‘No one.’
‘Did you tell the girls?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps it’s reception asking if you want afternoon tea.’
The phone began to ring again. Its shrilling tone made her teeth ache in her jaw.
‘I can’t stand it,’ she said. ‘Answer it.’
He stretched forward. She stared at the muscles in his upper arm, powerful and well developed.
‘Gerald Blackstone!’ he snapped into the phone. ‘Who is this?’ He was silent, listening. ‘No, she’s not here,’ he said at last. ‘No, I haven’t seen her.’ … ‘I’ve got no idea.’ …. ‘How did you know where I was?’ … ‘I see.’ He replaced the phone in its cradle and turned to look at her. ‘That was Andrew. He’s checking all the hotels in Oxford.’
Shards of ice seemed to explode on her skin. ‘What did he want? Why ring you?’
‘Guessed you might be with me. Apparently the nursery school phoned him when you didn’t collect your son. He’s been trying to find you ever since.’
‘I thought Sally was picking Jake up. She always does on Tuesdays.’
He stood up and crossed to the window. ‘I don’t know who the fuck Sally is, but it’s Wednesday today.’
‘Oh my God.’ She scrambled off the bed.
Gerald stared out of the window. ‘Wonder-boy’s going to give it another hour or two, and then ring the police.’
She retrieved her knickers from a chair and pulled on her jeans. She scanned the room for the rest of her clothes. Her bra was flung on the bed, her shirt on the floor.
‘Gerald.’
He swung round. ‘Yes?’
‘Don’t be angry with me.’
He came towards her and put his hand under her chin. His eyes searched her face. ‘Darling, I’m not angry. I’m disappointed, upset.’ He took his hand away. ‘If anything I’m angry with myself. I thought I’d got you. Found you again, and now … ’ He shrugged.
She put her hands to her hair, trying to comb it flat with her fingers. ‘You told Andrew you hadn’t seen me.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘He’ll know soon enough you’re coming back to me, but I don’t want him to find out like this. I’m not that much of a bastard.’
‘But he’ll realise,’ she said.
‘How? He might suspect. But he can’t prove anything.’
‘We left all that food on the table.’
He started to laugh. But for once she didn’t want to join in. There was nowhere for a laugh to start. Just a horrible emptiness in the pit of her stomach.
‘You’d better start thinking of a plausible story,’ he said. ‘I’ll phone for a taxi for you.’
Twenty-three
Vanessa asked the taxi to drop her in the village. She walked the last few hundred yards home. She opened the front door and stepped into the hallway. Leaning back against the door, she tried to calm her racing heart. Cold from the stone slabs seeped into her feet and up her legs.
She listened. From upstairs came the faint pulse of music, but otherwise there was nothing. She forced herself to walk down the hall towards the kitchen. She put her ear to the door. Silence.
She grasped the knob and pushed open the door. Andrew was at the kitchen table. He wasn’t doing anything. Wasn’t reading, wasn’t sketching. He was just sitting there. He didn’t look up. Her gaze skimmed the room: there was no sign of the lunch. All the food had been cleared away, the plates washed up, the empty champagne bottle stood on the draining board.
She sat down opposite Andrew. She made herself look at him, but his eyes were fixed on his clasped hands in front of him on the table.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘Did you pick Jake up from nursery?’
‘Someone had to. They phoned me at work when you didn’t turn up.’ His voice was cold and flat.
‘I thought it was Sally’s turn. Sorry.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘Where is Jake?’
‘He’s playing next door. They said he could stay the night.’
‘No, I want him here,’ she said. ‘I want to see him.’
‘He’s probably safer there.’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry, Andrew. I muddled the days.’
‘Where have you been?’ he asked.
‘I went into Oxford. I needed to buy some wool.’
Andrew looked up. His eyes were expressionless as they studied her.
She felt him clocking up the evidence: her hair curling messily around her head, her shirt, the buttons probably fitted into the wrong holes, the tell-tale colour staining her neck …
‘He’s been here,’ he said.
