Am I Guilty

by Jackie Kabler

  It had done me good to get out of the house too, I thought, as I moved a precariously balanced bowl of melted ice cream away from the edge of the table, smiling as I heard a roar of laughter followed by cheers and loud applause down the hallway, and a brief blast of the Doctor Who theme music. Both Greg and Oliver were continuing to worry me, anxiety nibbling away at the edges of my mind, and being here, having a laugh with Flora, had done wonders for my mood, especially after what had happened this morning.

  I’d been alone in the house, Flora out for her run, Greg having taken the kids for a bike ride. Sorting through some plans for upcoming events, getting organized for the next few days, I’d wandered into the spare room where I’d left a box of party poppers and streamers, when a sudden movement at the window caught my eye. I moved closer to take a look, realizing with increasing distaste that something – or several somethings – were wriggling on the windowsill. Ants? Beetles of some sort? Ugh. Not good with creepy-crawlies, I shuddered, keeping my distance, peering at the sill, trying to identify the creatures, their stocky bodies dark grey, familiar. They looked like … but what on earth?

  I moved closer, curiosity replacing my nervousness now, and then my breath caught in my throat. Moving clumsily on the white painted wood were half a dozen or so flies. But flies in name only; flies walking with an ungainly gait, flies with their wings entirely missing, or just filmy remnants where their instruments of flight should be, useless wisps of membranous tissue, translucent in the morning light, the multiple amputations rendering the insects earthbound, helpless. My stomach churned, and I backed slowly out of the room, thinking only one thing. Oliver.

  When I had told Flora about it, on the drive to the party, she’d gasped and then remained silent for several moments, a heavy frown creasing her smooth brow.

  ‘That’s … well, that’s horrible,’ she’d said, finally. ‘It’s kind of sick. But, look, I’m not trying to normalize it or anything, but I’ve definitely heard of kids doing that kind of thing before. It’s not that unusual, I think, particularly in boys. Experimenting, trying to see how things work. Maybe he wondered what would happen, if they could carry on functioning, eating and so on, if they couldn’t fly?’

  ‘But it’s so cruel!’ I said, slightly horrified that she could be so rational about it. ‘Those poor little things, wandering around looking all lost. It’s horrible! I can’t stop thinking about them. It made me feel sick to my stomach. It’s not normal, Flora. What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘It is pretty unpleasant,’ she admitted. ‘But assuming it was Olly – and I’m sure you’re right, because it certainly wasn’t me, and I can’t see Millie or Sienna doing something like that … well, maybe it’s a good thing? That he’s channelling his anger away from Sienna to something else? I think that last little outburst when they were watching Frozen shocked even him.’

  I’d thought about that for a minute.

  ‘I suppose so. Maybe. But still … pulling the wings off flies? Isn’t that an early sign of being a psychopath or a sociopath or something? Honestly, Flora, this has totally freaked me out. I’m going to have to talk to him. And goodness knows what Greg is going to say.’

  She’d laughed then, and patted me on the arm.

  ‘Annabelle, Olly is not a psychopath. He’s an almost-teenage boy, it’s a phase. It’ll pass.’

  I smiled too, but felt only slightly reassured.

  Now, a few hours later, I was still thinking about it, but a little less obsessively. Maybe Flora was right, and my son was just going through an angry, destructive phase. It was only occasional after all, not a daily occurrence. It would be fine, of course it would. Gosh, kids. Who’d have them, eh?

  ‘Cup of tea? I boiled the kettle a few minutes ago, thought you might be about ready for one?’

  Flora was back. I nodded.

  ‘That would be lovely. Thanks, Flora.’

  She flicked the switch to bring the kettle back to the boil, found two mugs and teabags and made the drinks, then sat down opposite me with a sigh.

  ‘Nightmare, these parties, but I’d have loved it as a kid. I never had a party, you know. Not ever, the whole time I was growing up.’

  I swallowed a mouthful of tea and looked at her, surprised.

