The Bones of You

by Debbie Howells

  “Which includes Jo’s parents, then.”

  Laura frowns. “What about them?”

  “Well, they died. About five years ago. She told me only recently.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “She didn’t want to talk about them. Something about her father being ‘vile’ and ‘cruel,’ I think her words were.”

  “Interesting,” says Laura. “Only, her father’s Edward Pablo, isn’t he? According to the records I checked, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Pablo are very much alive and living in Switzerland.”

  Our eyes meet.

  “So why the lies?” I ask.

  “I’m guessing she meant they were dead to her. Maybe they fell out and never made it up.”

  I shake my head. “It didn’t sound like that. I said something about it being awful. She said it was, at the time.”

  “She could have been talking about a row,” suggests Laura.

  Could she? As I replay the conversation in my head, I wonder if maybe Laura’s right.

  “On the downside, we’re still no closer to finding out who sent the notes,” says Laura. “Is there a pattern to when they arrive?”

  I shake my head. “Not that I can think of.”

  She shrugs. “There’s one other thing. I’m going to try to see Neal. Apparently, that rumor about him seducing an underage girl was just that, a rumor, spread around by a jealous colleague because his wife had a bit of a thing for him. He was genuinely nominated for that award. Did you know that? I looked into it.”

  An image of Jo, excited, radiant, comes into my head, followed by another, of the ripped remains of her beautiful dress.

  “So many people have it in for him,” Laura goes on. “But then, if you go around seducing other men’s wives, I suppose it’s inevitable.”

  “It wasn’t a secret from Jo. She knew what he got up to.”

  Laura nods. “What some people will put up with . . . Don’t you wonder why?”

  ROSIE

  It’s the look in his eyes as they flicker down my body. His daughter’s body.

  It’s when he comes in late, whiskey on his breath, the cruelty in his eyes, Joanna enduring his fingers rammed inside her too hard, then his body crushing on top of hers as he forces his way into her. While she grits her teeth against the dry, rasping pain, because he wants this.

  Why isn’t it different? Why can’t she see the same light in her own eyes as she sees in mine? The light she can’t look away from, even though it blinds her to look at it, because it comes from love. It haunts her that it makes my face beautiful in a way hers never can be. That she is too scarred, has too much pain.

  And when he’s done all that, he goes again. “To another meeting,” he always tells her, his phone switched off for hours, sometimes days. Comes home, another hotel bill for her to find, left deliberately in his jacket pocket, more texts for her to find on his phone. The pretense has stopped now, of caring, of belonging, of wanting her. That’s when she decides.

  She has to take matters into her own hands. Do whatever it takes to remind him how much he needs her. Because she needs him. She can’t live without him, even though there is no love in her husband’s soul, only lust, ambition, pride.

  She thinks of the pills, only that’s too easy. And it’s too soon. Leaves too much behind that’s unresolved. There are lessons to be learned, debts to be paid. And as she’s learned from the master himself, there’s no room for imperfection.

  34

  June

  May turns to early June, with talk of a long, hot summer ahead of us. Work quietens a little. After a wet spring, the rush of lush growth has slowed to a more leisurely, manageable rate.

  In just three weeks’ time, Grace will be home for the summer, and for now, I’m content to look no further ahead and just enjoy the prospect. She’s not yet said if Ned’s joining her.

  I’m still thinking about them, picking salad leaves in the veg patch, when the phone rings.

  “Hello? I hope I have the right number.... Could I speak to Kate?”

  “This is Kate McKay. How can I help?”

  Not recognizing the voice, I instantly assume it’s a potential client. Only it isn’t.

  “Oh, thank goodness. Kate, my name’s Carol. I’m Neal Anderson’s sister.”

  “Hi! Carol . . .” I’m not sure what to say, but she carries on.

  “I’m so sorry, Kate, to call you like this. I hope you don’t mind. I know you’re friends with Joanna, but . . .” She hesitates. “I’m terribly worried about Delphine.”

