by Hilary Boyd
She heard Neil sigh. ‘OK. But I’m worried about you.’
‘I’ve just got to sort this out.’
‘How will you do that from North London?’
‘Neil, please, can we talk about this another time? I really need a lift. I’ll get a taxi if you can’t do it. I know your mum’s staying.’
‘There in fifteen,’ he said.
She let out a sigh of relief. Terry, the village taxi driver, inhaled gossip as others did air, then blew it out again as soon as he had a captive audience. Word would get round soon enough, but she wasn’t going to help it along.
Connie hauled her case downstairs. Glancing into the sitting room, she saw Devan on the sofa. He looked as if he’d just keeled over sideways where he sat, his head resting uncomfortably half on, half off a cushion, his feet still on the floor. In sleep, his face was sunken, his skin grey. He looked as if he’d aged years since she’d last seen him, his mouth twitching as if he were having bad dreams. She gave a quiet gasp, her heart leaping in her chest, so full of love did she feel for the man who had been at the centre of her life since she was in her early twenties.
She tiptoed over to the sofa and laid her hand on his head, stroking his dark hair, tears spilling from her eyes. She wanted to gather him in her arms, to rock him till his pain was gone. But she was the cause of that pain.
Devan’s eyes sprang open. At first his glance was unfocused. Then he must have remembered. ‘Don’t,’ he said, cuffing her hand away as he shot upright, his stare thick with confusion.
Connie moved back, shocked at his unqualified rejection, although she knew she had no right to be. What did I expect?
‘Neil’s taking me to the station,’ she said.
Unlike Neil, Devan didn’t ask where she was going. He merely nodded, his gaze flickering to her case. Leaning back against the cushions, he pressed his palms briefly against his eyes, then dropped them to rest on his knees. ‘Jared’s gone.’
Connie stared. ‘How do you know?’
‘I sat outside his house for hours last night. Banged on the door. There’s no one there – you can tell. And his car’s gone.’ His smile was cynical, knowing. ‘I suppose you tipped him off.’
She didn’t bother to refute the accusation.
‘Cowardly little shit,’ Devan added.
Connie didn’t know what to say, except ‘Sorry’ for the umpteenth time. But she knew Devan was too hurt to hear. The unwelcome thought sprang to mind that she need never have confessed to her husband. Just telling Jared she intended to might have been enough to see him off. But she knew it wasn’t as simple as that.
Devan didn’t get up at the sound of Neil’s knock. ‘Bye,’ she said softly, reluctant to walk away from all that she held dear, but feeling she had no choice … for the time being, certainly. At least, she hoped it was for the time being. The thought that it might be permanent was unacceptable, too horrible even to contemplate.
26
When Connie woke the next morning in a strange hotel room and to the muted roar of traffic, she thought for a moment she was on one of her tours.
The room was the cheapest she could find, last minute – although not what she would have called cheap – in a Bayswater tourist hotel near Lancaster Gate. It looked as if it hadn’t been redecorated since the eighties, the walls covered with varnished pine planks, twin bracket lights with singed pink shades, a patterned carpet in sickly browns and beige, the duvet cover and sheet a washed-out flesh colour. Even in Connie’s distressed state, she’d shuddered as she got into bed the night before, smelling the flat, synthetic pillow with distaste and trying not to think of all the heads that had lain there before hers.
It was not yet daylight outside, the orange sodium glow piercing the thin cotton curtains coming not from the sun but from numerous city street lamps. She lay listening to the intermittent beep, beep, beep, beep of the pedestrian crossing immediately beneath her window, which had also lulled her to sleep. At least she had slept, so worn out by emotional turmoil that her brain had shut down and refused to function for another second.
Her phone said six fifteen. But clearly there were plenty of people already out and about, crossing the road outside with monotonous regularity. Now what? She was aware of the loo flushing in the next room, the banging of doors, the chatter of other hotel guests passing her door.