‘No, no, he hasn’t.’
‘You were eating all that food yourself, were you?’
She clutched at the story she’d rehearsed in the taxi. ‘I was fed up. I invited Julia for lunch. You remember … I told you about her … she’s the new woman at the book group. She seems nice.’
‘Nice enough to buy champagne?’
Vanessa tried to laugh. ‘I told her it was too extravagant.’
Andrew hadn’t moved. He might have been cast in stone. ‘But you got rid of her to jaunt off into Oxford?’
‘It wasn’t a jaunt.’ She hoped she had the right amount of indignation in her voice. ‘I needed wool.’
‘You said.’
Vanessa heard the sound of the door scraping on the tiles and looked round. Cordelia stood there. She was still wearing her school uniform. ‘Hello, Vanessa. Where have you been? Andrew’s been tearing his hair out.’ She crossed to the biscuit tin and took out a handful. ‘Is anyone cooking dinner? I’m starving.’
‘I’ll do something soon,’ Vanessa said. ‘Andrew and I are having a talk.’
‘Ooh, is it about the holiday?’
‘No, it’s not. Can you give us a bit of space.’
Cordelia hesitated in the doorway. ‘Did you see Dad today?’
Vanessa felt as if she was going to be sick; she swallowed down the bile that rushed into her throat. ‘No, I didn’t. Will you please go.’
‘But we are going to Argentina?’
‘Cordelia. Go.’
Cordelia slammed the door shut behind her.
The silence in the kitchen crawled with unasked questions.
‘Tell me what happened today,’ Andrew said at last.
For a few seconds Vanessa’s mind filled with frantic debate: should she persist with her story? Should she come clean? Neither seemed an option.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I did see Gerald today.’
‘So, is this going to be the truth, or another story I might be daft enough to swallow?’
‘It’s the truth. I swear.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I was preparing lunch for Julia when he turned up. I said he couldn’t come in, but he insisted. He started helping himself to the food. I could see I wasn’t going to get rid of him, so I phoned Julia to cancel, and told him I was going out. I was too shaken up to drive, so I got the bus into town.’
‘And the champagne?’
‘Yes, he brought it, but I tipped it down the sink.’
Andrew gave a thin smile, but the hardness in his eyes didn’t soften. ‘It all sounds plausible.’
Plausible. The very word Gerald had used. What did it mean? That he believed her?
‘He phoned just before you came in.’
‘Who?’ Her mouth was so dry, she could hardly get the word out.
‘Your ex-husband. Who do you think?’
What the hell was Gerald playing at? Why couldn’t he disappear, at least for tonight? ‘What did he want?’
‘To speak to you, of course. Said to tell you he’ll see you in the morning.’
Oh God. How was she going to get out of this one? She waited, not having a clue what to say.
‘What do you want to do?’ Andrew asked.<
br />
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, Vanessa. Stop playing this game. I need you to tell me how you feel.’
‘About what?’
‘Do I have to spell it out? Me.’
She got up and went round to his side of the table. She clasped her arms round his shoulders. He felt thin and angular, so different to Gerald’s hard stockiness. She bent forward and kissed his cheek. He must have shaved since he came in, because his skin was smooth and smelt of soap.
He pulled her hands from his neck. He pushed them back towards her, as if he was handing her a parcel. ‘What do you feel?’
‘I’m sure Gerald will soon get fed up.’
‘No!’ Andrew had raised his voice for the first time since she came in. ‘I want to know about you and me. Where do I stand?’
She squeezed her eyes shut. She could feel perspiration sliming its way between her breasts. ‘I love you, Andrew. You know I do.’
‘Enough? Do you love me enough?’
‘For what?’
‘To give him up?’
She didn’t let herself think. She didn’t want time for Gerald’s image to appear, to superimpose its swarthy features on Andrew’s thinner, delicate ones. ‘Of course.’ There. She’d said it. It was easy.
