The Bones of You

by Debbie Howells

  “Sounds good.” Swallowing what I want to say, because this arrangement sounds anything but. Ally’s young and very glamorous and ambitious, which is one thing. But I’ve seen her eyes on Angus, watched her body language around him give her away. And while I doubt he’s even noticed, I don’t trust her.

  “I can’t wait for you to come up,” he says happily.

  Laura asks me to keep my ear to the ground. But when I do catch sight of Alex, it’s in the distance at the nursery while I’m buying plants. Unnerved by his presence, not expecting him to be out and about, because he’s still a suspect, I don’t speak to him, and he goes out of his way to avoid me.

  Then I go to see Jo.

  Whether it’s the start of a new year that’s done it, the fact that she’s survived Christmas, or whether it’s superhuman reserves she’s found inside, she seems calmer and more peaceful, as though she’s turned a page and begun a new chapter.

  “I need to do something more with my life,” she says. “I mean, I’m still here. I shouldn’t waste it, should I? I’ve decided to go on a course.”

  Yes, she’s right, and wasting a life won’t bring back Rosie. Life is far too short, and too unpredictable. But it’s still early days, with Rosie’s killer yet to be found. I hope Jo’s not pushing herself too hard too soon.

  “That’s great, Jo. It really is. Have you something in mind?”

  She looks worried. “Actually, I’ve signed up for an IT course. Don’t look surprised! It’s not something I talk about, because I’m really quite ashamed, but I’ve never got to grips with computers. I’ve never had to use them much, apart from basic word processing for Neal. It’s residential—for a week, with another week later on. Then I can do the rest distance learning. What do you think?”

  But I’m thinking of Delphine, without her mother yet again.

  She picks up on my hesitation. “I know. I could have found a course closer to home. It’s just . . . I need to do this, Kate. To get away. Think about something different.” Her eyes pleading with me to understand.

  “Sounds perfect,” I tell her, silencing my misgivings. It’s clear enough she needs to do this. “And when you’re an expert, you can teach me!”

  ‘I start next week.’ She smiles, too brightly, but then it falters. When she looks at me, the same devastating, blinding sadness is back in her eyes.

  “You can be honest, Kate. Do you think it’s bad I’m doing this? Now? So soon after . . .” Her voice breaks.

  “Jo, of course I don’t. . . .” I reach out and touch her arm. “Anyway, it’s not for me or anyone else to say what’s right. And even if it only distracts you, there’s nothing wrong with that, either.”

  “It’s hard to know what I should do,” she says quietly. “Everyone likes to tell you to do this and that, and not to do this and that, until you want to scream. And if I stay in this house, I’ll go crazy, I know that much.” There’s an edge of panic in her voice. “I’m firefighting, Kate. This course will get me through another hideous week and give me something else to think about. It may be too soon, but I have to try.”

  She takes a deep breath, battling with herself, and I feel my own heart twist inside me.

  “You’ll have to tell me if I can help. With Delphine? Or anything. . . You will say, won’t you?”

  She nods. “Thank you, Kate. But we should be all right. Neal’s taking some leave.” For a moment, she looks anxious. “It’s about time. He needs a break . . . after, you know, everything. . . .”

  “I’m glad, Jo. Maybe it will be good for all of you. And do tell him, won’t you? About next week? That he only has to ask . . .”

  A weekend follows when Angus doesn’t come home. That work gets in the way of a precious weekend infuriates me; that he appears unbothered makes it worse. And then, swept along with work, I forget about Jo being away and my offer, until one morning halfway through the following week, Neal arrives at my back door. I’m mid-call to my newest client, trying to gently talk her round to what I know is best for her garden, when he waves through the kitchen window at me. I beckon him in.

  “Two minutes,” I mouth at him, scribbling notes as I watch him stand looking out the window, with his arms folded.

  “Sorry,” I say when eventually I put down the phone. “That was one rather elusive client I’ve been trying to talk to for days. How are you?”

  “Yeah. Fine. I’d no idea you were so busy. It wasn’t urgent. I can always go. . . .”