Connie was already regretting her decision to accept Tessa’s kind offer to stay – which she’d secured late last night. Being alone, having some time to gather her strewn thoughts, seemed all she was capable of right now. But she couldn’t stay here another night, and fancier places would have concomitant prices attached.
She was dreading her friend’s unspoken censure. Tessa was no prude, and she’d never known her to be judgemental, but she’d recently buried a beloved husband of thirty-plus years. Connie had thrown hers away with a piece of spectacular indulgence.
There was no message from Devan – she’d expected none. No further message from Caitlin – the last one saying, Just checking in, Mum. Nothing important. Speak soon. Connie knew she would have to call her today and her heart contracted.
Nothing from Jared either, although he never contacted her … until he was outside her bedroom door. She blanched at the thought that there was even the remotest chance he might be out there now. He’s gone, running scared, like Devan said, she told herself firmly, experiencing through her cautious relief a twinge of sadness, nonetheless, for a man who felt the need to behave in this peculiarly destructive way. She was confident there was no chance he could find her there, or at Tessa’s, anyway. Although she didn’t feel she could relax yet. Not until there was proof that the gremlin was finally off her shoulder.
The only message on her phone was from dear Neil: Ring me, darling. Need to know you’re OK. She texted back: I’m fine-ish. Thanks for asking♥
Connie found a little café on the corner of one of the streets leading away from Hyde Park. Perched on a high stool at the window counter, the seats beside her empty at that hour, she savoured her first sip of hot coffee and watched people hurrying past on their way to work. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten, but the seeded roll filled generously with thick slices of buttery bacon proved too much for her after the first bite.
Tessa was expecting her late morning. As she brought up the TfL map on her phone to plan her route to Hampstead, a call came in. Caty. Connie held her breath, glancing around the café, the mobile still buzzing in her palm. A small queue of people stood waiting to be served at the counter, but no one was paying her any attention, the café noisy with the coffee machine and breakfast radio, banter from the two women making up the orders.
‘Hi, sweetheart,’ she said dully.
‘Mum? Where are you? What’s going on?’ Caitlin sounded panicky, which made Connie feel guilty all over again. ‘I got this garbled call from Dad late last night, but I couldn’t work out what the hell he was on about … except that you’d apparently gone off somewhere.’ Her daughter gave a short laugh. ‘He was hammered, so I’m sure it’s all nonsense. But you know me, I hardly slept a wink.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Connie said, wishing that Devan had made sense, that Caitlin already knew, that she didn’t have to be the one to break the dreadful news.
‘Mum?’ Caitlin’s voice was suddenly fearful.
Taking a deep breath, Connie filled her daughter in, her calm articulacy surprising her. She thought she must come across almost as cold.
The silence at the other end was profound. Connie could picture her daughter’s face, shocked and disbelieving, unable to find any words with which to respond. But it was the wave preparing to break and she braced herself.
‘You … cheated on Dad?’ She sounded bemused. After a long pause she asked, ‘Who with?’
‘It’s a long story …’ Which Connie went on to tell in as sparse detail as possible.
‘Oh, my God.’ She heard Caitlin let out a sharp breath when she finished. There was a long pause
, then simply, ‘I don’t know what to say.’
Connie didn’t know what to say, either. She knew it would be a mistake to try to justify her behaviour in light of her problems with Devan at the time. And she could never explain the sexual obsession Jared had represented. Not to her daughter, not to Devan, not even to herself.
‘So, this man’s a nutter, a total fucking stalker,’ Caitlin was saying. ‘Christ, poor Dad. That’s so cruel.’ A pause.
Connie waited. The wave had still not vented its true fury.
‘Why didn’t you stop him, Mum?’ Caitlin demanded, her voice now steely. ‘Why did you let this bastard move in and make friends with Dad? That’s so fucking shitty.’
‘I tried, sweetheart. I really did. I did everything in my power to get him to leave.’
But Caitlin wasn’t listening. ‘You should have made him, Mum. What the hell were you thinking?’ She drew in an angry breath. ‘You could at least have warned Dad. Not let this jerk cosy up to him. I mean, who does that?’
