Fragile

by Sarah Hilary

  My footsteps on the stairs were loud, shattering the silence in the house as I went down.

  They hadn’t come to find me, hiding in my attic. Robin, and Joe. They’d left me alone. What did that mean? I paused on the ground floor, gripping the banister. The black and white tiles swam away from me, the front door dwindling until it was no bigger than a mouse’s hole, impossible for me to escape through. Why had I stayed here? Why did I ever come back with his cash and keys, needing his good opinion? I could’ve been miles away by now, sleeping on the long train journey, my head resting in the dull patch on the carriage window where the last passenger rested her head, knowing nothing at all about what had happened here.

  ‘Nell.’ Robin was standing in the doorway to his library, a book in his hands.

  I froze, unable to look at him. How I’d loved his books, once. Now I didn’t care if I never saw one again. The light was behind him, all the lamps lit in the room. That was my job, but he’d done it. He’d been with his books and his boxes, pretending nothing had happened, nothing had changed. Did he expect me to do the same?

  ‘I’ll cook.’ I wiped my hands at my waist. It was easier than asking questions or demanding answers. Easier to do as he was doing and pretend. ‘You’ll want your supper.’

  ‘Nell . . . Come in here a minute.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m running late.’

  ‘You’re in shock.’ He shifted his grip on the book, holding out a hand to me. ‘Let me explain what happened.’

  ‘I don’t want to know what happened.’

  ‘Please.’ He spread his hand wide. ‘Let me explain.’

  He was so calm and persuasive, as if offering to clear up a misunderstanding over a menu, not the murder of his wife. My ears ached from listening for the sound of Joe in the library, waiting for me. What story had Joe told to make sense of what they’d done, and why was Robin believing it? I hadn’t thought them alike, but they were. They had to be, to have done what they did.

  ‘Where is she? Carolyn.’ My voice cracked on the second syllable of her name.

  His face darkened. ‘She’s gone, for good this time. At least there’s an end to that.’ His hand was outstretched as if he expected me to take it, to go with him into the library where the lamps were burning. ‘Come on, I’ve something for you.’ He crooked his mouth into a smile.

  I crossed the sea of tiles, and stepped into his library.

  Joe wasn’t there. Just the books and the desk, Robin’s chair pulled back from his work. A small silk-covered box, fastened with a sliver of ivory, sat on the blotter. Robin reached past me to open the box, taking out a tiny turquoise bowl striped with gold.

  ‘Kintsugi. The art of scars.’ He traced the shimmering lines with the ball of his thumb. ‘When a precious thing is broken, rather than throw it away the Japanese mend it with gold, or platinum. It’s stronger too, less likely to break a second time.’ He turned the bowl on the tips of his fingers, the light firing its scars. ‘I love how they’ve made a virtue of the damage. Kintsugi represents a pivotal moment in our life, the point at which we might crack under pressure. But we can stay strong and useful, the accident that broke us is just a step in our journey.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I said truthfully.

  He reached for my hand, opening it. ‘It’s yours.’

  He placed the bowl in my palm, where it rested light as an eggshell, warm from his touch. ‘Yours.’ He lifted a strand of my hair with his fingers, neatening it behind my ear. ‘Nell,’ he said, a soft breath against my neck. ‘Nell.’

  He was buying my silence. I couldn’t speak, afraid to move in case I dropped the bowl, in case it wasn’t as strong as he said it was. I wasn’t afraid of him, not quite, but I was afraid of us – the people we were when we were together. The pair of us, pretending.

  I had an urge to shut my hand and see if I could crush the bowl, wanting to know whether its scars could take the punishment of my fist. I wasn’t to be trusted with precious things, didn’t he know that?

  Stepping back from him, I reached for the silk box and fitted the bowl into its padded hollow, closing the lid and slipping the ivory through its hoop of thread.

  I set the box on his desk. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Take it . . . ?’ He tensed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You don’t need to give me presents.’ You know why. ‘I haven’t anything for you.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting anything. I was tidying the library and found this, tucked away. Carolyn didn’t care for it, as I remember.’ He picked up the box again. ‘I want you to have it.’ He spoke her name so easily, it chilled me.

