“I have a trailer, but I’ve never loaded him.”
“You better hitch it up, and I’ll help you.”
Thank God Helen’s here to make me do this, because not only do I have massive doubts, but a sixth sense tells me he isn’t going to make it. Even though he’s been here only a few months, I’ve bonded with this horse. I know he’s really sick.
I reverse the trailer as close to the stable as I can, while Helen coaxes Zappa to his feet. While I hold the end of his lead rope, he takes a reluctant step toward the ramp, and then all hell breaks loose as he leaps forward and crashes into the wall.
“It’s the pain.” Helen grits her teeth. “I’ll have to give him another shot.”
She goes to her car while I stay with him. He’s shuddering, coated in sweat, and though I try to stop him, he goes down again.
“Helen . . . hurry. . . .”
She reappears instantly, holding a syringe. “I’ll get this into him first. Then we’ll get him on his feet.”
Poor, poor Zappa. Brave horse that he is, he tries so hard to do as we ask. Once, he almost makes it, but his legs give way and he collapses back onto the straw.
“God . . . I hope it’s not too late. We have to get him in that trailer, Kate. It’s his only hope.”
And though we pull, push, try to rock him gently to his feet, we fail. And as the implications of this sink in, I feel the sickening wrench inside as my heart twists and breaks.
Whispering quietly to him, I crouch down on the floor beside his head.
“Zappa . . . beautiful horse . . .”
But even as I gently stroke him, he doesn’t move. Behind me, I hear Helen come back in. “Kate? I’m sorry, but you know we can’t leave him like this.”
Still stroking Zappa’s noble head, I nod as a tear rolls down my face onto his.
While she goes out to her car, I lean forward and kiss his silver nose. Apart from the rise and fall of his rib cage, he doesn’t move.
“It’s okay,” Helen says as she comes back in. “He’s out of it. He won’t know a thing.”
Loss is one thing, but standing between life and death, making the right decision for the right reasons, is almost worse. It’s Zappa’s body being winched away, which I don’t watch, because I want to remember his beauty, his intelligence, his talent, not this last, most undignified part at the end.
It leaves me raw, bleeding, and devastated, then angry, needing someone to stick needles in, to inflame, to hurt as much as I’m hurting. I pour a large medicinal whiskey, which I hate the taste of, feeling it burn my throat and numb my pain, after which I phone Angus and tell him.
“God, Kate. How awful. Are you all right?”
“Yes. No. I feel horrible, Angus. That poor horse . . .”
“You did what you had to,” he says quietly. “I wish I was with you, Kate.”
Suddenly, I miss him. Hate that he’s not here when I most need him; that I can’t crush my body against his so that I can feel his heartbeat, his energy, reminding me that there is life and it does go on, regardless, as it always will.
Seized with recklessness, I let whiskey-tainted words rip out of me. Words I’ve kept inside for far too long. “This sucks.... I hate you not being here. Everything’s different, Angus. You’re different. I’m different. . . .”
“Hey, Kate. We’re the same. I’ll be home in a couple of months. All this will be behind us.”
But I deserve to hurt, to be hurt. So does he. Pretending we’re fine is too easy.
“Neal came on to me.” I blurt it out, air from a balloon escaping, squealing in my ear. And almost immediately regret it.
He’s silent. Is he going to tell me, too?
“And?” His tone is steely.
“And nothing. He kissed me. I pushed him away.”
Do I stop here? Do I tell him how Neal made me feel? How revolted I am that I touched a man who murdered his own child?
“Stay away from those fucking people, Kate. They’re bad news, both of them. You’ve changed. Look at you. The old Kate wouldn’t have dreamed of this.”
“How dare you?” Shouting, stung. “You’re hardly ever here, Angus. And I didn’t do anything. You’re the one who went away. How dare you!”
“We’re married, Kate. Remember that? Because from where I am, you seem to have forgotten.” His voice is cold, distant.