He would sort it all out, Andrew told her. Take Gerald to the pub, convince him he was on a fruitless mission: they were happy without him. He could take Cordelia and Esme on holiday, but Vanessa wouldn’t be coming with them. In fact, she wouldn’t see him again. Vanessa looked at Andrew. Some of Gerald’s aggression must have rubbed off on him. Emotions chased around in her mind like waves whipped up by a gusty wind: relief and desolation colliding with each other.
In the morning, she stayed out of the way. She listened to the sounds of the children getting ready. Cordelia and Esme arguing outside her room. Jake crying – he couldn’t find the book he was due to take back to nursery school. None of them came in to see her. Andrew must have warned them not to. Then it went quiet.
She buried her head under the blanket and waited. She wouldn’t look out of the window, she told herself. Wouldn’t try to see him one more time. But at the last minute, when she heard the front door slam behind Andrew, she leapt out of bed and rushed into Jake’s bedroom at the front of the house. Outside, Andrew and Gerald were talking. She could see Gerald’s head jutting forward, his feet planted well apart on the ground; he was waving his arms around: he was arguing with Andrew, she could tell. They seemed to stand there forever: Gerald, gesticulating, pacing round; Andrew, still, determined, hands firmly in his pockets. Gerald would be sure to look up. He’d know she was up there watching, that she wouldn’t let him go without a last glimpse. If he looked up, she’d wave. That’s all it would take, and it would be over. A glance, a wave – and her life here with Andrew would be over.
But he didn’t look. There was a noise behind her – something falling off a shelf – and she was distracted. When she turned back to the window, the two men were getting into a car, Gerald behind the wheel and Andrew in the passenger seat. Gerald didn’t own a car, so he must have hired this one, a big red flashy thing.
She got out paper and pencils and sat down at the kitchen table. She could always lose herself in her designs. She sharpened all the pencils and laid them in a row. This was usually the best moment: the thrill of the unknown, the journey ahead from blank page to design. Even when she set out with a plan, she was never sure what might materialise. She tried a few tentative strokes. She changed pencils, sketched in some spirals, the lead point meandering aimlessly across the white paper.
She tossed the pencil aside and checked to see if the phone was working. The dialling tone purred in her ear. She went upstairs and collected dirty clothes from the bedrooms. The washing machine, churning and clunking in the kitchen, broke the silence of the house. Wanting more noise, she turned on the radio. The words of John Lennon’s Imagine sprang at her: You may say I’m a dreamer, But I’m not the only one. She snapped the music off.
The day crawled by: one o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock. How long did it take, for God’s sake to tell someone to get lost? She deliberated over various scenarios: they’d had a fight. Gerald would win; Andrew’s slight frame wouldn’t stand a chance. She’d bathe his black eye, cut lip, when he did get home. Or they’d become friends, were having a boozy lunch together: no, Andrew scarcely drank and nothing would induce him to spend longer in Gerald’s company than he had to. Perhaps he was waiting to take Gerald to the station and see him on to the train. That must be it. Andrew liked to see a job through to the end; he wouldn’t want any doubt to remain and risk Gerald turning up again.
At last there was a noise at the front door. She rushed into the hall. Through the glass of the door, she could make out two figures. Surely Andrew hadn’t brought Gerald back with him? No, these figures were the wrong shape and size. She pulled open the door. A man and a woman dressed in police uniform stood there.
‘Mrs Blackstone?’
‘Yes. No. I mean I was but I’m Vanessa Heaney now.’
The woman tapped her pencil against her notepad; the man kept clearing his throat.
Vanessa’s eyes darted from one to the other. They both had the same look: eyes narrowed, lips compressed, breath sucked in.
‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’
‘One of the children?’
The policewoman took her arm. ‘Mrs Heaney. The accident involved two men.’ She glanced at her notebook. ‘A Gerald Blackstone and Andrew … I’m sorry we’re not sure yet of his second name.’
‘How? What happened?’
‘A red Citroen went off the road at Maynard’s Cross. Looks as if the driver lost control,’ the man said. ‘We don’t know all the details yet.’