  I shook my head, trying for a smile, wanting to make it normal. ‘What would you like for supper?’

  He searched my face for a long moment then dropped his eyes. ‘What’s on the rota?’

  ‘Cod’s roe. But you missed lunch. You’ll want something more than that.’

  ‘An omelette?’ He held the box in his hands. ‘You’ll eat with me? You missed lunch, too. Where were you?’

  ‘This morning?’ It was such a long time ago. ‘I popped out to the newsagent’s.’

  Leaving you and Joe alone with her.

  How could we stand here swapping meal suggestions, giving and refusing gifts, after what had been done? The quiet in the house was insane. Where were the sirens, the tramp of boots, unreeling of police tape? How were we staying so calm? Like a couple in an air-raid shelter, two strangers making polite conversation to pass the time until we could return to see how little of our lives was left standing after the bombs had fallen and the dust had cleared.

  ‘An omelette,’ I repeated. ‘You’ll eat it in here?’

  ‘In the dining room,’ he corrected. ‘If you’ll join me.’ He didn’t flinch as he mentioned the room, or give any indication that what had taken place there might have spoilt his appetite.

  A monster, his ex-wife had called him. Now I was beginning to understand.

  ‘Where’s Joe?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s gone, with Carolyn. He didn’t say where they were going. It was a relief, really. I don’t want to think about it more than I have to. I’d rather not know the details. You understand, don’t you?’ He held my gaze, the kimono box between his hands. ‘I’d rather not have to think about it.’

  In the kitchen, I prepared his meal, washing up as I went, tidying to save time later. It felt vital I should have time later, but if you’d asked me, ‘Time for what?’ I couldn’t have answered.

  I worked efficiently, multitasking. I even found time to prepare a fruit cake, my speciality at Lyle’s: mixed peel, cherries and almonds, dark rum, and the rest. The cake would be our last meal together, that’s what I told myself. All the while I worked there was a hot, hollow spot under my ribs.

  When it came time to lay the table, I blanked my eyes at the corner of the room where she died. If I thought of it at all, it was to tell myself I’d need to clean there a second time tomorrow. Bleach, and hot water. Baking soda to get rid of any lingering traces of blood. Like someone at a distance, I watched the girl who laid the table, marvelling at her composure.

  What are you thinking? I wanted to ask her. And how are you feeling? Is this terror or something else? Who is the real monster in Starling Villas?

  Putting my hand into my pocket, I found the lacy camisole Carolyn had given me to mend. I held it for a moment, half-expecting it to move, or to vanish. It was all that was left of her. Joe had taken everything else – her dresses gone from the guest room, her brushes and make-up. I’d searched the room, but it was all gone. Every trace of her had been wiped from the house.

  Robin asked me to eat with him so I did, managing small talk, some nonsense about a ceramics class he’d signed up for but never taken. He made another attempt to gift me the Japanese bowl and I declined, again. When the meal was over, he started to help me clear the table.

  ‘That’s my job.’ I spoke more sharply than I’d intended.

  He sat back, disguising a wince.r />
  His eyes stayed on me as I stacked the dishes. I didn’t look at him, remembering Carolyn’s words, how she’d fallen in love with him because he was so serious and so sad.

  For the first time, I wanted to weep. Not rage, but weep. What had I done? How had I fallen in love like this? After Joe, I’d sworn never again. Never. But here I was.

  When I brought the coffee, he was standing by the fireplace, looking at the corner I’d cleaned.

  I saw Joe kneeling, wrist-deep in her darkness. I blinked, to be rid of the image.

  ‘Stay here with me,’ Robin said. ‘Please.’

  ‘I’m tired. I need to go to bed.’

  ‘Then come to bed with me.’

  I poured his coffee and added milk, carrying the cup and saucer to where he stood. He took it from me, reaching with his free hand but I stepped back, away, shaking my head.

  ‘Goodnight, Dr Wilder.’

  In my attic, I barricaded the door, listening for his tread on the stairs.

