‘I’m really happy for you, Mo.’ I place it back on the mantelpiece, the photo of my best friend blooming as much as the trees around her. ‘He seems like a good guy.’
‘He is.’
I’m hurtling towards a change of life. I can feel it. A change in the comfort of my routine, of mine and Mo’s. And not just because she has a new man in her life, but because I need to make some changes. A new job, maybe. Or a new focus, a new interest. Anything to put some distance between me and Ed or Oli, or both. Except I’m rubbish with uncertainty, with new normals that I don’t yet know or understand. So not only do I intensely dislike myself right now, I am also deeply terrified. I can’t see the light in this particular tunnel.
Mo stands behind me as I stare out of the lounge window. ‘Rach, this was just a mistake. You haven’t got a bad bone in your body.’
I hold myself tightly. ‘So what do I do now?’
She moves to stand beside me, nudging me gently with her hip. ‘I don’t know. But I do know you'll be okay,’ she says. ‘I promise you that. But you need time, you need a plan. You’ve got to work this out for yourself.’
I nod. We fall silent. Mo tries to stifle a yawn. ‘Go to bed,’ I instruct.
‘It’s okay, I—’ The stifled yawn returns to interrupt her.
‘Go on, go. I’ll just sit here for a while. Is Greg here?’ I ask.
Mo nods.
‘Go on. