‘I’m Harry. I’m a friend of Madeleine’s …’
He smiles and holds her eye for a moment before moving his attention to their surroundings. There are no cameras, no other people around besides whomever it was inside the café who cooked and served the food.
‘Can I get you something?’ Gabriela asks, noting his eyes move to the discarded plates. ‘The kids were hungry.’
‘I’m fine,’ he says, looking towards the playground, where the man has turned to watch them. ‘Is that Tom?’ Gabriela nods, looking away. Harry raises a hand in acknowledgement.
‘And this is your car?’ He peers in through the glass. They’ve travelled relatively lightly, given the number of children. ‘Do you want me to help transfer those bags into here?’
Tom approaches and Harry greets him, holding out his hand.Tom ignores it, so Harry addresses the children, who follow at a distance, crouching to meet their eyes. ‘You must be Sadie and Callum?’
The girl says nothing but her focus doesn’t shift from his face. Callum nods, moving closer towards his older sister.
‘It’s good to meet you,’ Harry says gently before returning his attention to Gabriela. Tom doesn’t seem interested in conversation and frankly Harry can’t blame him.
‘Do you need a hand with the car seats?’
‘No,’ she replies. Tom is standing away from the vehicle, physically shielding his children. Gabriela moves methodically, aware of the baby pressed up against her chest as she lifts out one of the seats, Harry stepping in to assist her without saying a word.
Once the transferral is complete, he walks over and hands Gabriela the keys to the people carrier.
‘Do you have the keys for the Volvo?’ Gabriela nods towards Tom.
‘He has them.’
‘Pal, do you think I could grab the keys off you? I need to take your car …’ Harry says.
As Tom’s eyes meet his, he sees that what he had previously taken for contempt is actually fear or shock or, more likely, both. Tom hands him the keys and moves away again, and as Harry looks down he sees the key ring: an image of the four of them, encased in cheap plastic – Tom, Gabriela, Sadie and Callum, posing in a garden.
‘Do you want me to take them off the chain?’ he asks quietly. Tom calls back over his shoulder.
‘You can keep it.’
It takes less than an hour for Harry to deposit the car at the edge of a nearby field, ready for collection by whomever will be sent to deal with it, before returning to the car park. Gabriela seems relieved to see him again, gathering the children into the VW Touran, Sadie in the far back seat, Callum and Layla strapped into the middle row.
After a moment’s pause, she indicates for Harry to go in the front passenger seat beside Tom, before climbing between her youngest children.
‘What do you think of the new car?’ she says to Sadie in a staged effort at normality once the engine starts. The child’s answer, if there is one, is lost in the sound of the wipers reverberating against the windscreen.
It has stopped raining, the sky settling in an oppressive grey mist.
‘There’s a button just there, to turn them off,’ Harry says to Tom, leaning over to point it out, but Tom doesn’t react, his expression fixed on the road ahead of him. Harry wishes he had suggested he continue to drive. What is he thinking? He tries to imagine and for a second he pictures Tom veering towards the barrier. That’s all it would take, one tiny shift of the steering wheel and they would all be dead.
‘This is our turning,’ Harry says quickly, overriding his own thoughts.
Tom takes the exit and Harry exhales silently. Christ, he can’t wait for this job to be over. He hates everything about it.
But it won’t be for long, he reminds himself. Just as soon as they touch down in France, Harry’s work here will be done.
‘I’m your brother, if anyone asks,’ Harry explains as they take their queue for the ferry. ‘This envelope has your passports inside. I’ll need your old ones …’
‘Why do you need them?’ Gabriela asks.
‘I need to get rid of them properly. We can’t risk anyone finding them.’ He gives her a look across the car that tells her this is not a conversation to be having in front of the children. ‘Callum, would you mind passing that to your mother?’
The child hesitates before leaning to take the parcel from his hand. Harry winks reassuringly. When he looks up at Gabriela, he sees her face is suddenly white. In one hand, she holds the envelope of passports; with the other she is holding her throat as if her airways are constricting and she is struggling to breathe.