  ‘What, never? That’s awful, Flora. How come?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘My parents were … well, always busy. Work, you know. Dad was away a lot and … well, it just never happened. Although I didn’t really have many friends anyway, so I’m not sure who would have come, even if I had had a party.’

  She laughed, but there was a sudden stiffness in her body, her eyes downcast, staring into her mug.

  ‘Flora, I … but you’re so lovely, so bubbly. Why didn’t you have friends?’

  She continued staring down at her mug, and I cringed inwardly. I shouldn’t have asked, should I? But it had been her who’d brought it up, after all …

  ‘Oh, I was just shy at school, didn’t really fit in.’

  She looked up at me, a more normal expression on her face now, thank goodness.

  ‘Some kids just take a while to sort of, well, grow into themselves, don’t they? That was me. Once I got to uni I found it much easier to make friends, to find people with the same sort of interests. I didn’t keep in touch with many afterwards, but while I was there it was good. I sort of like my own space, you know? Not everyone needs lots of people round them all the time, and I suppose I’m one of those people. It helped me feel less odd, studying psychology – helped me understand myself a bit more, understand other people too. Sorry, I did English and Psychology, at Northampton.’ She paused. ‘Oh … duh. You know that already, don’t you? You’ve seen my CV.’

  I smiled.

  ‘I have, and very impressive it is too. You got a first. Must have been really interesting. The psychology bit, especially. I’m surprised you didn’t go into it as a career.’

  ‘I thought about it. I just got a few casual jobs after uni, trying to decide what to do longterm. But then I saw an ad for the agency that recruited me for Thea’s and it all sounded quite exciting, working for an Internet fashion business, and well … the rest is history. But it was incredibly interesting, the psychology. Fascinating, actually. Learning how to analyse and understand human behaviour, how the mind works, how our emotions and thoughts can be shaped by other people as well as by ourselves … I loved it.’

  She looked relaxed again now, her eyes shining.

  ‘I can tell. Probably why you’re so good with my troublesome kids. Pity I didn’t do psychology too, might have helped. Especially recently.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Oh, you do all right, Annabelle. They adore you, I wouldn’t worry. I wish my mum had been like you. We were never close, you know? I’ve probably talked more to you in the past few months than I did in eighteen years with my mum …’

  Her voice tailed off and the sadness was back, the passion fading from her eyes. Pushing my tea aside, I reached out a hand and touched her arm.

  ‘I’m so sorry about that. Do you see your parents often, speak to them?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘The odd phone call. I visit maybe once a year. It’s enough.’

  My hand was still on her arm, and I ran it gently down to her fingers, grasping them lightly.

  ‘Well, you know you can always talk to me, Flora, OK? You’re fantastic, and just like part of the family already, and I hope we can continue to work together for a long time. I’d like us to be friends too … well, not that we’re not friendly now, but, well, you know what I mean …’

  She squeezed my hand, and the corners of her mouth turned upwards, ever so slightly.

  ‘I do. I’d like that. You’re so kind, Annabelle. I know I can be a bit … well, unsociable sometimes. I like my own space. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to be friends though, I … oh, damn it, who’s that?’

  In her pocket, her mobile had started beeping. She pulled her hand gently from mine a
nd retrieved the phone, frowning at the screen.

  ‘It’s a text. Oh … it’s … it’s … from Thea.’

  Her face had turned pale.

  ‘Thea? Gosh. What does she want?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  She scrolled down the screen, her body very still, only eyes and thumb moving. Then she looked up at me, eyes wide, an expression I couldn’t read on her face.

  ‘She says she’s starting to remember things. Things about the day Zander died, and she says they don’t really make sense. She wants to talk to me, see if I can help her straighten a few things out in her mind …’

  She looked down at the phone again, and now I could see that her hands were shaking, her face even more drained of colour.