‘I thought he’d go away.’
Connie heard Bash’s voice in the background, Caitlin tempering her anger as she greeted her son, then Ash’s concerned tones. Ash, too, she thought miserably.
‘Listen, I’ve got to go,’ Caitlin said. ‘Talk later.’
Connie sat clutching her silent phone, realizing her hand was shaking. Will we?
She felt in that moment that she’d forfeited any agency over her life. She was at everyone’s mercy, now. If Devan chose not to see her again, that was his prerogative. If Caitlin cut her out of her life, that was hers too. If Jared decided to find her and stalk her again, he could do that. And if Tessa didn’t fancy having her in the house, then she could ask her to leave. She could – and would at some stage, when she’d had time to think – put up a fight to save her marriage. But Connie liked to be in control. It was as if Jared had loosened the strings on her life. In giving in to him, she had temporarily lost her grip on everything else, including the person she felt she used to be.
Tessa’s house was in a quiet terrace a short walk down the hill from the tube station. Half brick, half white stucco, it had steps up to the front door and area steps down to a half basement. Connie, feeling like a refugee, hauled her case to the top of the flight and rang the bell. The street was almost empty mid-morning, eerily silent after the crowded busyness of the main road – just minutes away – with its numerous shops and cafés.
She hesitated before pressing the small brass bell, trying to settle herself to greet her friend. She felt as if her head was lying in a thousand pieces, but she didn’t want to appear crazy before she’d had a chance to explain. When she’d asked if she could stay, she’d merely said she needed a few days away. Beyond that, she couldn’t focus.
Nobody answered. She waited, then rang again. Nothing. Connie pulled out her phone. Tessa’s mobile went to answer. She frowned. It was cold on the steps, the winter sun now fallen behind the houses. Although she’d managed to keep herself together thus far, she knew she was on the edge, just dying to be safe inside Tessa’s house, maybe with a glass of wine, a hot bath, a bed on which she could rest for an hour or two. She felt tears stinging behind her eyes and blinked them away, imagining the neighbours tweaking the wooden slats of their blinds – the modern-day equivalent of nets – and wondering who this peculiar woman was, loitering outside Tessa’s front door with a suitcase and in tears.
On the verge of bumping her case back down to the pavement, and going to find a warm café to sit in until her friend returned, Connie heard a shout and saw Tessa hurrying along the street, clutching a bulging mustard-yellow string bag in one hand and balancing a white cardboard cake box in the other. She was dressed in jumper and jeans, a red wool scarf round her neck – no coat – and sparkly silver sandals on her feet. Her right toe was swathed in a bulky bandage.
‘Connie!’ She arrived at the bottom of the steps pink-faced and breathless. ‘Sorry, sorry! I just popped out for some lunch and the queue was horrendous.’ She handed Connie the cake box and pulled out a huge bunch of keys, with a fluffy ball attached, from her back pocket. ‘You must be frozen to death.’
As soon as the front door was shut, Connie let out a quiet sigh of relief. Tessa took the box from her. ‘Come through, have a seat. Leave your case – I’ll show you your room in a minute.’
The kitchen-sitting room was to the left of the front door, the sitting area on the street side, with a large, worn olive-green velvet sofa, a wall-mounted television and books floor to ceiling on either side of a gas-log fire. The kitchen was at the back, looking onto the garden. It was cosy and cluttered and the decor hadn’t been updated for years. Connie instantly felt at home.
Plonking her purchases on the kitchen table, Tessa came back to where Connie was standing and wrapped her in a welcoming hug. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Con,’ she said. ‘You have no idea. I think sometimes I’m going crazy, all by myself.’ She laughed and gave Connie a rueful smile. ‘You know me. I never was one to relish my own company.’
Connie laughed. ‘Me neither.’ She searched Tessa’s face, noticing the strain around her eyes, the look of vague distraction – as if she were not really present – that she’d seen in other recently bereaved friends.
