He was twenty-five – just a few years out of uni. He’d been in a marketing job for a mid-size agency for just eighteen months and was still enjoying the novelty of travelling for pitches and meetings. A hotel on expenses. But with his presentation suddenly cancelled, he was at a loose end. He was bored with his hotel which had over-enthusiastic air conditioning so he’d wandered into town, optimistically hoping the rain would ease. It didn’t. And so, on his second cup of coffee, he found himself tuning into the conversation of two women at the adjoining table. They were hurrying their drinks and checking their watches, apparently anxious to make it to the cathedral ‘in time for the clock thingy.’
What clock thingy?
Ed couldn’t help himself. He turned to stare at the women as they gathered up their things and for a beat considered asking out loud. But that would mean owning up to earwigging so he turned back to his coffee instead, pretending to consider adding a sachet of sugar.
One of the women was now telling the other to hurry. Come on. Noon is the best time for the clock. We need to get a shift on.
That decided it. Ed liked clocks, especially unusual ones. But what could be so special about a clock in a cathedral?
He reached into his jacket pocket for the tourist pamphlet, picked up from hotel reception, just as his two neighbours made for the door.
Wells Cathedral had half a page – and yes; the clock had a special mention. It dated back to around 1390. Right. Decided. He stood, slurped the last of his coffee and headed for the door himself.
It was too windy for his umbrella so by the time he reached the cathedral, he was pretty much wet through. It was not the largest of cathedrals, but he loved the mellow colour of the stone. The arches. At the information desk, he was told there were no official tickets that day. A woman in a bright pink blouse signalled the voluntary-contribution box. He dropped in some pound coins, asked about the clock and was told to hurry. There’s a guide at midday to explain it all.
It was easy to see where to head. A small group of visitors were craning their necks to view something high up. A guide had a small torch that he was shining up on to the wall, sweeping his other arm as he continued his spiel.
Ed moved forward to perch on a little stone shelf that others were also using as a seat. Somehow, he lost his grip on his redundant umbrella and it slid with a clatter to the floor. All eyes turned. A woman with long strawberry-blonde hair smiled at him as the guide paused to check on the noise before moving the torch back to the clock high up in front of them.
The story was impressive. The oldest clock face in the world, apparently.
‘But what you will enjoy, ladies and gentlemen, is the unusual action with the chime.’ The guide checked his watch. ‘Just a few more seconds and you’ll see what I mean.’
Ed stared up at the clock and wondered what to expect. Some kind of unusual bell? Music? He was surprised to find the anticipation so enjoyable. An unexpected boost to this dismal, wet day.
At last the chimes began and little doors at the top of the clock opened to reveal the twist. Not cuckoos, not birds of any kind but knights on horseback . . . jousting.
He smiled and turned to see everyone in the little crowd smiling with him. Two sets of knights were on some kind of circuit travelling in opposite directions, so it really did look like a mini joust. Very clever.
Given the time, the display lasted through the whole twelve chimes and Ed at last understood the noon recommendation. When the chimes finished, everyone clapped. The tour guide then turned off his torch and, to Ed’s slight embarrassment, encouraged them all to join in a little prayer together.
It was not that Ed was an atheist, more that he was entirely indifferent about religion. But he paused politely as a short prayer and blessing was announced. And it was during this little ‘moment’ that the woman with the strawberry-blonde hair caught his eye again, apparently stifling a laugh.
As everyone then slowly dispersed, Ed was surprised to see the woman move towards him.
‘I’m so sorry. That was very rude of me. Disrespectful. I didn’t mean to cause offence. Are you religious? Please forgive me if you’re religious. I can’t help it when I get nervous; I really didn’t mean to—’
‘It’s fine. Not offended at all. I’m not religious myself.’ He had lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘But jolly good clock. I just came in to shelter from the rain, to be honest.’
‘Me too.’
