had left three messages, and Fliss had left two. Suddenly the phone rang. It was her.
‘Where have you been?’ she said accusingly.
‘Oh…’ I was too tired to explain. ‘Working,’ I said, which was true.
‘Well it’s been absolute hell here—he’s out with Olivia so he can’t hear—but when I confronted him about the e-mails he admitted that he’d been getting far too cosy with Chantal.’
‘Did anything actually happen between them?’
‘No—but thank God I looked at his computer when I did, otherwise it would have done—he said so himself. But it’s been the most terrible twenty-four hours—and then just to top it all off, that bloody power cut! I looked in the freezer this morning—I had sixteen pints of breast milk in there, all ruined! OhgodHugh’sjustcomingbackcan’ttalkbye.’
And I was just wondering quite why Felicity had sixteen pints of breast milk in the freezer—when the phone rang again.
‘Laura!’ It was Luke. ‘Thank God. I couldn’t get through to you on your mobile for some reason—this annoying woman kept saying that calls from this number were not being accepted or something, anyway, I’m just on my way to Marco Polo airport and I’ll be back later and then we’ll talk and I can’t wait to see—’ I hung up, then tapped in the code.
‘Calls from this number are now barred,’ said the automated voice. ‘Thank you.’
Then I picked up the dressing gown, still in its carrier bag, unworn. It was so beautiful, with its pattern of pink tulips—but now it was tainted and spoiled. I wondered what todo. Give it to Oxfam, I suppose, or to Hope or to Fliss or to my mum, that would be nice or…
‘OOHHHH!’ THUMP! THUMP!!
Cynthia. I’d give it to her. I put it back in its bag and went upstairs.
‘OOOHHHH!’ THUMP! THUMP!! THUMP!!!!
I knocked hard so that she could hear me.
‘Laura!’ she said, opening the door. She beamed at me. ‘How lovely. Come in!’ As I followed her inside I noticed that she was wearing yet another scent—what was this one? Oh yes—that new one by Chanel—Chance. ‘Have a cup of coffee with me,’ she said. ‘I’ve just made a pot.’
‘Okay—thanks—but I won’t stay long. The weather’s so gorgeous that I want to get out there and—’
‘Seize the day,’ she finished. ‘Good idea. Make the most of it my girl. To quote Philip Larkin, “Days are where we live…They are to be happy in”—’ THUMP!!—‘But this damn television…’
‘What are you trying to watch?’
‘ITV are doing a two-hour special—The World’s 100 Worst Ever Films—and I really want to see it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because,’ she said proudly, ‘seven of them are mine.’
She banged the TV again. I bent down and examined the console, then twiddled one of the buttons at the back. The picture wobbled again then stabilised. ‘There.’
‘Oh thank you, Laura. Which button is it again?’
‘This one, here.’
‘I never knew that,’ she said.
‘And were you okay in the power cut?’ I asked her.
‘I was fine—I like the dark. I see everything more clearly. Can you understand that?’
‘Ye-es,’ I said. After last night, I could. ‘I’ve got something for you, Cynthia.’
‘Really?’ I handed her the bag, and she opened it. ‘Oh, I say.’ She held up the dressing gown. Then she slipped it on—it was wonderful on her—and looked in the mirror overthe fireplace.
‘How lovely, Laura,’ she said as Hans batted at the belt with her paw. ‘But you shouldn’t be giving it to me, I mean, it’s so sweet of you but—’ she blinked in bewilderment. ‘Don’t you want it?’
‘No. It was an unwanted gift,’ I explained.
‘Oh. From…?’ I nodded. ‘Not going well then?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid your prediction was right.’
‘I knew it,’ she said, as she poured me a cup of coffee. ‘The second I saw him. It was his aura, you see. Too much orange—it clashed with your lilac.’
‘I was very dismissive about what you do,’ I said. ‘I was very judgemental. I’m sorry.’
‘You thought it was “bunkum”,’ she said good-naturedly.
‘I did think that. But I’m a little less sceptical than I was before.’
‘So there are more things on heaven and earth…’
‘Yes, there clearly are.’
I picked up one of her flyers. Let Psychic Cynthia predict your past, present and future.
As I sipped my coffee, I realized how much of my life Cynthia had got right—I had been missing two people: You didn’t know them for long…you loved them. You didn’t want it to end… That was so true. Her reading of my current life had been accurate too. Romance is in the air. But not with him. As for the future…
‘An ending is coming, Laura. I can see it…’ I heard her say. She meant my ending with Luke—but to me, that had already happened twenty-four hours earlier. ‘And there’s a new beginning.’ She sipped her coffee, then closed her eyes. ‘I see a lake,’ she said after a moment.
I smiled. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. A beautiful lake—in a vast wilderness. The leaves are all gold. It’s autumn. And there are some animals. I’m connecting with them now.’ Her eyelids flickered. ‘I’m not quite sure what species. Hold on a moment…’ She cocked her head on one side. ‘How odd,’ she said, her brow furrowing. ‘It looks like…a kangaroo…’
‘It isn’t a kangaroo,’ I said happily. ‘It’s a wallaby.’