Shit.
‘Gabriela, are you OK?’ Harry focuses on her face from the other side of the car. Her eyes bulge as she shakes her head, mouthing the words I can’t breathe.
He keeps his voice calm. ‘You’re just having a panic attack.’ He leans between the seats so that he is fully focused on her. The car is stationary, vehicles locking them in on all sides. ‘Gabriela, look at me. Breathe. OK? Callum, can you open the door, please? That’s it, stay where you are – we just need air. Gabriela, you’re fine, you just need to breathe …’
Sensing her mother’s unease, Layla cries out from her car seat.
‘Mum?’ There is fear in Sadie’s voice as Layla’s cry intensifies in the seat in front of her.
‘Don’t worry, your mum’s going to be fine,’ Harry says before returning his attention to Gabriela. ‘Steady, that’s it, steady … Gabriela, breathe. Sadie, it’s OK …’
At a loss about what to do with the screaming baby, he leans towards Layla in the middle row of seats, making hushing sounds, briefly glancing at Tom who is not responding, as if he is already somewhere else. For fuck’s sake, surely now would be a good time to man up.
‘Pal?’ Harry says, trying to get his attention. ‘Do you think you could grab the baby?’
Gabriela is still struggling to catch her breath, her panic increasing with the child’s cry. Help the bloody baby, Harry wants to shout at Tom, who remains focused on the windshield, but the less attention they attract to their group from the other passengers waiting in line, the better. Stepping out of the car, Harry moves to the door behind him, opening it, undoing Layla’s seat belt and lifting the child out.
He takes a step away from the people carrier, aware of several pairs of eyes watching him as he awkwardly juggles the child. A few moments later he feels a hand on his back and when he turns, Gabriela is there, reaching for her child.
‘OK, baby,’ she says, taking Layla. ‘OK. Come to me, baby. Come to me.’
Artemis
London and Greece, the Nineties
The day David was born, Artemis felt, for the first time since she arrived in London – perhaps for the first time ever – that she had an ally; someone with whom she would side, and who would side with her, through anything. David, with his serious dark eyes and his quiet adoration of his mother, emboldened her and gave her purpose. It was as if the moment she became a parent, she understood her place in the world. From then on it would be him and her against everyone and everything. Until the day she died.
In the months that followed the birth, her body returned to a version of herself that she respected, with its soft, yielding curves. As time passed, Artemis started to carve out a routine for them both, between the library and the playground and the grocer’s in South End Green. In doing so, she felt herself taking ownership of a piece of the city that suddenly felt as though it belonged to her. With David’s tiny hand cocooned in hers, London made sense. Previously daunting and unnavigable, the Heath became her and David’s secret garden, an oasis within the bustle of the city. In the days and sometimes weeks Clive spent away for work, she would roam the paths with the buggy, David taking his first steps on the pavement by Parliament Hill tennis courts.
Even the big rattling house with its emerald-green carpets and heavy Victorian furniture shifted in her mind from being Clive’s home to the epicentre of their family life. At the kitchen t
able, she would spread out a large oilcloth and cut potatoes into shapes, watching David’s eyes light up as she helped him squelch the misshapen blocks into a palette of brightly coloured paints, lurching his fist across to the paper, creating amateur masterpieces to show to Daddy when he got home from work.
She never resented it, the long hours Clive spent at the office in town or the meetings with Jeff after he started getting more involved in the business. The regular travelling for work only cemented her belief that their roles were delineated and equally valid. When he was home, Clive would throw his son scraps of attention, marvelling over the flecks of colour in a picture he’d made, pointing out tenuous patterns (‘A dog?’ ‘A hedgehog?’ ‘A tree?’) and David would shake his head, giggling with increasing glee at every erroneous suggestion.
For the first time, Artemis was happy. Despite the uncertain start in the city, her and Clive’s life together was good. The foundations that for so many years had been broken, finally felt solid.