“Yeah, well, it didn’t stop you from leaving me, did it? Or whatever else you’ve been up to while you’re there.”
Another bitter, anger-filled silence resounds in my ears.
“Just . . . leave it, okay? I can’t talk to you in this mood. I’ll call you.”
Then he hangs up.
I slump onto the floor, tears pouring down my cheeks. Is this it? The end? Only later do I realize he’s explained nothing. Denied nothing. Maybe he’s done nothing, too.
For the first time ever, did I read him wrong?
ROSIE
There’s a reason Joanna doesn’t go to parties or out drinking with friends or to see a show, getting dressed up, sharing a meal afterward. There’s something of such importance that it’s spreading into all the corners of her mind, taking over her every waking hour. Something that the most careful make-up in the world can’t paint over or conceal.
I follow, a shadow in her shadow, even on this gloomy day, as she takes the Tube to Regent’s Park, then walks the short distance to Harley Street and up the steps to a glossy front door. Hesitates, but only minutely.
Inside is bright white. Makes her think of sunshine, warmth, a perfectly ordered world where everything is as it should be. More so when she meets Jean Pinard. Their first meeting. First of many.
“Are you certain?” He traces the outline of her nose, presses it gently this way and that, wonders why such a lovely young girl needs to endure the anesthetic, the slicing of skin and cartilage, the pain, all for a few millimeters less.
“We can make a small difference.” She likes the word small. The way he says it, in that accented voice of his. Maybe he can remove inches of her height, her arms, her fat at the same time.
She insists, and he does it. He’s right, too. The difference is small. So small that when she returns to work, her colleagues don’t notice the nose, just how pale she is. How can someone go to Turkey for three weeks and be so pale?
But Joanna knows that this is the first step. Her new nose for the new life that one day she’s certain will be hers. She isn’t sure what it is yet, just that she’ll recognize it when she sees it. And piece by piece, if she perfects herself, the rest will follow. How can it not?
27
Is there a rebalancing going on in my universe? A price to be paid for a mistake or a bad judgment call? The cost of almost cheating on Angus? Zappa’s life for my marriage?
Stupid, I tell myself. It doesn’t work like that. You didn’t cheat, anyway. You feel guilty because just for a moment, you wanted to.
As I contemplate the future of my marriage, Zappa’s loss leaves a bigger space in my life than I’d have thought possible. His owner is sad, of course, but she didn’t really want him, and her insurance paid out, effortlessly resolving her dilemma.
For all the animals she’s surrounded by, Rachael remains a farmer’s wife—almost.
“Thank God it wasn’t one of yours,” she says, unemotional, completely unable to comprehend that ownership doesn’t come into it. That Zappa had crept deep into my heart.
I remain unsettled. Missing something. My husband and my daughter. And now this beautiful horse. What happened to all that spirit, that energy? Did it dissipate into the straw in his stall when Helen pulled the trigger, or did it cross over to somewhere I can’t see? An image of Zappa comes to me, out there, a streak of silver galloping through the darkness. A ghost horse ridden by the ghost girl with pale hair.
And while I flounder, Jo’s progress is also slow, the trauma of past months seeming to have her in its stranglehold.
“Your visits are good for her,” one of the n
urses tells me. Carla stays close to Jo, shares my concern for her with more than simply professional interest. “She needs to remember there’s a world out there. She seems to have completely detached herself from Delphine, but that’s because at the moment, just being Jo is too painful for her.”
“It’s what I’ve seen her do before,” I say. “Just switch herself off.”
“It’s a defense,” Carla says, looking troubled. “A wall between her and her pain. And when she does it, we can’t reach her.”
“Has she talked about her marriage? I know it’s not my business to tell you, but there are so many things. . . .” My voice trails off. The hospital should know, but I’m not Jo’s family. Unfamiliar with the protocol, I’m not sure it’s my place to say this.
“Listen, Kate. We need to know anything that will help her. I know her husband is suspected of murdering their daughter.”
I take a deep breath. “Do you know he abused her? Physically?”