‘So, have you had a look around the rest of the cathedral?’ He realised, even as the words escaped his mouth, that this sounded like an invitation. Was that his intention?
‘No. You?’
She had rather strange eyes. Not quite green and not quite brown. His own mother had green eyes, and he was wondering what percentage of the population did too. Not many, he suspected, as it felt unusual; he would look it up. Wasn’t it an Irish thing to have green eyes? But she didn’t sound Irish. A soft accent that he hadn’t yet placed. He was staring now. The eyes looked greener. Odd. Was it a change in the light? She didn’t look away.
‘Please say no if I’m intruding, but if you fancy some company looking round?’ She was smiling, still holding his gaze.
‘Oh yes. Lovely. Though I’m no expert. Cathedrals, I mean.’ He signalled with his hand for her to take the lead and they set off towards the far end of the cathedral.
Ed pretended to read labels as they moved from one area to another but was in truth stealing glances to take in his new companion. She was wearing a deep-red coat with a battered black leather satchel. It was worn across her body on a long, wide strap that dug into her shoulder, making quite an indentation in the fabric of the coat. Evidently heavy. He found himself wondering what was in the satchel. None of his business, but after a while it burned like the curiosity over the women chatting alongside him in the café.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but your bag. It looks quite heavy.’
‘It’s all right.’ She leant forward conspiratorially. ‘It’s not a bomb.’
‘Well that’s a relief.’ He didn’t get the tone quite right and she kept her expression entirely neutral which for a moment alarmed him. He could feel his face reddening.
‘I’m teasing. Music manuscripts. Lots.’
‘Right. OK. And you’re carrying them because?’
‘Because I teach music and I’m technically on my way to work. I’m freelance but I teach at the Elderbury School now. Piano and violin. I’ve only been there a few weeks so I’m still playing tourist.’
Now he was really interested. Ed had not a musical bone in his body and both admired and envied those who did. He had tried guitar lessons; his teacher had made an admirable effort, but Ed just couldn’t make sense of the music on the page. Odd because he was good at numbers and so had imagined it would be similar. But he just couldn’t get the hang of it. Three terms and he finally threw in the towel.
Once again, he realised that he was staring at his new companion.
‘Lunch. I was going to get myself an early lunch,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy joining me? I’m afraid I don’t know anywhere but we could busk it.’
‘The Hedgehog Café.’ She was smiling. ‘Don’t worry. They don’t serve hedgehogs. That’s probably illegal. There’s a story behind the name of the café but I’ve forgotten it. One of my pupils recommended it. Cool place. Great soup.’
‘Soup it is then.’
She then linked her arm through his, with the satchel on the other side of her body.
‘I’ll see if I can hail us a canoe.’ He winked and she laughed and he felt a little bubble in his stomach. It was the perfect surprise on this wet day and he felt light and excited and happy.
He will come to look back on that moment often, with his head in his hands and the heaviest of hearts. Thinking, yes, about fate. Destiny. The fluke of timing. For he could not know that this would be the woman he would marry.
He could not know that within two years he would be living an entir
ely different life with her in Canada.
He could not know that one day, he would wake up to visit the bathroom and she would be screaming and screaming and screaming.
And everything would suddenly swirl and spiral into a dark, dark place like the rainwater rushing for the drains as they hurried to the Hedgehog Café that very first day.
CHAPTER 12
THE DAUGHTER – BEFORE
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland – the quest for identity?
I haven’t even re-read it for the essay yet. The book, I mean. I have no idea if it’s a quest for identity or not. I’ll have to make a big pot of coffee and pull an all-nighter. There’s no way I can ask ‘S’ for special favours. Not after . . .
Crazy – I’ve only just realised the irony. Tea parties. Mad Hatters. It’s how my whole life feels right now. Down a stupid rabbit hole.
