by S. J. Watson
She’s quiet for a moment; I imagine her shaking herself awake. ‘Sorry. What names are they?’
I read the first couple out. ‘Do any of them sound familiar? Did she mention any of them to you?’
‘No—’
I carry on reading. After a few more names she stops me. She’s wide awake now.
‘Wait. Did you say “Ourcq”? That’s not a username. It’s a Métro station.’
I know what she’s going to say.
‘It’s near where they found her body.’
‘So that’s what she was doing there? Meeting someone off this list?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says. But already I’m feeling a curious surge of energy. ‘But I guess it’s possible.’
I end the call. I look again at the list of usernames in her Filofax. It’s as if I’ve found a weak spot in the wall of my grief, something that might lead me first in and then through, on to the other side. To peace.
I wake my laptop. I type quickly: encountrz.com. I tell myself I just want to have a look. I can’t do any harm. I’m about to press enter when I hear a noise. A cough, then a voice.
‘Darling?’ It’s Hugh. ‘It’s half five in the morning. What on earth are you doing?’
I close the browser window and turn to face him. He’s wearing his gown, tied around his waist, and yawns as he rubs his eyes. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Again? What’s wrong?’
‘I just keep thinking the police must’ve missed something.’
He sighs. I say the same thing to him every single day.
‘I think they’re being incredibly thorough.’ He comes over and sits next to me. I know he can see what’s on my screen.
‘If I hear anything new I always tell you straight away. You know that.’
‘Yes. But do you think they’re still investigating what happened?’
‘I’m sure they’re doing everything—’ he began, but I interrupted him.
‘I mean, really investigating it?’
He smiles. It’s his sad smile, full of compassion. His surgeon’s smile. I used to imagine him practising it in the mirror, determined not to be one of those doctors accused of having a poor bedside manner.
‘I’m sure they are. We’ve discussed it with them. They’ve interviewed all her friends, all the people she worked with. They’ve been through her phone records, they’ve taken the information off her computer. They’ve followed up every lead. But something like that? It can’t be easy. Random, unprovoked . . .’
‘You told them about the dating sites?’
‘Yes. I rang them as soon as you told me. But they already knew. Anna told them. They said Kate didn’t have a boyfriend . . .’
‘But they’re not just about dating. Anna implied she was using them for sex. Casual sex.’ He shakes his head but I go on. ‘You know. One-night stands. Anna says it wasn’t that often, but she did it. And she didn’t always tell her where she was going, or who she was meeting.’
A look of disapproval flashes on his face. I wonder for a moment whether he thinks she deserves what she got, and then instantly I dismiss the thought.
‘D’you think that’s who killed her?’
‘Who?’
‘Someone she went to meet. To have sex with, I mean. Or someone she was messaging, at least?’
‘I’m sure the police are looking into that—’
‘They haven’t told us they are.’
‘Look, we’ve been through all this, Julia. They’re looking into it. The truth is, I think she talked to a lot of people online but only met up with one or two.’
I hesitate. I need to push him; I’m almost certain he knows more than he’s telling me, that there might be a tiny fragment that’s been overlooked, a detail that will unlock the rest and make it all fit into place.
‘But—’
He interrupts me. ‘Julia, we’ve been through all this a thousand times. They’ve kept her laptop; they’re doing everything they can. But if she was doing that and keeping it secret then it would be almost impossible to find everyone she might have been in contact with. There might be sites she used that we don’t know about, any number of people she was talking to . . . What’s that?’
At first I don’t know what he means, but then I see that he’s looking at my screen.
‘It’s a photograph.’ He isn’t wearing his glasses and has to lean forward to get a better view. ‘It’s where Kate died.’
He puts his hand on my shoulder. It feels heavy, meant to reassure. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea to look at that, darling?’
‘No,’ I say. I’m not desperate, but I’d like him to approve.
But why would he? He thinks the police are doing their best and that’s the end of it.
‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea at all, but what else am I supposed to do?’
‘Come back to bed?’
‘Soon . . .’
‘Come on.’ He squeezes my shoulder then gently closes the lid of my machine. ‘Come and get some rest. You’ll feel better. I promise. Doctor’s orders.’
I stand up. I won’t feel better, I want to say, I never do. He turns to go back upstairs.
‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ I say. ‘I’m just going to make myself a cup of tea. I might read for a bit. Until I feel sleepy.’
‘Okay,’ he says. He knows I have no intention of following him. ‘You haven’t forgotten we’ve got people coming for supper? Have you?’
‘No,’ I say, even though I had.
‘Maria and Paddy . . .’