  On this lovely day, a chill comes over me.

  “Go on.”

  “She called me. Last week. She said her mother wasn’t well—again. I don’t know if you’re aware of Joanna’s . . . problems?”

  “I think so. But since she came home, she’s been quite good, I thought.”

  “Is she eating?” Carol sounds worried. “You do know she doesn’t eat? Just drinks?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. We do go out now and then. She doesn’t eat much, but she always has something.”

  There’s silence. “Does she go to the bathroom after?”

  Does she? I try to think. Is Carol trying to tell me Jo’s bulimic? If so, I’d put money on her being wrong. Jo’s always been thin, but that’s largely due to stress. And I’m not prepared to discuss her with a stranger.

  “Carol, I’m not sure if I can help you. You say it’s Delphine you’re worried about?”

  “Terribly. Joanna isn’t stable. We’ve never really got on, but the poor woman’s had a lot to cope with, and I know my brother’s to blame. Right now, she’s all Delphine has. And I’m not at all sure that’s a good thing.”

  “I don’t think it’s as bad as you’re making out,” I reassure her. “And at least when they move, you’ll be able to keep an eye on them.”

  “Move?” Carol sounds astonished. “They’re moving?”

  I’m getting a bad feeling about this. I’d had Carol down as an earth-mother type, as caring, gentle, not as this woman set on stirring up trouble.

  “You must know.” I’m starting to feel impatient. “Jo told me they were probably going to stay with you, just for a while, when they’ve sold the house, of course.”

  “Are you quite sure she said that?”

  “Definitely. She’s spoken to you, surely?”

  In the silence that follows, I try to work out what’s going on. Who’s misunderstanding whom and, more important, whose side Carol is on.

  “I haven’t heard from Joanna for several weeks, Kate. We had an argument when I dropped Delphine home. Delphine wanted to stay with me—not just short term, either. She wanted to come and live with us. I can’t imagine how that makes Joanna feel.”

  I’m struggling to believe her. Surely if something of this level of importance was going on, Jo would have mentioned it?

  “She hasn’t said a thing about it—not to me.”

  “No. She probably won’t, either, knowing Joanna. I’m sure you know what I mean. But, anyway, as you can appreciate, I am concerned.”

  I end up promising Carol that I’ll keep a closer eye on both Jo and Delphine. I know Jo well enough now to be able to gauge if she’s having another breakdown.

  But when I next go round to see her, everything is as it always is. The house tidy, Jo her most poised, beautifully dressed self and drinking tea as she leafs through a pile of property brochures.

  “You’ve been busy.” I pull a chair up next to her. “May I?”

  “Please do. It’s quite fun, actually. Have a look. I’ll make you some tea.”

  I start flicking through them, an assortment of large houses similarly located to this one, modern and expensive-looking, on exclusive wooded estates. And I wonder, even after selling the house, how she’s going to afford this.

  “There’s one in there I love,” she calls over. “It’s near Tonbridge.”

  “But what about Devon? Isn’t Carol expecting you to move there?” I hate that I’m doi
ng this, but for Delphine’s sake, I’m testing her. After what Carol said, I feel I have to.

  “To tell you the truth . . .” She puts the mugs on the table and sits again. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. Carol’s a bit inclined to . . . interfere, I think you’d call it. I’m not sure it would work.”

  I sip my tea, working out how to play the next card. “It might be nice for Delphine, though, don’t you think? Carol has children, doesn’t she? A similar age?”

  I watch as Jo’s smile tightens. “They’re quite a bit older, actually. Look, tell me what you think of this one.” She pulls out one of the brochures, with a picture of a new-build New England–style weatherboarded house on the front. “What do you think?”

  “Very nice.” I turn the pages. It’s definitely Jo’s kind of house, airy, spacious, and—dare I say it?—impressive. “If you’d like me to come and look with you, I’d be more than happy to.”

  “Would you?” She hesitates. “I’m waiting to hear back from the agent. Can I let you know?”

  “What does Delphine think . . . about this?” I nod at the brochure.

