by Adele Parks
Clements allows the interruption to sit with them for a moment and then she says, ‘Well, that’s all we wanted to clear up for now. We’ll be in touch.’ Fiona sees the police officers to the door. She doesn’t know what to say to them, so she stays silent. Clements simply comments, ‘Nice to see you again, Ms Phillipson. It’s good of you to keep such a close eye on your friend’s family.’
‘The boys,’ Fiona mutters, by way of explanation.
Clements smiles briefly. Fiona gets the sense Clements knows her concern extends beyond the boys. Fiona returns to the sitting room. Mark hasn’t moved a muscle. It is tricky negotiating the intimacy of sleeping on this man’s couch, feeding his children, kissing him; this man who is her best friend’s husband. Yet she owes her best friend nothing because Leigh has lied to her too, to everyone, for four years. Why is the truth so hard to pin down and offer up? She should probably grab her jacket and walk out, right now. The problem is she wants to stay, to kiss him again. She does neither thing.
‘Why didn’t you tell her? Trust her to understand the initial lie in the hospital.’
‘You’re saying I should have trusted my bigamist wife more?’ Mark’s voice is spiked with indignation. He sighs. ‘Is there anything you need to ask me?’
Fiona can hear the challenge. ‘Yeah. Did she make you happy?’
He looks surprised; that was not the question he was expecting. ‘Yes, she did. Does,’ he corrects himself hurriedly. Then he shrugs and says deliberately, ‘She did. Past tense. I’m using the past tense because she doesn’t make me happy any longer, not because I think she’s dead. God forbid. Just to be clear.’ Fiona blinks, remains silent. ‘I didn’t kill Frances or Leigh. OK? I guess you need to hear it from my own lips. I guess you must have trust issues too, right now. I don’t know where Leigh is, and I didn’t hurt her. Do you believe me?’
Fiona doesn’t know what to do or say. She sits quietly, perfectly still and considers. After a few minutes she says, ‘Let’s have a cup of tea, then I have to get back to my flat.’
‘So, you’re leaving?’
‘I just need to get back to my flat for a bit, Mark.’ Fiona tries to keep her voice level. She’d do well to ape his emotionless state. Not to give anything away. ‘I haven’t been there for a couple of days. I need to put a wash on. Go through some emails. You understand.’
‘Yeah,’ he says with another sigh, ‘I understand.’
40
Kylie
My stomach cramps, spasms of acute hunger cause me to crawl into the corner of the room. I pull my knees up, tight to my body, trying to flatten out the cravings. I think he has decided to let me starve to death. My head swims. I fall to sleep, for just moments and then jerk awake. Or maybe it’s longer. I don’t know. Both men are waiting for me in my dreams, my nightmares. The two men are completely unalike. Almost nothing in common. Other than me, I suppose. Yet they are both waiting for me. Furious.
The water is all gone.
Having two husbands, two lives, is very time-consuming. Something had to give. I chose to sacrifice friendship. I took Daan’s phone calls before friends. If he suggested we meet on a date where I was already tied up, I pulled out of the prior arrangements. The lovely women I met at work – who I had joked with in the staff canteen, swore with when bosses were unreasonable – all fell by the wayside. As did my mummy friends, the mothers of the boys’ friends. I turned down invitations to join book clubs or spend the evening with someone enthusiastically selling beauty products or kitchen utensils. The only friend I could not give up was Fiona. She has always been like a sister to me. The thought of her comforts me but in some ways hurts me too. I lost her anyhow because I couldn’t tell her. Of course not. So the honesty and intimacy between us faded and then disappeared altogether.
There is nothing honest about a second bank account, about a second phone. It’s complicated. Strangely, it wasn’t the things I kept apart that stung – the separate things were a shield – it was the crossovers that were painful. The near misses fling themselves into the front of my awareness now. They itch uncomfortably around my wrist where I’m chained, they sit in my parched throat. I can’t swallow them back.