It’s as if I’ve gone mad myself. What I get now, way too late, is that I should have trusted my first instinct. I should have cancelled the birthday celebration; I should have told Mum the truth. Most important of all, I should have told Alex straight up that we needed a break. Instead? Typical disastrous me; I was too confused. I went for the easiest and most cowardly option which was to do nothing. To go with the flow.
It’s a Mum thing really. ‘Why don’t we all just go with the flow? Lighten up.’ I used to think it was so good – that my mum hates arguments so much, that she works so hard to avoid them. It was only when I hit my teens and had friends round that I realised, through them, that it was a bit weird. Unusual.
She sort of goes into this zone, my mother, any time anyone in the family gets upset. She says things like, ‘I absolutely will not let this build into something silly. No. No. I’m not listening to you. I’m walking away. You can talk to me when you’ve calmed down.’
She would go into the kitchen and bake something. Later she’d present the cakes or flapjacks or whatever and I’d think – here we go. And of course, I’d feel a bit better; cake always makes you feel better. But as I got older, I sort of wished I’d been able to stand my ground sometimes, because I think what I’m realising now is that I don’t have the courage to tell my mum any stuff that will upset her.
I remember I did push it once when I was doing my A levels. I got really mad at her – some argument over how much revision I was doing – and when she was walking away – you need to calm down, Gemma – I started shouting. I wanted her to listen. I wanted her to thrash it out with me for once. She retreated as she always does – to the kitchen. I shouted down the stairs at her. I said she was a coward. That I hated her stupid cakes. And then I went down and found her sitting on the kitchen floor with her back to the cupboards, sobbing.
She claimed she’d tripped and that was why she was crying but I didn’t believe her. She wouldn’t say what it was. She wouldn’t even look at me and her whole body was like, trembling. I felt so, so guilty. It freaked me out. So from that day, whenever Mum gave me her ‘look’, I just backed down. Piped down.
That’s why I didn’t tell her about Alex scaring me. It would have upset her so badly. And I just didn’t want any of that.
You see, Mum had booked two treats for my twenty-first – a trip to Paris, just her and me in a month’s time, and the family weekend thing with Alex, including champagne afternoon tea at this posh hotel. She’d gone to so much trouble, I didn’t want to prick her balloon. I didn’t want to upset her.
Alex had been so sorry after his meltdown – so calm and apologetic and considerate – that I started to think I had overreacted. I decided to go along with the visit home, just because it was simpler. For Mum. For me. For everyone. And do you know what? He was great. Perfect company. The textbook boyfriend.
On the train home, he fetched my favourite snacks from the buffet. He backed off; let me read my book without interrupting. He caught my gaze now and again and gave me his little wink and smile and it felt just like it did right at the beginning. As if the argument and all the stuff with social media had never happened.
He brought a lovely gift for my mum without even telling me. She collects ceramic jugs and he’d found a small, very unusual one in a gallery. You should have seen her face. Well, goodness me, how very thoughtful of you, Alex.
And the afternoon tea was fab. Dad ordered a tea he’d never tried – silver leaf, which made super pale tea. We thought it would have no flavour but it was divine. There was champagne too and the food was incredible. I had to take so many photos. Little spiced crab things. These amazing little treats on edible soil. And the cakes! More like works of art. We were absolute pigs, all of us. The waiter brought us a box for the leftovers, but we were embarrassed that there was hardly anything to go in it.
I am writing all the detail because I want to hang on to it. The memory of it. I honestly can’t believe that was just three weeks ago and so much has changed.
I feel so ashamed and confused, and disappointed with myself. I want to go back to that tea. I want to be sitting there again with the crab things and the beautiful cakes and I want to take my mum home and quietly and secretly tell her the truth about me and Alex. My doubts. My worries. I want to go back and do that, without making her sit on the floor and cry . . .
Maybe if I’d done that, found a way to talk to Mum, I wouldn’t have so stupidly confided in ‘S’ instead . . . (Not saying his name!)
Oh my word. What’s the matter with me? I’m supposed to be intelligent. I’m supposed to be heading for a first . . . so why am I such a complete and utter disaster?