  ‘Straighten things out?’ I said. ‘But everyone knows what happened. Even she does. I mean, I know she’s supposed to have had some sort of memory loss since it happened, if what I’ve heard is true, but even so. Are you OK, Flora? Look, you don’t have to talk to her if you don’t want to, it’s not your responsibility, you know that, don’t you? She’s not being fair … it’s not fair on you, raking this all up again, just as you’re trying to get over it …’

  Flora dropped her phone onto the table, shaking her head. She inhaled sharply, then let the breath out again, and looked at me.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’m fine, Annabelle. She’s asked if we can meet up. I’ll do it. I’ll go and see what she wants. I’ll go and see her one more time. I was there, I was part of what happened. I owe her that, at least. I’ll go. And then I’ll never have to see her again.’

  23

  FLORA

  I first slept with Rupert Ashfield last April. I’d never told anyone about it, not a single person – it wasn’t something I was proud of. It was only a few weeks after that evening when he came to talk to me in my little snug, the cosy room off the kitchen at the house on Montpellier Terrace – the evening when I first realized, with a jolt, that I found him attractive.

  In the days that followed that – that awakening, of sorts, I suppose you could call it – my stomach would flutter every time I heard the front door open, signalling Rupert’s arrival home from work. When we were in the same room, I was suddenly hyper-aware of his every movement, my eyes following him as he walked across to pick a book from a shelf or to close the curtains.

  It was pathetic, and embarrassing – I felt like a teenager with her first crush – but at the same time it was a rush, that feeling that all of a sudden I was somehow more alive than I had been for months, my senses on high alert.

  There was guilt, too, though – this was Thea’s husband after all. Thea, my boss, and now my friend too. How could I do this, how could I yearn for Rupert, when he belonged to her? It was wrong, really wrong. Still, though, somehow I convinced myself that it wasn’t my fault. It was Rupert who had first come to seek me out, come to talk to me, after all – Rupert who had touched my cheek and looked into my eyes that evening in the snug, and started these unexpected stirrings inside me. Rupert, who in the weeks since, had brushed against me ‘accidentally’ in the hallway, his hand lingering on my waist as he passed; who let his fingers graze mine when he passed the pepper mill at dinner; who sometimes gazed at me so intently across a room that I would start to become tongue-tied, stumbling over my words as I tried to update Thea on an order, making her laugh, oblivious to what was causing my discomfort. The covert flirting, which I suppose was the best way to describe it, continued until midApril, and then the inevitable happened.

  It was a Saturday night, and Isla and Thea had gone out, first for dinner and then on to late-night drinks at a trendy bar opposite Montpellier Gardens. They’d asked me to go with them, saying Rupert was happy to babysit, but I’d declined, feigning tiredness and saying I fancied a few hours in front of the telly and an early night.

  It had, in fairness, been a long week, but deep down I think I knew that if anything was going to happen between me and Rupert, it would be that night. We would be alone in the house – well, alone apart from two (hopefully) sleeping children – for hours.

  Even so, my feelings of guilt kept me upstairs in my room until after nine o’clock. I couldn’t just saunter down there and into the living room and seduce him, could I? If anything was going to happen between us, it would have to be him making the first move.

  I soaked in the bath for ages, trying to relax, to quell the butterflies, then rubbed in some of my favourite body butter, slipped into a soft cashmere sweater and leggings, added a touch of mascara and lip gloss then went downstairs, outwardly casual, inwardly quivering. The lounge door was open, and as I walked past, heading towards the kitchen, I saw Rupert standing by the window, beer bottle in hand, staring out into the dark night through the open curtains.

  ‘Flora!’

  I turned, and he was already out in the hallway, smiling at me.

  ‘I thought you were hiding from me. Drink?’ His voice was warm, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners, the faint musky smell of his aftershave sending sudden little shivers of anticipation through me.

  ‘A drink would be nice, yes. Thanks.’

  ‘There’s red wine open in the kitchen. I’ll get it for you, hang on.’