I recall walking down the street. Kai walks with an arresting fluidity. She rolls, languidly, like a cat. Leigh bounces, much more of a puppy. This me, is bounding. So I am Leigh, heading towards Mark, Oli and Seb, keen to rest my eyes on them, to feel the boys roughly bury into me as they hug me hello. There is a supermarket trolley lying across the pavement. I bend to stand it up and park it to the side so that it doesn’t obstruct those with strollers or in wheelchairs. That is when I notice it, the bracelet glinting against my skin. Relieved I’ve spotted it, I slip it off. Not that Mark would guess they were real diamonds, he’d imagine I’d splashed out at Swarovski at best, more likely Accessorise. I slide £4,000 worth of jewellery into my handbag. Noting that I should take more care. I slip in and out of consciousness; in my dreams, my nightmares, I’m chained by a row of diamonds.
My head throbs as I recall an especially busy week when I took clothes from both my wardrobes to the same dry cleaners and then had them delivered to the penthouse for ease. I didn’t think an extra dress and suit would be noticed; I planned to take them back to my home with Mark on Thursday. But Daan did spot the dress Leigh had worn to Mark’s parents’ wedding anniversary lunch. ‘That’s very fashionable,’ he commented. I knew it was a criticism. He is not fashionable and doesn’t aspire to be. He is classic. He liked me to be classic too. Classy. I didn’t take offence. I was simply relieved he hadn’t seen Mark’s suit from Next.
I suppose there is only so long you can choke back a secret like this. Bliss like this. Pain and stupidity on this monumental scale will out.
I sacrificed myself. I wasn’t twice as interesting or busy or complete. I was half the person. In my dreams I hear the typewriter hammer out another note. The paper is slipped under the door.
Too late for regrets.
Then there is another, it flies around the room.
Too late for explanations.
And then a third. A flock of paper birds swoop and swarm, surrounding me. Pecking at my hair, my head, my eyes. I manage to read one or two of the messages.
Too late for excuses.
Too late.
And I close my eyes because he is right. It is too late for me. I do not know how to be or who to be. I’m no longer the woman I was or even the woman either of them thought I was. I’m no longer anyone. It will be easier if I allow myself to slip into unconsciousness. It will be easier if I let go.
41
Mark
The moment Fiona leaves the house Mark bounces up the stairs and charges into Oli’s room.
‘You knew?’ he demands.
‘Don’t you ever knock?’ Oli is trying to sound bolshie, confident but Mark can see in his eyes he is scared. Scared of Mark? The thought is like a punch. Another one. His son gets up off the bed, draws himself up to his full height. Chest out, man to man, eye to eye. He glowers a challenge. He’s taller than Mark now. Maybe two or three inches. When did that happen?
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Mark demands.
‘Because you’d have gone off it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. You’d have gone all hulk-man and started tearing our lives apart. It was better I just dealt with it my own way.’
‘And how was that exactly?’ Mark’s spittle hits Oli in the face.
He doesn’t acknowledge it. He doesn’t wipe it away. Slowly, he replies, ‘I decided to do nothing. You know the teachers are always calling me lazy. I decided to do nothing.’
Mark wants to believe him.
But he doesn’t.
42
Kylie
Someone is shaking me roughly. ‘Kylie, Kylie. Kylie, wake up.’ It’s just another dream and I don’t want to wake up. But the voice is desperate, frightened and insistent. They won’t let me go. ‘Kylie, open your ey
es.’ I feel a water bottle being pushed to my mouth, water dribbles down my chin and it feels real. The wetness on my top is true. I flicker open my eyes.
‘Fiona?’ I try to say her name, but I can hear it comes out as little more than a moan. Still she looks relieved. She gently puts the bottle to my lips again and this time I manage to sip. She kisses my forehead. Fiona, who for a long time I loved more than anyone else in the world. Until I had a husband and kids. Then another husband. A thought skitters through my mind. I am still the person Fiona loves most in the world. She will save me.
‘Oh God, Kylie, what the fuck have they done to you?’
She’s calling me by my old name. The name I was when we met. The name it took months of training to get her to kick, but I don’t chastise her for using it as I did when I first applied for the deed poll, instead I’m glad. I am grateful. Kylie is the woman I was before. Whole, complete. Singular. I cling to Fiona, even though doing so causes spikes of pain to throb through my injured hand. I start to sob, inelegant, hiccupping, hysterical sobs erupt from my eyes, mouth, nose. The feel of her flesh, after nothing but space and brutality, makes me feel dizzy, untethered. I thought I was going to die. I thought I wanted to die but I know now I don’t. I want to live. I want Fiona to rescue me. She gently prises her way out of my grasp. Stares at me for a moment, probably taking in my wounds. ‘Kylie, love, we haven’t got much time. They know what you did. Both of them do.’
‘I am in Daan’s building, aren’t I?’ I mumble.
She looks at me carefully, presumably weighing up what I’m capable of dealing with. ‘Yes, you are in Daan’s building,’ she confirms gently.
‘Daan did this to me,’ I assert. I’ve surmised as much but still, hearing it confirmed hurts, wounds.
‘No, well, maybe. I don’t know. I thought it was him. He’s – well, let’s just say he’s not what you think.’ She looks embarrassed, awkward. ‘But I’m not so sure now who did this. I think maybe Mark put you here. You know, if he found out what you’d done and who with then—’
‘You think he is setting up Daan?’ I croak.
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ She sounds desperate. ‘Or maybe they planned it between them. Maybe they are in it together.’
‘Both of them?’ I’m stunned although should I be? They have shared so much unbeknown to them, is it such a leap to think they might share this, unbeknown to me?
‘We haven’t got time to think about this now,’ she says hurriedly. ‘We need to get you out. I’ve brought pliers, they’re in here somewhere.’
In fact, she has a whole bag of helpful stuff; she tips it on to the floor and rummages. I lie back against the wall, too weak to be of much help. She hands me the small bottle of still water and a chocolate bar. It is all I can do to slurp back the water. My fingers are shaking too badly to manage to tear open the wrapping on the chocolate. She notices, stops rummaging and opens it for me. She snaps off a small piece and puts it in my mouth. ‘Here you go, baby bird,’ she says with a sad smile. Her eyes are wet. It’s a thing we used to say to each other, way back when we lived with one another. If one of us was sick and needed pampering, or maybe just hungover and too idle to move, we would hand feed each other Haribo jelly worms and make jokes about baby birds. The tender words feel like hugs. Fiona returns to rattling around with the contents of her bag. She has clean clothes and first aid equipment. I look at her wide-eyed in astonishment.
‘I didn’t know what you’d need, how I’d find you. You know, what sort of state you’d be in, once I worked it out.’ She grimaces. ‘You are going to be OK, Kylie. I know this has been shit, but you’re safe now. I’m going to get you out of here.’ She picks up the pliers and cuts the zip ties that hold me to the chain. My hand flops to my side. I look at it almost surprised. Momentarily unsure what to do with this freedom. ‘I am going to take you to my beach cottage first. I think you need to hide out until the police come and sort it all out.’
‘Why don’t we just go straight to the police now?’
‘We can, Kylie, of course we can. It’s your call. But you are a bigamist, that is a crime. I just couldn’t bear it if they arrested you straight away, made you go straight to a cell, to court. How do these things work? I thought you’d want a decent night’s sleep first. I thought we could try and get hold of Oli and Seb, so you could talk to them, you know, before the police take you.’
I am so grateful, if I had more energy I’d cry. Instead I mumble, ‘How are they?’
‘Oh, they are doing fine considering everything. I guess the test is going to be how they cope when this salacious tale is spread all over the tabloids.’ I drop my head into my hands. ‘Sorry. God, this is all too much. You can’t think straight right now. Let’s get you somewhere safe and clean. We can call the boys and the police after a good night’s sleep. We just need to get a move on now, we really do. If he comes back, I don’t know what he’ll do to either of us. Please, let’s get going.’
43
Kylie
Fiona talks to me in a low, soothing voice as she leads me out of the apartment, to the lift and through the reception.
‘Where’s Alfonso?’ I ask.
She looks confused. ‘Alfonso?’
‘The concierge.
‘Oh. I never found out his name,’ she says, distracted. ‘Probably they’ve moved the switchboard to his home and he’s working from there. Jesus, Kylie, you have no clue what the world is like now. There’s a pandemic, we’re in lockdown, you know – like in Spain and Italy.’ I nod, remembering the fear growing before I was abducted. ‘Besides, Alfredo’s duties – taking in packages, dry cleaning, that sort of thing – will soon all be on hold. I told you, lockdown.’
‘Alfonso,’ I correct.
‘Right, yeah.’
‘How did you get in?’
Fiona looks sheepish. ‘I had a client here a while back. She gave me the key code.’
I lean on Fiona, weak with gratitude for this coincidence. Once outside, I gulp the air, wildly appreciative of the heat of the evening sun, the breeze, its freshness. Fiona is parked close by, the few snatched minutes in the fresh air aren’t enough; the moment we are in the car I press the button to lower the window and lean, like a dog with my head sticking out, breathing in deeply. Fiona concentrates on weaving through the streets. It is deathly quiet, eerie; shops and restaurants are being closed up, some are already boarded up. It makes my escape more dramatic. If anything could be more dramatic than what I’ve been through.
‘It’s like the apocalypse,’ I mutter.
‘Let’s hope not. The good news is that the lack of delivery lorries, cars and even bikes does at least mean we will make good progress through London.’
She’s right about that, soon we are on the motorway heading for the Jurassic coast in Dorset. Fiona bought her place about six years ago. Not a romantic wreck of a cottage, but a nineties bungalow. Pretty soulless initially, but a brilliant, covetable seafront location. She made a project of gutting it and redecorating it. Unlike just about every beach cottage I know there is not a starfish motif in sight, nor any anchor motifs or sailor stripes come to that. The place is decorated in blush pinks, peaches and vibrant oranges, homage to the sunset she enjoys watching from the comfort of her enormous couch, through the wall of glass that allows the most beautiful views. We’ve often made this journey together – usually with Mark and the boys too – to enjoy long weekends where the sea breeze tangles hair, salt sticks to skin and toes can bury into the warm sand. It’s a place where I’ve always felt peaceful and happy. I long to be there, cosseted. Safe. I realise my body is still taut and primed for an attack, for something else awful. I take a deep breath and let my head fall back against the rest.
I’m so grateful that Fiona had the foresight and kindness to decide to take me there first, rather than straight to the police station. She is right, I do need a chance to recoup, maybe even try to relax. Of course, I must face everything sooner rather than later – what I have
done, what has been done to me – but Fiona has shown her best friend credentials by caring most for what I need and giving me that, valuing it above even what is expected of her as a law-abiding citizen.
Fiona keeps glancing my way. Concern oozing out of her, she must be desperate to know exactly what I’ve been through since I saw her last. I get the feeling she is biting back her questions. She doesn’t say much other than urging me to drink and eat. ‘You are so thin,’ she murmurs.
‘What day is it? I ask.
‘Monday.’
I have been locked up for a week. It’s felt like years. I close my eyes and allow myself to drift to sleep, knowing I’m safe. Fiona has my back.
44
Kylie
Fiona gently shakes me awake. ‘We’re here.’ She smiles kindly. ‘You were out for the count.’ Dazed, I stumble out of the car. The cottage is a welcome sight against the dark sky. Fiona gathers up bags from the boot of the car and then opens the back door. Dumbly, I follow her into the kitchen, not quite capable of helping myself, needing her to tell me what to do next. The place has a cool, empty feel to it. It smells a bit musty. Fiona flicks on the lights, smiles at me. ‘I’ll light a fire, but I think the first thing you need is a bath, right?’
How bad must I smell? Fiona draws the bath as I carefully strip off. I wonder whether we should have gone to the hospital, whether my hand is broken but the lure of a hot bath and a night’s sleep in a comfortable bed is too much for me to resist. Fiona has lit candles in the bathroom and poured a generous amount of some lovely scented oil into the bath. It’s a sanctuary. I carefully lower myself into the water. I lay still, the warm, sweet-smelling water gently laps my body. I can hear Fiona move around the kitchen below preparing supper. The idea that I’m going to be clean and fed causes me to weep, quietly.