  “Oh, she’s fine with it. She’s used to changing schools. We’ve always moved. In fact, this is the longest we’ve stayed anywhere. So it will be nice to live somewhere else.”

  She makes no mention of her earlier reluctance—or of our friendship. I know some people change their homes as easily as their hairstyles, unlike Angus and I, who like the thought that having found a home we love, we’ll grow into it, grow old in it, stay forever.

  “I know. You probably think we’re mad! And boring!” I tell her.

  She looks at me. “You’re just lucky, aren’t you? But you deserve it, Kate.”

  “Very, very weird thing,” I tell Laura, when I call round to her cottage. “I had a call from Jo’s sister-in-law, Carol.”

  “Neal’s sister?” Laura says.

  “That’s her. She told me she was worried about Delphine. Really worried. And that Delphine apparently wanted to go and live with her.”

  “That is strange,” says Laura. “Has Delphine said anything to you?”

  “No. But I don’t know her that well. Were you able to see Neal?”

  “Yes. I finally tracked him down to a flat in London. He’s there until after the trial. Basically, it sounds as though Joanna’s about as fucked up as he is. He said that he’d told the truth about the award, just as he was telling the truth about not killing his daughter. That their gardener, Alex, is guilty as hell, and what would it take for everyone to believe him? That sort of stuff.”

  Then Laura frowns. “You know the weirdest thing? I almost believed him. Oh, I know how manipulative he is, but I’m convinced he was telling the truth.”

  As the implication of what she’s saying sinks in, as rock-solid certainty turns to confusion, we’re silent.

  “Did you ask him about Jo’s parents?” I say eventually.

  “Yes. He’s had little to do with them. Apparently, she had quite a strict upbringing. He didn’t have much else to say. Talking of Alex, have you seen him at all?”

  I shake my head. “Not for a while. He’s not working at the nursery.”

  “You’ve got to admit it’s odd,” Laura remarks. “It may just be a coincidence, but there’s Neal proclaiming him guilty just as Alex disappears.”

  I shake my head. “But the police didn’t charge him.”

  “The police couldn’t, because even without his alibi—who was Poppy, by the way—they didn’t have enough evidence,” Laura reminds me. “But if Neal really isn’t the killer, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see the spotlight back on Alex. Right now, there isn’t anyone else. . . .”

  ROSIE

  On that jewel-bright day when Neal’s coming back, when the last of Joanna’s bruises are fading and her hair is like it was when they got married, when her children wear their new clothes, when her world is finally as it should be, even the mask face can’t hide how shocked she is.

  It tips the fragile scales that she’s spent years carefully weighing, so that they teeter on the edge of perfection. Ruins everything. Wrenches the rug from under her. She’s in the bathroom, looking at the pregnancy test, then away, then back again, in case it’s changed.

  How? She’s been so careful. She wants to scream. It’s so unfair that this should happen now, when everything’s in place, and the moment she’s been waiting her entire life for has finally come.

  She drops it into the basin, slumps onto the floor. Hears a howling sound, then realizes it’s her own cry of anguish, drawn from deep inside her. Stifles it, because no one must hear. No one must know.

  This baby can’t be born. Because she’s not just a mother, but she’s also a wife. Has a duty. To give them all what’s best for them. To do everything in her power to make sure none of them suffer as she has. She has to put them first, doesn’t she? Put him first?

  35

  I go round to Jo’s several times, intending to challenge her. To ask her why she lies to me. Why she can’t trust me, her only real friend, to use her own words, with the truth. Only each time, she’s out.

  A couple of days later, though, it’s Jo who comes round to see me, looking shaky and unsure of herself.

  “I’m sorry to just turn up. I know you’re busy,” she says, her eyes wide and anxious as she looks at me.

  “Not that busy,” I tell her. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you. Come and have a cuppa with me.”

  She follows me in and sits at the kitchen table, not talking.

  “Tea?”

  She nods.