  He put his beer bottle down on the hall table and stepped towards me. I moved slightly to let him pass, but somehow in the wrong direction, and suddenly we were just inches apart, chest to chest, and I could feel his breath on my cheek, his arm slipping round my waist, pulling me in, and then his lips were on mine, soft and urgent, and I was lost.

  Somehow, ripping clothes off as we went, we moved back into the lounge, Rupert flicking off the light switch as we passed it, the lamppost outside spilling its soft orange glow through the tall windows, illuminating our naked bodies. And then it was done, and we lay there, panting, staring into each other’s eyes, both of us slightly shell-shocked.

  ‘Shit, Rupert,’ I remembered saying.

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I know.’

  We didn’t really need to say anymore than that. It was wrong, and stupid, and shameful, and yet we kept doing it. Whenever Thea was out, and we were alone in the house, or at least when Nell and Zander were asleep, we would seek each other out. In my room, in the snug, even in the garden shed one warm night in July, giggling like children, trying to avoid the spiders’ webs and almost choking with suppressed laughter when Rupert ended up with one foot in a bag of compost.

  For a while, I kidded myself that this could work. That, although it would be horrible and difficult and unpleasant, Rupert might one day leave Thea. I started to believe that this man could bring me the stability and love that had so far eluded me. It’s awful, isn’t it, what lust can do to you? How it can make you do things you never thought yourself capable of, how it can turn you into a deceitful, lying, cheating bitch. And into an idiot too. What an idiot I was. When Isla told me about Mia, over that Chinese takeaway on that August night, I nearly fainted. The shock made me breathless, dizzy.

  He’s been shagging one of his colleagues on and off for a while. Her name’s Mia. Sexy little blonde, or so he says!

  Still feeling sick and shaky the next day when Rupert had returned from his business trip, I’d pulled him aside and told him it was over. His eyes had widened in surprise, full of questions, but I hadn’t explained, and after that I simply refused to talk to him, other than basic polite conversation when Thea was around.

  He’d tried, once or twice, to corner me, to ‘talk about it’, but I always wriggled away, and eventually he gave up. I was angry, for a while, and then the rage subsided, simmered and vanished, leaving only a feeling of emptiness. It would never have worked, would it? And he was Thea’s, after all. It was what I deserved.

  Thea. It was her I was on my way to see now, this Monday afternoon, a day off after yesterday and the chaos of the Doctor Who party. Her text had stirred everything up again, brought back all the old feelings I’d had about what had happened with Rupert, and I walked slowly, reluctantly from the bus stop
on Cheltenham’s Promenade, passing the Queens Hotel and cutting across Montpellier Gardens, heading for the Terrace and Thea’s, my feet dragging.

  It was a beautiful day, cold and bright, joggers pounding past, dogs bounding across the grass, and I remembered summer days here, throwing a ball to a laughing Nell, Zander gurgling in his pram, fat little fists pumping the air.

  I didn’t want to see Thea today, didn’t want to go back there, to that house, the house with so many memories. But when she’d sent the text yesterday, asking me if I would, how could I say no? I owed it to her, didn’t I? I’d slept with her husband. I’d betrayed her trust. I owed her this, at least.

  I passed through the pedestrian gates at the edge of the park and waited to cross the road, wondering if Nell would be coming home from school later, or if tonight was a Rupert night. I missed her. We’d been … well, it sounded odd to say we’d been friends, were friends, considering the massive age difference, but it was true. We were a little team, me and Nell. Pals, keepers of each other’s silly little secrets, and I still felt protective over her.

  I’d seen her on Saturday evening, of course, when she’d been sleeping over at Annabelle’s with Millie, and we’d found time for a chat, just the two of us, after Nell had had a bath and Millie had gone off to have hers. She’d told me about her visit to a therapist, a woman called Karen something, a visit her parents had insisted on, and how she was feeling better now, about Zander. How this woman had told her she must stop worrying that she could have done something to save her little brother, how it’s the parents’ responsibility to keep a child safe, how she must let it go now, put her feelings about it into a little red balloon, let the balloon go, watch it float away up into the clouds.