  “No! Have a cup of coffee with me, if you like. Is everything okay?” I turn away, aware of his presence dominating my kitchen, as I fill the kettle and rummage for mugs.

  Behind me, I hear him pull out a chair. “Thanks. I’m adjusting, I think you could say.”

  “Milk and sugar?”

  “Just milk. I’m not so sure my charity work’s a good idea.” Not sounding at all happy about it.

  “What? You mean the orphanage?” I ask him.

  “I’ve stepped back a bit—for now.” There’s a pause. “I don’t know what she’s told you, Kate, but the truth is, these days it’s much harder to leave Joanna.”

  I feel my breath catch. “I thought she was doing so well, especially now that she’s started this course.”

  “You think?” He’s silent. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. It’s hardly the best timing, though. There’s Delphine to think of, for one thing.”

  “She’ll be fine, won’t she? You’re home at the moment.”

  Neal’s eyes narrow, creasing at the corners, as he looks at me. It’s a very direct look, and for some reason it unnerves me. “You probably think I’m old-fashioned, but I’ve seen hundreds of orphaned kids, Kate. In Afghanistan. They’ve witnessed the most horrific violence. Their hearts and homes are broken, and their families destroyed. They might be three, nine, fifteen years old. It doesn’t matter—they all have nothing. You should hear them, Kate. Crying for their mothers. Always the mothers.” He lowers his eyes. “You are right, though, about Delphine. It isn’t the same at all.”

  “It’s amazing what you do out there, Neal.” Rarely venturing out of my own very small world, I find it truly humbling to think of how selflessly he confronts war and poverty, putting his own life at risk, and all in the interest of humankind.

  “I ought to do more,” he says. “Honestly? If I didn’t have Joanna or Delphine, I’d go. Never come back. Make it my life.”

  He speaks as though he means every word. Putting the mugs on the table, I sit opposite.

  “Thanks,” he says. “The other thing is, I’m crap at cooking.”

  “Why not bring Delphine over for supper?” I say brightly. “I’m cooking for only one these days . . . well, during the week.”

  “Oh?”

  “Angus is working in York,” I tell him. “Monday to Friday. So honestly, you’d both be more than welcome.”

  He gives me an appraising look. “He wouldn’t mind?”

  “Angus?” I say incredulously as the implication of his question sinks in, that I’m inviting Neal for dinner while my husband’s away. “Of course he wouldn’t.”

  I get the full, uncensored warmth of a Neal Anderson smile. “Then thanks. We’d both like that.”

  I slow roast a chicken with baked potatoes and herbs I’ve picked from the garden, because it’s easy, adding vegetables for the last hour, pouring myself a glass of wine as I tidy up and set the table for three. I haven’t dressed up, just changed into clean jeans, adding a touch of make-up and a splash of perfume, because it’s just a kitchen supper with friends.

  But when I open the door, I’m taken aback to see Neal’s alone.

  “Delphine’s busy tonight,” he explains. “I’d completely forgotten when you invited us. Look, we could always make it another day. I’d quite understand—if you’d rather?”

  “Of course not. You might as well come in. I’ve already cooked. . . .” I’m too bright, overdoing it. Trying to hide what he’s picked up on—the truth, that I’m a little thrown
. I’m not sure why, but it feels a bit too cosy. His physical presence is powerful, unnerving. And now it is only the two of us, I’m not sure what Angus would say. Or, for that matter, Jo. Then sheer bloody-mindedness kicks in. It’s just dinner, for God’s sake. And Angus went to York, didn’t he? I know he doesn’t always eat alone.

  “Cool. I’ll open this.” He produces a bottle. “Assuming you like red?”

  “Red is good. Thank you.”

  I find him a corkscrew, filling an awkward silence that doesn’t thaw, in spite of Neal’s best efforts. Was it naive of me to invite him here? Only I didn’t, I remind myself. I invited Delphine, too.

  “So where’s Delphine?” I ask.

  “With a school friend,” he says briefly. “I’m not much good at remembering the family stuff. What with being away so much, I’ve always left that side of things to Jo.”