Tessa was about her own height, with dark hair – now streaked becomingly with grey – in an untidy bob tucked behind her ears, the fringe brushing her large blue-grey eyes. Where Connie had small breasts, Tessa’s were full, her figure straight-backed and athletic – she was a lifelong jogger. But it was her open smile and extrovert charm that drew the eye. You always knew when Tessa was in the room.
By contrast, Martin, a financial journalist of some note, had been quiet, wary and thin. He had long since stopped bothering to be sociable, Tessa carrying the day for them both. She and Connie had been best friends at school, managing to keep up their close friendship for a while, until geography, husbands and children took their inevitable toll. But when they did get together, even after long periods with little contact, nothing seemed to have changed between them.
Overcome and feeling close to tears again, Connie said quickly, ‘What have you done to your toe?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just caught it on the edge of the bed, stumbling around in the night.’ She gave a half-smile. ‘I’ve been at such sixes and sevens since Martin died. Bashed up the car – nothing major, but still – locked myself out at midnight, forgot one of my sessions at the bank …’ Tessa was a performance coach, employed by one of the big banks, having trained as an actress and worked in television for a while. ‘I suppose it’s inevitable.’
Connie felt so selfish. Here she was, feeling sorry for herself, when Tessa was dealing with a life-changing bereavement. She mentally shook herself and gave her friend another hug.
‘Right, wine, I think.’ Tessa grinned. ‘And I got one of these delicious caramelized onion tarts for lunch. That deli will be the ruin of me.’
They poured the wine, cut slices of tart, spooned creamy celeriac remoulade onto plates, then settled down to talk, initially relating the bare bones of their last few months. In Tessa’s case, Martin dropping dead one quiet Sunday afternoon in spring from a so-called ‘widow-maker’ heart attack – a huge blockage in the left coronary artery. Connie had heard versions of the story from people at the funeral, but she’d not been able to talk properly to Tessa that day and hear the real account.
‘No warning, Con. We were sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, having our usual rant about the ludicrous bollocks we were reading in the Sundays, when he stood up and sort of gasped, fell back onto the sofa …’ Connie saw the shock still patent in Tessa’s eyes. ‘I tried CPR – I’ve done the bloody classes for my job – but it didn’t work. He never came round.’ She sighed. ‘I always told him the Sunday papers were bad for his health.’
When it was Connie’s turn to speak, she was brief, almost making light of her dilemma. It seemed so self-indulgent. But Tessa immediately saw through her restraint. ‘W
hat the hell are you going to do?’
Connie shrugged. The wine and Tessa’s sympathetic ear had loosened her grip and she felt herself giving way to self-pity.
Before she could compose herself, Tessa said, ‘Devan will get over it. He adores you. A single mistake in a marriage as long as yours shouldn’t be a deal-breaker.’
‘You think?’ Connie was surprised at her friend’s reaction. She’d expected more shock and disapproval.
‘Christ, Con, we’re only human. Cheating is never great, obviously, but it’s hardly your fault the person you did it with turned out to be a bloody stalker.’ She looked at her intently. ‘He’s totally out of the picture now, right?’
‘Totally. Anyway, he’d never find me here.’
Tessa raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re sure about that?’
She nodded firmly, although she wasn’t as sure as she was making out. On the way up to Hampstead earlier, she’d found herself scanning the tube carriage, the platforms, the pavement, just in case. Dinah, she knew, lived in Highgate, just the other side of the Heath.
There was silence as Tessa leaned back in her chair, wine glass clutched in both hands. ‘Give Devan a bit of time to calm down … to miss you. Then talk it through.’
It sounded so rational, so simple. But Tessa hadn’t witnessed Devan’s rage, his humiliation at Jared’s hand.
‘You can stay here as long as you like, Connie. I’m off up to Edinburgh on the fifteenth, having a few weeks with the family … which I’m really looking forward to. But you can be here while I’m gone.’ She frowned. ‘Although Christmas holed up all on your lonesome doesn’t sound like much of a plan.’
‘I’ll see how things go, if that’s OK? It’s so kind of you, taking me in like this, Tess.’