  I put the kettle on and get out the teapot, wondering how to tackle this, while she sits, not moving, completely silent.

  But before I can find the words, it’s Jo who speaks.

  “I’m not having a good day.” Her voice wobbles. “I thought I could do it, but I don’t think I can leave here, Kate. I mean, Rosanna’s buried here. And it’s still Neal’s house, too. What was I thinking?”

  She sounds like a little girl who’s lost. But what’s more astounding is that she even mentions Neal’s name, let alone seems to feel an obligation to him.

  “Hey, it’s okay, you know. Moving at any time is stressful. It’s a huge thing to take on, moving away from here. And I completely get about leaving Rosie’s grave behind. I wouldn’t want to. But don’t cloud your decision with loyalty to Neal, Jo. He doesn’t deserve it.”

  I rarely speak to her this directly, because at the back of my mind, I’m always thinking how fragile she is. She’s bloody fragile, to use Neal’s words. And yes, even though she’s been going through the motions of selling the house and moving, I’ve doubted all along she’s ready for this.

  She nods. “You’re right. You’re always right, Kate. I wish I could be like you. It’s just that sometimes nothing’s clear. Or I think it is, and then it fogs over and I lose it again.” She looks confused. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

  “Here’s a thought.” I sit down opposite her, forgetting my earlier antagonism toward her. “If you could do anything in the world you wanted, go anywhere, be anyone, what would you do?”

  It’s a game Angus and I used to play, just for a laugh. He’d be Tom Hanks and I’d be Rita Wilson, in a Hollywood mansion with pots of money, even though in real life we’re perfectly happy being us. Then I realize with a shock how crass I’ve been. In Jo’s shoes, all I’d want is Rosie safe and well, and a husband who loved me by my side.

  I look at Jo, leaning on her elbows, her hands shaking, wild panic in her eyes.

  Eventually, slowly, she gets the words out. “I . . . don’t . . . know.”

  ROSIE

  The house is empty, but Joanna’s muttering to a nameless, disembodied someone who can’t hear her as she spews out the words that are so jumbled inside her head, it hurts.

  Fucking bastard. She hurls a glass onto the floor. Feels fear replace fury as she glances over her shoulder and clears up the broken pieces.

  Vodka. Sh
e needs another glass. Her hands shaking so much, she almost drops it. Ice. Tops it up, then drinks it down in one and waits for the numbness to drift over her. It’s not fast enough. She has another, then at last feels it enter her bloodstream, sweeping through her veins until slowly it anesthetizes her brain.

  Mania turns to exhaustion in two seconds flat. She counts them, then forgets what it is she has to do.

  Not so clever now, is she? Not as sneaky, deceptive, secretive as she thought she was.

  She doesn’t know if she can do this thing she’s forgotten about, only that she can’t not do it. As always in her life, she has no choices. It’s always about other people. Forcing her to do things.

  Like now. Drinking vodka. Feeling up, then down, then blank. Like so many things, not her fault.

  But the trouble is, if you knew what her dilemma was, you’d see clear as night. She’s the only one who can do this, even though she doesn’t want to.

  She has no choice.

  36

  What was intended as an entertaining diversion, a foray into a fantasy world, seems to tip Jo over an invisible edge. I forget about the questions I have for her about her parents, the baby she lost. Here, before my eyes, it’s as if she’s falling off an emotional rock face, and I can’t stop her.

  “Jo?” I grab her hands in mine. They’re ice-cold. “It’s okay, honey. Come through and sit somewhere comfy.”

  I manage to get her to her feet, then support almost her full body weight, which is frighteningly light, until I get her to the sofa, where she huddles, shaking, her face ashen under her makeup, looking as though any moment she’ll pass out.

  “He was leaving me,” she sobs, as if to herself. “My husband was going to leave me, Kate.” Her hands go to her face. “He found a young, beautiful whore to fuck, one who’d do everything he asked.... He didn’t want me anymore.... He doesn’t care about me . . . after everything that’s happened.... Do you know how that feels?”