  “God, you’re as bad as Angus,” I tell him, taking the glass he holds out.

  His eyes twinkle at me. “Us men, hey? I know, we’re all the same.... Cheers.” He clinks his glass against mine.

  “Cheers . . . You’re not so bad,” I say lightly, meaning men collectively, rather than just Neal, and downing some of my wine quite quickly. “Shall we eat?”

  “Good plan. Smells fantastic, by the way. You wouldn’t want to see what I can manage in the kitchen. And you must tell me, how’s your daughter getting on?”

  “Grace? Really good. She’s loving her course. I miss her, obviously.. . .” My voice trails off as I serve the food onto plates.

  “It’s okay,” he says quietly, topping up our glasses while I put the plates on the table. “I asked. And it’s not wrong to talk about her. She’s your daughter. You should.”

  “You know why I don’t?” I tell him, wondering how I can tell him this, but not Jo. “Because when I mention her name to Jo, I feel so guilty.”

  He shakes his head. “You really shouldn’t,” he says gently. “It’s not your fault Rosanna died. Or any of ours. And life goes on. It has to, Kate. I have to believe that. It’s the only thing that gets me through this.”

  “It must drive you insane. Not knowing,” I say softly, my awkwardness gone, finding I’m suddenly flattered by his shared confidences, the way he talks so openly to me.

  There’s a pause before he says, “Yes.”

  We eat in silence, finish the wine; then as I look across the table at him, I feel a connection between us that’s tangible, born out of empathy, because he’s so brave, so strong. And he has no one who’s strong for him.

  It’s as if he reads my mind, putting down his knife and fork as my heart flips over, and somehow, across the table, our hands link.

  “How do you do it?”

  “What? Touch your hand? Easy, Kate. My fingers close round yours, like this, and . . .”

  His tone is light; his voice hypnotic. His fingers are strong and warm wrapped round mine. How can just touching hands feel like this?

  What am I doing? What is he doing?

  “I don’t mean that.” I want to pull my hand away, but there’s a force keeping it there, the same force that’s making my fingertips tingle, my pulse race, and my insides flutter. I try to ignore all of them, to focus. “I mean survive, keep strong after what’s happened?”

  He sighs. “Oh. That. Sometimes, Kate,” he says, “you really don’t have a choice.”

  When I don’t rally with some flirty aside, the shutters go down. Slowly, he disentangles his hand, then gets up, offering to help clear up before glancing at his watch.

  “Thanks, but it’s no problem,” I tell him. “Look, there’s hardly any washing-up.”

  His eyes flicker around the kitchen. I see it through his eyes for a minute. Small and untidy instead of pristine, stripped wood instead of gleaming steel. The washing-up’s stacked in the sink; ingredients are spread over the worktops. Then I stop myself, because this is my home and I love every untidy inch of it.

  “It was a lovely meal,” he says finally.

  “Sorry. I should have made a dessert. I could make coffee, if you like?” But my offer is halfhearted.

  A silence falls between us, filled with unsaid words. Then he says, “I think it’s best if I go. Thank you for tonight, Kate.”

  He takes a step closer, and like my fingers were sparking earlier, I feel my traitorous heart skip a beat.

  “It was nothing, really. You’re welcome.”

  I don’t say, “We must do it again.” I’m too aware of the physical effect he’s having on me to say anything else. And then, before I can stop him, he leans toward me, his lips closer, then touching mine.

  ROSIE

  I see the blue-eyed boy in worn jeans working in our garden, the one who knows the seasons and how to sell them to people like my parents, who, above all, want to look good. To bask in admiring glances because they have the biggest house and the most impressive garden.

  Am I drawn to him that first time because my parents would hate even the idea of their daughter touching him, kissing him, joining her body to his? Or do his kind gentleness, his sensitivity, the way he reads me mean it’s as inevitable as night falling or storm waves crashing on the shore? How can I tell?