  For a second, I fancied I heard footsteps, not his but Rosie’s light skipping. In that moment, I think I was more afraid of her ghost than of him. The back of my neck was wet. My thighs ached as if I’d been swimming in the lake. I backed away from the door, going to the window to see a smattering of stars in the night sky.

  I searched for the constellations Joe and I once loved, but couldn’t find them. Perhaps they’d died. That’s what stars are, after all. Fire from a long-ago death, only now reaching us.

  A sound in the street brought my gaze down.

  She was standing outside Hungry’s with her back to its unlit window, in a pale belted raincoat. Her face was turned up to Starling Villas, blonde hair brushed behind her ears. Her eyes were wiped out by the street lights, their sockets filled with neon.

  Carolyn Wilder.

  I jumped back from the window, knowing she couldn’t be real. Afraid of her eyes on me, who was still here in the house with her husband. As if that was all I had to be afraid of.

  When I looked a second time, she had vanished.

  I only saw the red tail lights of a taxi, travelling east towards the river.

  36

  I wish I could say I slept badly that night. But my sleep was deep and dreamless, the best I’d had in years. I woke early, feeling wonderful for the few seconds it took me to remember.

  My attic was semi-dark, its varnished walls glistening. Reaching out my hand, I read the programme for a performance of Tristan und Isolde in Covent Garden on 17 May 1910. The names made a sort of music: Carl Burrian, Minnie Saltzmann-Stevens, Louise Kirkby-Lunn. Tristan, Isolde, Brangäne. I ran my fingers left to right, trying to stay in this dreamlike state because I was nervous of getting up and going downstairs.

  Where had Joe taken Carolyn, and how? You couldn’t hide a corpse in the middle of London, it made no sense. But neither did the fact of her ghost last night. Standing in the street, staring up at Starling Villas when I had seen her lifeless body. Any more than I made sense staying here after what had happened, cooking his supper, eating with him.

  ‘In this house, nothing’s real, that’s the whole point.’ Carolyn had tried to warn me, as if the house wasn’t warning enough, hiding on the high street, belonging to an age when Minnie and Carl and Louise were stars of the stage and London had no notion of two wars coming to tear it apart.

  I’d slept in my clothes. From the window, I watched for early deliveries to the restaurant, seeing grim-faced joggers, a solitary herring gull ripping at a fast-food wrapper. A grey smell lifted from the street, of someone smoking close to the kitchen steps. Office workers or staff from the restaurant next door. I saw their shadows through the railings. I needed to be outside, away from Starling Villas. Something happened when I was here, the house casting a spell to make me obedient, dull and drugged with hunger. I needed fresh air to bring me to my senses.

  Robin was asleep when I left the house, curtains drawn at his bedroom window, seemingly unmoved by all that had happened.

  In the street, I sucked in a deep breath, glad of the traffic fumes, not caring about pollution or air quality or anything other than being outside. I should never go back inside. Not even for my rucksack. I’d leave it behind, let it all go. I walked for an hour, heading east like the taxi last night.

  Dimly, I wished I’d kept the phone I’d found in the kitchen drawer. I’d sold Brian’s phone, the one he’d given me as a gift. A woman tried to press a phone on me when I was begging, ‘Take this. It’s got credit, you can call hostels, job centres. Call home, let them know you’re okay. Take it, please. It’s a gift.’ I hid my hands in my pockets. ‘Look, it could turn your life around. I read about it, how a phone can make all the difference.’ Her face worked hard. ‘At least call home, let them know you’re okay. At least do that.’ She’d lost someone to the streets. This was her way of keeping hope alive, but why should she have hope when the rest of us had none? I’d refused her gift as I’d refused Robin’s last night. I didn’t trust gifts. That was Meagan’s legacy, sewn into me so firmly I couldn’t breathe without it pinching at my ribs. When Brian began giving us gifts – that’s when I knew we had to leave.

  The pace was picking up on the street, Londoners heading to work, bluetoothed and caffeinated. The memory of my time spent begging here had me shivering, searching for shelter.

  Was Joe coming back to the house? Why had he left without speaking to me? Where were the police? I’d been trained to fear the police but plenty had been kind to us, after Rosie. It wasn’t the police who’d whispered about the mad expense of the funeral or the spectacle her parents were making of themselves. She’d been missing nearly two years by then. There was no body to signal the end of the search, just a red jelly sandal washed up on the shore. No one to pay the price that should be paid when a child dies. Just Meagan saying she’d keep us safe, hide us from the police and press. Not for my sake but for Joe’s, because she loved him in spite of everything. Because of Meagan, no one would ever pay the price. I couldn’t let that happen twice. This time, someone should be made to pay. I began walking back towards Starling Villas.

  When I reached the park, I found a bench and sat to catch my breath. Two little girls were racing around the sandpit, their mother seated with a pair of miniature backpacks at her feet. She looked tired, her dark skin lined, black hair threaded with grey, wearing a long green coat belted over black trousers, cheap plastic shoes on her feet.

  A girl wandered past in a red blazer and skintight leggings, her face smeared with make-up, lips glossed, brows blackly arched. As she drew close, I saw she was no older than twelve. Her nose was pierced by a pin-head diamond, her walk studied and provocative. If I squinted, I could see the child underneath – her spindly arms and ankles, her small ears. I wanted to wash the warpaint from her face, bundle her under blankets and let her be a child again. She challenged my stare with one of her own, cocking her head at me, an unspoken, What? I nodded a smile, looking to where the smaller girls were playing in matching pink anoraks, hair bobbled at the sides of their heads. When they reached the top of the climbing frame, they swung upside down from the bar, shouting for their mum to look. She lifted her head, murmuring a warning. Something about their faces, cracked wide with laughter, made me hold my breath. Big gap-toothed smiles, identical. Twins.

  I sat up straighter, staring across the park.

  Even upside down, I recognized their smiles. They were the twins from the keychain. I glanced across at their mum, sitting with their school bags at her feet. She was Robin’s last housekeeper, the one before me.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I was on my feet without thinking, walking towards her. ‘Mrs Mistry?’

  She turned towards me, shielding her eyes from the light. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Nell. I’m – a friend of Robin Wilder. From Starling Villas?’

  She went rigid on the bench, cutting her eyes away from me, towards her girls. They’d stopped playing, standing to watch us, side by side. Unnerving, in the way twins can be.


  ‘I have your keys.’ I dug my hand into my pocket, pulling out the pink keychain. ‘You left them behind, when you went.’

  She stooped to pick up the bags, calling to the girls in a language I didn’t speak. I tried to hand her the keys but she brushed past me. I watched her strap the backpacks onto the twins, gathering a small hand in each of her own. ‘Please. Your keys? The pictures of your girls.’

  She stood her ground, staring at me. The girls began to whine, pulling away from her, but she hissed at them to be still. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

  ‘To give you back your keys, that’s all. What else would I want?’

  She looked me over, from my tattered canvas plimsolls to my sleep-creased clothes. Slowly, her face unclenched. ‘You’re the new one. The one who came next.’

  I nodded. ‘I’m Nell.’

  ‘You’re working for him, living in the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The girls pulled away from her, and this time she let them go. They didn’t head for the climbing frame, running instead along the path that led out of the park, their school bags bumping on their backs. Mrs Mistry watched them go, following with me at her side.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked her. ‘In the house?’

  ‘Not much.’ She belted her coat closer. ‘Not when he was alone.’ She glanced at me. ‘You’ve met her? The wife.’

  I nodded, dry-mouthed, handing her the keychain, which she accepted this time.

  ‘When she was there? Parties, all the time. Strangers who didn’t care how much mess they made or how much noise.’ She stroked her thumb at the silk photo frame. ‘They took this, one night. Put it with the other keys. To play a game, they said.’

  My mind turned, emptily. She couldn’t mean wife swapping, surely the Wilders were more sophisticated than that? But sex didn’t need to be sophisticated. Look at Carolyn buying Joe for the night. Sex just needed to be there. And if Carolyn had taken Mrs Mistry’s keys, it wasn’t about sex at all. It was about intimidation, and humiliation. Power.

  ‘She took your keys?’