OK. So this is what happened. We had the lovely weekend, we caught the train home, and everything was fine. And then the second we got back to my room at the flat, Alex’s face changed right in front of me. No kidding – it was like Jekyll and Hyde. He started asking me why I felt it was OK to openly flirt with a waiter in front of him.
What waiter?
The one at the tea, he said. The waiter at the hotel. And don’t pretend to be innocent. You were practically eyeballing his crotch . . .
What? Shocked doesn’t even come close. I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Sure, the waiter was friendly. He made a fuss because it was my birthday. He made it nice for all of us. But there was no flirting. No way.
At first I was too surprised to know what to do. Then I told Alex to leave but he wouldn’t. He walked right up close to me, banging on about the waiter. I remembered that time he grabbed my arm and I felt nervous. I didn’t feel completely safe so I went through to the kitchen and told him I would stay there and scream for help if he didn’t leave. I had my phone in my hand and I almost rang my mother. I wish I had. But in the end after about half an hour, when I threatened to knock on my flatmates’ doors, he finally left.
I didn’t sleep. I decided it was definitely over with Alex. I realised I should have finished it before the weekend away. I knew that I needed to stop worrying about pride, to make a clean break, and tell my parents. Face up to my mistake and my embarrassment too.
I had a meeting with ‘S’ – one of my English tutors – scheduled for ten thirty the next morning. I had this strange feeling in my stomach about it and I nearly cancelled. I realise now, yet again, that I should have listened to my instinct but I didn’t. Instead, I had a couple of strong coffees to try to wake myself up. But the problem was my brain was still really, really foggy. I had hoped to blag my way through the session. And here’s the thing. I always look forward to my sessions with him usually.
Everyone likes ‘S’. He’s a bit older, maybe forties? But the coolest and smartest of the professors.
OK. Honest truth? Most of the undergrads have a bit of a crush. We joke about it. But I absolutely swear that I never in a million years imagined . . .
Anyway.
You can probably guess where this is going.
I don’t even know how it started. How it happened. What the hell I was thinking.
I was just sitting there in this sort of daze, and then he was looking at me in this w
eird way.
You don’t seem yourself, Gemma. You look pale. Is anything wrong? Is there anything I can help you with?
It’s the worst thing, isn’t it, for someone to ask if you are OK when you are not OK. It’s the last thing you need. And I’m just not used to it because that’s not how things roll in my family. Asking. Prodding. Talking about feelings . . .
I should have said I was fine, or pretended I was ill. I should have gone back to the flat. Or to Maddy’s – if she wasn’t so loved up with her new guy.
But I didn’t. I started crying. Of course. And everything after that is just this big and embarrassing and totally humiliating blur.
This was three weeks ago. And I have stupidly made things so much worse. I seriously can’t quite believe what I’ve done. Worst of all, I can’t even confide in anyone about Alex now, because of what I’ve done.
So, I’m staring at the title of this essay I haven’t even started, and I realise that I am her. For real. I am Alice down the rabbit hole, and I don’t see any way back for me now.
CHAPTER 13
THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
Matthew has never seen Mel this agitated. At first, she won’t even look at him.
‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t drive straight to the hospital and arrest him for obstructing our inquiry.’ Mel Sanders is stirring her coffee vigorously as she speaks, the froth spilling on to the saucer and the teaspoon clink, clinking against the china.
‘His daughter’s in a coma, Mel. She’s lost a leg. He’s a father. He’s in agony.’ Matthew pauses. ‘Also – the tabloids will have a complete field day if you arrest him. Quite apart from the fact this is very much a long shot. I mean sure, it needs checking out. And yes – he should have told you about the first marriage; I made that crystal clear to him. But at this point, we’ve no idea if this first wife really is a suspect. Ed Hartley doesn’t think so. He’s just nervous about the cathedral coincidence—’
Her Perfect Family Page 7