  Alex shows me the first shoots poking up through the earth. “It encapsulates nature,” he tells me. You have these small, brown, knotty things buried in the earth that, with the right conditions, grow and produce something beautiful. First leaves, which are each their own shade of green, followed by a tiny snowdrop or a sweet-scented narcissus or bold tulips, which keep growing, changing color, even when you cut them. “But,” he adds, “the potential was always there, even if you couldn’t see it.”

  The way he speaks makes it simple, that what needs nurturing isn’t the blowsy, transient flower, but what’s underneath. Like with people, what’s inside is far more beautiful than anything produced by the surgeon’s knife.

  He shows me there’s beauty in imperfection. In petals that drop, then wither and brown, leaving the seed pods, which birds feed on. In lichen-covered bark; rich, crumbling soil; and the rose with different colored blooms. Their own kinds of beauty beyond the obvious.

  It starts with our eyes. Our shoulders brushing. Fingers making contact as I hand him a mug of tea, until one day, he puts down the mug. Strokes a strand of hair off my face, then leans down and kisses me.

  His touch is as seductive as the first breath of honeysuckle or the sun’s warmth after a long winter. I don’t know how I’ve lived so long without him, how empty I’ve been, until the moment his hands first hold mine, when I breathe in the earthy, fresh-air scent of him, which makes me long for him. It’s when I realize for the first time, I feel truly alive.

  It’s a moment I can’t take back. There’s nowhere else to go after falling in love, with its dancing air and light feet. It’s life changing, reaching into my psyche, lifting it. I can breathe. I can talk. I can be. Is it love that does this to people, or being surrounded by the silent strength of trees, the unstoppable force of the wind, while at your feet the most delicate flowers grow?

  Alex shows me another world: the tallest hilltops, with the world spread at our feet; the highest clouds that herald a storm. The movement of the tides while we light a driftwood fire and sit, his arm around me, my head against his, watching the sky, shades of blue fading to peach purple before stars pierce the darkness.

  And in between, it’s enough to snatch moments, no less precious because they’re fleeting.

  I’m so careful. Cover every trace of us with finely drawn lies so no one knows. Until the day I don’t see my mother come back after her hair appointment’s canceled and they forgot to tell her. I don’t hear her car, because she parks it on the road. Nor do I see her silently open the door and go inside, then tiptoe through the sitting room to the kitchen, where she stands and looks outside.

  Is the shock on her face because his arms are around me, or because she sees on our faces something she knows she’s never felt and never will?

  It no
longer matters what my parents think. This kind of love can’t be wrong. But I know, too, it isn’t always like this. That there are some people, like my parents, who would be better as passing strangers. Or best, never meeting at all.

  18

  What happened with Neal that night haunts me, even though it was just a kiss, and I pushed him away, and even though I picture Angus drunk in a bar, his eyes blurry as he gazes adoringly at a nameless someone, always a pretty nameless someone, as he flirts, almost definitely in a harmless, tipsy kind of way—but always harmless. The results of the “How much do you trust your husband?” test are in. He passes with flying colors. I trust him implicitly. With our marriage. With my life. Like he trusts me.

  Several times I pick up my phone to call Rachael, but something stops me. Is it fair to put her in the middle of this? Or is the truth that I’m too ashamed?

  Just a kiss. That was what Neal said before he left last night.

  All his fault. How sorry he was. He said that, too, before he left.

  I could have stopped him sooner. I’d sensed what was coming. Let it happen. That’s no one’s fault but my own.

  I escape on Zappa, who’s still with me because although his owner doesn’t want him back, she cannot bring herself to sell him.

  This morning, he’s restless, jumpy, feeling the cold through his clipped coat and not liking what’s in my head any more than I do. Only when I turn him into an unplowed field and let him fly do we leave my thoughts far behind, fixing instead on the pounding of his hooves, the mud spattering in all directions, and the wind.

  This majestic horse senses my every mood, even when we get back and I turn him out with Reba and Oz, when he spurns their company and instead comes and stands, his head close to mine, his breath warm against my hands, as if he knows. And for a short time, I forget. But when I get back to the house, shower the mud off, and am making lunch, with damp hair, Neal turns up.