Carla’s eyes tell me she doesn’t know. We sit down together in a quiet room away from everyone else, and slowly, over the next hour, I tell her what I know.
It’s when I realize how straightforward, how uncomplicated my own life used to be, but also how now it’s anything but. When Laura comes over, primarily to ask about Jo, I try to explain.
“It’s since Angus went, really. We’ve been together for so long, I’ve forgotten what I was like without him.”
“But he’ll be back soon, won’t he?”
“Another couple of months.” I hand her a cup of tea. “He comes home most weekends, but it’s not the same. Anyway, we argued.”
Regretting the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. Wishing, like with Angus, I could take them back.
“It can’t be easy. It’s a long time to be apart. It’s bound to put a strain on things.”
“You think? Wouldn’t most women love that there’s less washing and cooking, that they’re free to please themselves, you know . . . ?”
“To start with, maybe. But it’s a long time. It’s nothing serious, though, is it?”
“I’m not actually sure.” I put down my tea. “Okay. I wasn’t going to tell you, or anyone else. And I’m not proud. At all. But Neal Anderson came on to me.”
Laura whistles. “You’ve kept that one quiet. What happened, Kate?”
“To be honest, I wanted to forget about it. I invited him for supper while Jo was at her course. I was just trying to be neighborly. I invited him and Delphine, but he turned up without her. She was at a friend’s. He’d forgotten all about it.”
“Or so he said.”
I stare at her. It hadn’t occurred to me that he’d done it on purpose. “I’d already cooked, so he stayed. Then, when he left, he tried to kiss me.”
She looks at me sharply. “What? You mean he forced you?”
“No. Not like that at all. He was very charming. And so bloody seductive, Laura.” And though I hunt for another, they’re the only words that accurately describe him. “Anyway, I pushed him away. He left. Then, the next morning, he came back for another try. I told him to go.” I shrug. “That was it.”
“God. What a bastard.” Laura’s thoughtful. “Does Jo know?”
“I haven’t told her. How can I? I’m supposed to be her friend.... I’ve no idea if he did. Knowing what sort of man he is, he might well have.”
“What about Angus?”
“I told him. The other night, after Zappa, when it all got too much, Laura. I was a mess. I probably shouldn’t have. But it’s too late now.”
“Oh, Kate.” She contemplates her tea. “You didn’t actually do anything wrong, did you? It was all Neal.”
“Oh . . .” I shake my head, thinking of my body responding to him, the mixed messages I must have given him. “I think there must have been some body language going on there. I must have encouraged him, or he wouldn’t have tried it, would he?” A horrifying thought occurs to me. “Oh God . . . Do you think the police should know?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s exactly relevant, is it?” she says gently.
“Isn’t it? Doesn’t it show how disreputable he is? How traitorous? That stupid women like me fall under his spell?” To my embarrassment, I’m nearly crying.
“Kate. Enough. You stopped him,” says Laura.
My eyes meet hers. “You want the truth? Honestly? I stopped him, yes. But I didn’t want to.”
Laura shakes her head disbelievingly. “Kate! You’ve been married far too long! I don’t mean that in a bad way! But all women are allowed fantasies, aren’t they? Well, the living and breathing ones, at least. You shouldn’t feel guilty. You didn’t act on it. You turned down the revered Neal Anderson when millions wouldn’t. It makes you practically a saint!”
“You think?”
Is she right? Did Neal set the whole thing up?
“God, definitely.”
The weight starts to lift.
Then I think of Angus’s cold, reproachful voice, and it crashes back down, leaves me gasping for air.
ROSIE
Some people have thirty ghosts not just behind them but still with them, somehow intertwined in their lives, even though they can’t see them. People like Kate, Grace, Auntie Carol.