Of course. We’ve known the Renoufs for years, ever since Maria joined Hugh’s department as a registrar. Hugh tipped her for success even then, said she was going places, was someone he mustn’t let go. I like them both, but this is the first time he’s invited them – invited anyone, in fact – since Kate died. I suppose he thought cooking would do me good. Maybe he’s right. Following a recipe. Chopping, weighing, measuring. I used to enjoy it, before Kate. I went on courses, I was proud of the fact that I’d gone from someone who knew nothing about cooking to someone who could make their own pasta.
But, now? Now, I don’t want to see anyone.
‘Can’t we cancel?’
He comes over. ‘Darling. It’ll do you good, I promise.’ He kisses the top of my head. It’s a tender kiss, warm. For a moment I want to climb inside him, have him protect me. ‘We’ll have fun. We always do. Maria will talk endlessly about work and Paddy will flirt with you, and then when they’ve gone we’ll laugh about it. I promise.’
He’s right. I know he is. I can’t keep running.
‘I’ll go shopping this morning,’ I say.
He goes back upstairs. I sit in the chair. I leave my machine closed. I don’t want to log on to encountrz. I’m afraid of what I might see.
I make tea, I sit with my book. An hour passes, two. Hugh comes downstairs, showered now, ready for work, then a little while later, Connor.
‘Hi, Mum,’ he says. He’s dressed, wearing his uniform, the grey jumper, the white shirt with a maroon tie. I watch as he gets himself a bowl of cereal, pours himself some juice. He’s looking older every day, I think.
‘Are you all right, darling?’ I say, and he replies, ‘Yep,’ with a friendly shrug, as if there’s no reason at all he might not be.
Maybe he really is fine, but I doubt it. He’s stopped crying now, but if anything that’s more worrying. The only time he ever talks about Kate’s death is to ask if there’s ‘any news’, by which he means, ‘Have they got them yet?’ I’d felt angry at first – it’s all he can focus on – but now I see that it’s the only prism through which he can process his grief. After all, he’s just turned fourteen. How else is he supposed to respond?
He sits down with his breakfast and I watch as he begins to eat.
The counsellor we’ve taken him to says all this is normal. He’s doing as well as can be expected, working through his grief in his own way, and we should try not to worry. But how can I not? He won’t talk to me. He’s slipping away. Now, I need him to know how much I love him, that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him, but it’s almost as if he’s decided he no longer cares.
I clear my throat. ‘It’s okay, if you want to talk.’
‘I’m fine.’ He eats his cereal quickly as I make myself a coffee. For a moment I’m back with Kate, it’s her getting ready for school, not her son, but then a moment later Connor is standing, gathering his things. Don’t go, I want to say. Sit with me. Talk to me. But of course I can’t. ‘See you later!’ I say, and before I know it he’s almost out of the door. From nowhere comes an almost overwhelming urge to hug him.
I would have done, once, yet now I don’t. These days he’s as likely as not to respond to a hug with indifference, as if what I’m doing is of no concern to him, and today I couldn’t bear that. ‘Love you!’ I shout instead, and he says, ‘Bye, Mum!’ as he leaves. It’s almost enough.
He’s growing up. I know that. He’s becoming a man; it would be a tough time even if he didn’t have Kate’s death to wrestle with. I have to remember that, no matter what happens, how hard it gets, how distant he becomes, he’s in pain. I might feel like I’ve already failed him a million times but still I have to look after him, to protect him, like I looked after and protected his mother when she was a child.
I turn away from the window. I’m photographing a family next week – a colleague of Adrienne’s, her husband, her two little girls – and I need to think about that. It’s the first time I’ve felt able to work since Kate died and I want it to go well. Plus, I have a dinner party to prepare. Things must get done.
Chapter Seven
I call Adrienne to get her friend’s details. I want to make arrangements. I have my studio at the bottom of the garden in which I keep my tripods and lights, a couple of backdrops I can suspend from the ceiling. I have a desk there, though usually I do my editing on my laptop in the house, at the kitchen table, or in the living room. ‘It would be good if they could come to me,’ I say. ‘It’ll make it easier.’
She can hear the lack of enthusiasm in my voice.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘You can tell.’
‘Of course. Talk to me.’
I don’t want to, but I can’t work out why. Is it because I’m worried she’ll just tell me to leave things alone, to stop meddling, to stop worrying?
‘I looked through Kate’s things. The stuff Anna gave to me.’
‘Darling—’
‘I found her login details. For the website she was using.’
‘For what?’
‘Meeting men. There was a list of names. Of people she was talking to – or meeting, I guess.’