The year David turned two, Athena also had a baby back in Greece, a tiny girl with her father’s eyes and thick black curls. The women cried as they watched their children side-by-side when Artemis went to visit, taking David to see her parents for the first time.
‘She looks just like Panos,’ Artemis laughed.
‘And she is about the same amount of use around the house …’ Athena retorted.
‘Sweet Maria. How is Panos?’
Athena seemed to bristle at the sound of Panos’ name on her friend’s tongue. ‘Useless.’ She paused, and then asked, ‘And how is Clive?’
There was a slight strain in her voice.
‘Clive is well,’ Artemis said, focusing her attention on the children. ‘He sends his love. Hopefully he can come out next year, when things die down a bit with work.’
‘Sounds like it’s going well with the business.’ Athena’s voice was tight, the jealousy seeping through the space between the words. Artemis knew Panos’ lack of meaningful income was one of the bones of contention between the couple.
‘It is,’ Artemis replied, non-committal. ‘He’s doing more work abroad. He and his business partner, Jeff.’
‘What’s Jeff like?’ Athena asked.
‘I’m not sure.’ Artemis didn’t feel like talking about him. Right now she wanted to focus on Athena and the baby. ‘He’s … well, he’s married, for one,’ she said lightly.
‘Shut up, so am I.’ Athena feigned hurt.
‘I’m joking. You’re a good couple, you and Panos. I know he’s not—’
‘Not what?’ Athena snapped defensively. Her twisted loyalty was part of her make-up. She could say anything about anyone, but woe betide anyone else speak ill of someone close to her.
Baby Maria winced at the sound of her mother’s raised voice. Artemis leaned forward and stroked her head. ‘You have such a beautiful daughter,’ she said, changing the subject.
‘I know,’ Athena replied, her voice mellowing. ‘She is beautiful. I don’t deserve her.’
It was an uncharacteristic display of self-flagellation and Artemis took her friend’s hand.
‘Don’t be stupid, of course you deserve her. And I’ll tell you something else, she and David are going to be great friends.’ Artemis beamed, looking up and meeting Athena’s eyes.
‘Yes, they are,’ she replied, squeezing Artemis’ palm. ‘They will look after each other. Who knows, one day maybe they’ll fall in love and we can wear matching hats at the wedding.’
‘I hope so,’ Artemis smiled, turning as Maria cried out, alarmed by something in her peripheral vision that neither of the women could see.
Harry
The Channel, the day after Anna dies
The ramp clatters as the car moves onto the ferry. Once parked up, they head into the stairwell, following signs to the main deck, Harry following behind at a respectful distance. He watches as Sadie tucks herself onto Tom’s lap, Gabriela’s face pulling away, her daughter withdrawing in a foetal position, as if trying to make herself as small as possible, to make herself disappear.
‘You guys stay here,’ Harry says, though he is not here as their guardian and he knows that even if that was his job, there would be only so much he could do to keep them safe.
Finally, the motion of the boat lulls the older children to sleep, the two of them curled up on the floor, their heads resting against their bags, Tom seated beside them, his eyes fixed on the grey sea outside. Rain spatters against the windows once more as England disappears behind them for the final time.
Harry leans against the bar at the far side of the room, ordering a beer and sipping at it slowly as the boat makes headway. Finishing his drink sometime later, he orders another. When he glances over again at the family, Tom and the older children are just as he left them an hour or so earlier, but Gabriela is nowhere to be seen. Standing straighter, he keeps his cool – she has probably just gone to the bathroom or to change Layla’s nappy. There could be any number of reasons why she isn’t here, but something urges him to step away from the bar, to follow the path through from the centre of the boat towards the rain-spattered windows and the darkness beyond.
Part of Harry expects the door out to the deck to be closed at this late hour. But as he pushes against it, the mechanism gives way and he feels the wet sea air sting his cheeks. He spots her instantly, as he turns towards the nose of the boat, her silhouette framed by night sky. The surface of the deck is wet. Harry focuses on maintaining his balance as he moves carefully along the side of the ship, towards Gabriela. She is standing dead centre at the back of the boat, looking over the water so that her back is facing him. Leaning forward, one hand on Layla’s head, the other gripped around the ice-cold handrail, she watches the waves churning in the motor.