But not Joanna, who has lost her ghosts, has no love behind her, no one beside her in her expanse of empty life, until that sunburst day at a mutual friend’s wedding, when she and Neal meet. A cherry-blossom day full of promises, scattered like the confetti outside the church. The moment he sees her, light, beautiful, pliable, slipping off the silk coat she’s saved for such a moment, her hair catching the sunlight, as she looks around for a familiar face, then turns and sees his, such is their attraction of extremes, a collective sigh goes through the cosmos, followed by a whisper of hope—tinged with relief. And danger.
Something strange happens to Joanna. Not the vodka she had earlier to bolster herself—she’s used to how that feels. It’s this sense of déjà vu. She has no idea about what but absolutely knows, feels it in her parched, shrunken heart, when she sees him. This is he. And from that first moment, they’re white powder and rusty metal that’s slowly corroding, the heat building until it ignites.
The fireball catches everything in its path, drawing it into the inferno. Only it isn’t about love; it’s about large and small. And with his handsome, head-turning, commanding ways, no one’s ever made her feel smaller. He’s powerful, too, and she instinctively feels herself respond, bending and flexing to his every whim. She can’t help herself.
She’s found it. The beginning of the rest of her life. She can’t let him go. She’s seen, too, the Joanna-sized space in him that she has to fill.
28
It takes time, but while Jo crawls from the depths toward daylight, Neal’s trial draws closer. The assault charge is conclusive enough, according to Laura, though whether he’ll be charged with murder is still questionable. The police have various accounts of what happened that night, along with the files Jo found, but the murder weapon has yet to be discovered.
“He may be the prime suspect,” she tells me. “And you wouldn’t believe the number of people coming forward with axes to grind. From work colleagues to ex-lovers. But the police need more concrete evidence.”
She glances at my face. “So many of them, Kate. Seems Neal’s upset a lot of people. It does happen, you know—particularly in the case of successful, powerful men, like he is. They think they’re invincible, until one day, they take a step too far. And then it all catches up with them.”
What she says is completely plausible, yet one thing puzzles me. “It’s hard to picture the same person involved with the orphanage.”
“Yes, well, seems they’d had enough of him there, too. He left a few months ago—under a cloud. Something clearly happened, though as yet no one’s saying what.”
“But the charity awards.” I’m puzzled. “He was nominated for one at the end of last year. He and Jo were going together, making a weekend of it. Only in
the end, he went without her. She got drunk before they’d even left.”
“What? I hadn’t heard about this.”
“That afternoon, apparently, Jo was drinking. Heavily. I’m not sure why. By the time I found her, he’d gone.”
Laura’s shaking her head. “But if he’d severed his connection to the orphanage, he wouldn’t have been nominated—or would he? Maybe it was for past work. Did he win?”
I try to remember the Sunday morning at Jo’s, when he came back early. “He didn’t actually say.” But my brain is whirring. “What if,” I say slowly, still thinking, “it was all a facade? He got her drunk rather than tell her the truth—that they’d fired him—then pretended to go alone, only instead spent the weekend with another woman.”
Laura frowns. “It would be easy enough to check if he was there or not. Not that it’s really relevant to Rosie’s murder.”
“It’s very relevant to Jo, though. He had a way of bulldozing over her. She felt terrible that she ruined that night for him. It might be empowering, especially now, to know that he set it all up.”
“Who’d have thought it?” Laura shakes her head again. “You know, you think you can figure people out. Work out what it is that makes them tick. But honestly, Kate, sometimes you can’t tell the half of it.”
With the trial pending, speculation resurfaces as the press digs up all the dirt it can get on him. The messy trail of affairs and his systematic abuse of women, who until now had chosen silence for their own reasons. Even Jo’s history of illness. It leaves the image he’s built up over the years in tatters.
“God. What an utter bastard.” Rachael’s disbelieving. “More fool Joanna for staying with him. She didn’t have to, did she?”
“She loved him,” I say quietly.
The last straw for me are the unsubstantiated reports that Rosie was pregnant. And suddenly, I’m completely sick of the gossip, the speculation, the lies, every last bit of it.
The Bones of You Page 18