‘Are they all right?’ she asked. ‘Are the people in the car all right?’ Even as she spoke, she knew it was a stupid thing to say. The police didn’t come round to your house if everything was all right.
The woman put her hand on Vanessa’s arm. Her touch felt heavy, weighing Vanessa down. ‘It seems one of the men is seriously injured. We’ve come to take you to the hospital.’
For the first time, Vanessa noticed the police car at the kerb. ‘I see.’ She couldn’t believe how normal her voice sounded. Shouldn’t she scream or something? Faint?
‘Is there anyone you’d like to come with you?’
She shook her head, let herself be led down the path and into the back of the car.
The policewoman sat with her arm round her shoulders. The man was in the driver’s seat. The car drew away from the village and stopped at the junction with the main road. She saw other cars slowing down, moving to the side to let them into the line of traffic. Her ears filled with the rhythm of the siren. It must be serious. The police wouldn’t do arms round you, or sirens without good reason.
‘Do you know which one of them has the serious injuries?’ she allowed herself to ask.
‘We think it’s the driver,’ the policeman said over his shoulder.
Vanessa felt the policewoman’s arm tighten. She took Vanessa’s hand in hers. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘You’re shaking.’
‘I just want to get there.’ The driver. It was the driver who was badly injured. It was Gerald. Gerald was driving. She felt herself rocking backwards and forwards. She wouldn’t let it be Gerald. Gerald. Injured. Maimed. Dead, even. No. Please. Please. Please. Don’t let it be Gerald.
The police radio crackled into life. There was a lot of static. Vanessa couldn’t make out the words.
‘We’re to take you straight to intensive care,’ the policeman said. ‘I think you’d better prepare yourself.’
Vanessa was aware of noise, of people rushing past, but somehow she was cut off from it. It was like watching a television programme with deep-sea divers, their movements slow and exaggerated. She was glad of the policewoman’s arm supporting her as they stepped into the lift. Her leg
s would never hold her up on their own.
She watched as the red arrow on the control panel marked their ascent: first floor, second, third. At the fourth, the lift juddered to a halt and the doors opened. She stepped out.
A man was walking down the corridor towards her. His arm was in a sling and there was a jagged red cut across his forehead.
He stopped in front of her. ‘Hello.’
Her eyes focused on the cut. It was very red and angry, with a lacework of stitches drawing the two flaps of mottled purplish-coloured skin together. She imagined the pressure of the needle between her forefinger and thumb as she sewed up one of her garments: in one side, draw the thread through, out the other, push the needle in, ease it out. What would it be like to push the slim point through skin instead of wool? To see the fear in someone’s eyes, smell the sourness of their breath?
‘Nessa! It’s me.’
‘Gerald?’ It sounded like Gerald. It was his voice. But it couldn’t be. He was … ‘I thought …’ I thought you were dead, she’d been going to say. I thought you were dead and I didn’t want to go on living if you were.
Gerald jerked his head towards the double doors at the end of the corridor. ‘Nessa, I’m so sorry … Andrew … ’
It was when she heard his name that the sound erupted from her mouth. She saw Gerald’s eyes widen, felt the policewoman’s hand on her back, was aware of nurses rushing from behind the double doors, someone in a white coat, and still she screamed.
The nurse came in with a cup of tea. Some of it had slopped over the rim and the nurse scraped the cup against the edge of the saucer and let the spilt tea splash back into the cup. Vanessa’s mother used to tell her off for doing that.
‘Here, drink this. It will do you good.’ The nurse held out the cup.
Vanessa had an urge to knock it out of her hand, to see the hot liquid hit her in the face. The nurse didn’t have this terrible weight in her stomach, dragging her down and down, so that it felt as if her insides might fall out of her body. How dare she know what would do her good? But instead Vanessa meekly took the cup from her.
‘That’s right. Get that down you. I’ll see about transport to take you home.’
Unravelling Page 26