‘Hey,’ Harry says, once he is close enough that he could feasibly reach out and touch her.
When she turns to face him, Harry’s eyes move to the baby who is pressed against her mother’s chest.
If Gabriela is surprised to see him, she doesn’t show it.
‘How do you know Madeleine?’ she asks, as if continuing a conversation they were already having.
‘We met at an event. I was a reporter.’
Gabriela seems uninterested rather than placated by his answer.
‘She and I worked together at the Foreign Office. She was my work wife. She was better at it than I was … the work bit, not the wife bit – although she probably would have been better at that too.’ Gabriela laughs sardonically. ‘Our old boss, Guy Emsworth, hated us. It was mutual, although I didn’t hate him as much as Madeleine did, not at first – apparently she is much better at reading people than I am. Anyway, Madeleine left the FCO and went to the NCA, didn’t she? I was just thinking, if I had left then, too, that none of this would have happened.’
Gabriela’s voice trails off.
‘You know, what’s done is done. I don’t think there’s much point thinking about what ifs,’ Harry says. ‘We’ve all done things we’re not proud of.’
‘Yeah, well it’s one thing telling yourself that and it’s another stopping your mind from going where it wants to go,’ Gabriela replies, jiggling slightly as the baby stirs, before lowering her voice. ‘The point is, when I was replaying it all in my head, trying to pinpoint the moment at which it really started, I realised the connection between Ivan and me was Emsworth, my old boss. When I was at the FCO, he always used to take me to this little Italian bistro on Crown Passage, behind Pall Mall. He called it his “second office”. Once I left the FCO, I went back there one day and that’s where I met Ivan. I always assumed it was random, Ivan and I meeting like that, but what if the reason Ivan was there was that this was where he, too, met Emsworth, to hand over information?
‘I’m not saying Emsworth meant for Ivan and me to meet. In fact, I’m sure he wouldn’t have wanted or anticipated that at all, but inadvertently, I suppose, this whole thing – this whole situation – is Emsworth’s fault, right?’
H
arry bites his tongue.
‘That was what I was thinking, and then I realised, as you’re probably thinking right now, that I’m a fucking idiot. There was no grand conspiracy for me to meet Ivan, no one made this happen, no one is to blame, apart from me. I used to tell myself that this was Tom’s fault for not noticing or for not asking the right questions when I claimed to be spending weeks, sometimes months, abroad for work after Layla was born. But that was bullshit. The truth is, I was bored and I had an affair, that’s how basic it is. And now I’m taking my whole family on a boat to I don’t even fucking know where because our lives are under threat and—’
‘Hey,’ Harry says. ‘Let’s go inside … The baby will be getting cold. You should try to get some sleep. You must be tired.’
He felt her body tense as he touched her. ‘Come on, it’s a long drive tomorrow.’
They leave the ferry at Santander at five o’clock the following afternoon. According to the route he had plotted before he left home, the journey will take just over six and a half hours, leading them back into a pocket of France that is closer to the Spanish border than it is to Caen or Calais.
By the time the car pulls past San Sebastian, the city lights twinkling in the distance, all three children are asleep. Harry sits in the front, navigating from his phone, aware that his role now is as much a diplomatic presence, a neutralising force, as it is a chaperone.
There is nothing to mark their crossing the border from Spain to France as they make their way inland but for a small road sign, which flashes by in the dark so quickly that he almost misses it. Obediently, Tom follows the motorway signs for Carcassonne and Gabriela drifts off leaving just Harry and Tom awake in the front.
‘Are you OK? I can take over for a while if you want to grab some kip,’ Harry says after a while and Tom shakes his head.
‘Do you mind if I try the radio?’ Harry asks.
‘Be my guest.’
There is a blast of Euro-pop as Harry presses the power button, flicking through the channels before settling on a gentler song he vaguely recognises.
The Second Woman Page 8