‘Have you given them to the police?’
‘Hugh said they already had them.’
‘Good. Then there’s nothing more you can do.’
But there is, though.
‘I could log on. As her, I mean. I have her password. I could find out if there was anyone else.’
For a long time she’s silent.
‘Adrienne?’
‘Wouldn’t the police have done that?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they don’t realize what encountrz.com is? Or that Jasper1234 is her password? I thought I could go online and just look at her chat history. See if there are any other names on there.’
‘I don’t know . . . it sounds risky.’
Her reservation strengthens my resolve.
‘I’m just talking about getting a list of names.’
There’s a long pause, as if she’s trying to weigh something up. The wisdom of me having something to do, perhaps, versus the chance, the likelihood, it will just lead to more disappointment.
After all, she’s right. In all probability the police have done all this already.
‘I suppose it can’t hurt,’ she says. ‘As long as you’re only talking about getting the list. But why not double-check with them first?’
Suddenly I’m not sure it’s a good idea at all. A list of names. What would the police even do with it?
‘I probably won’t even bother.’
She sighs. ‘Just be careful, Julia. Whatever you do. And keep in touch.’
I spend the afternoon shopping, cooking. For a while I lose myself in the rhythm of the recipe. Just for a moment. But the evening gets off to a bad start. Connor announces that he’s doing homework and wants to eat in his room, which means that Hugh and I bicker about whether we should let him. Tensions fester, and things don’t pick up until our guests arrive.
After that the evening follows its usual pattern, yet the atmosphere is undeniably different. Kate’s death casts its now-familiar shadow – Paddy mentions it almost as soon as they arrive, and they both say how sorry they are – but it’s more than that. I’m detached, I can’t engage. They talk a lot about Geneva, where Hugh’s been invited to deliver a keynote speech at a conference next week. Maria’s going to present her work, too, and even though I’ve been there I don’t contribute. I feel outside of it all, observing from a great distance. I watch as Hugh pours wine and nod as they all sip it appreciatively, I eat the beef Wellington I’ve cooked and accept their compliments graciously, but it’s an act, I’m pretending to be a normal person. It’s not me.
When we’ve finished Paddy says he’d like to pop outside for a cigarette. ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ I say.
‘Filthy habit,’ he says, ‘but . . .’ He shrugs his shoulders. I tell him we’re happy for him to smoke in the house near one of the open windows but Maria protests.
‘No way! Make him go outside!’
He pretends to be upset, but it’s good-natured, humorous. He takes his cigarettes out of his jacket and looks at me. ‘Keep me company?’
I say I will. Hugh looks at me but says nothing. We go outside, closing the patio door behind us. It’s almost dark, still warm. We sit on the wall, at the edge of the pool of light that shines from the kitchen; behind us sits my studio. He holds a cigarette out to me. ‘You don’t, do you?’
I take it. ‘Very occasional
ly,’ I say. He lights his cigarette and hands me the lighter. I inhale deeply, feeling the draw of the smoke, the instant hit. We sit in silence for a moment, then he asks me how I’m coping.
‘Really, I mean.’
I swallow hard. ‘It’s tough. You know . . .’
‘I do. My brother died. Years ago. Cancer. He was older than me . . .’
‘Oh, God,’ I say. ‘I had no idea.’
‘No reason you should.’ There’s silence. A beat. ‘The end wasn’t unexpected, but it was still awful. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.’
We sit for a few moments.
‘How’s Connor?’ he says.
I sigh. There’s nothing to say, yet still I’m glad he’s bothered to ask. ‘He’s all right, I think. He’s not really talked about it. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, though . . .’
‘He will, I guess. When he’s ready.’
‘I suppose so. I just wish I knew what he was thinking. What was going on in his mind. He spends hours in his room, though that’s nothing new, I suppose. It’s as if he’s avoiding me.’
‘He’s at that age, I suppose. Plus, he’s a boy.’
I look at him, at his profile, silhouetted against the light in the house. Is it as simple as that? I lost my mother when I was young; I have no idea what’s normal. Maybe he’s right, it’s just the fact that he’s a boy, and I’m a woman, and that’s why he’s slipping away from me. I find the thought curiously reassuring. Maybe it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m not his birth mother.
‘Have you and Maria ever thought about children?’
He looks over at his wife, visible in the kitchen, helping my husband to prepare the dessert. Connor has joined them, they’re laughing at something.
‘Not really,’ says Paddy, looking back to me. ‘Maria’s career . . . you know? And I’m not that bothered. I’m from a big family. We have a lot of nieces and nephews . . .’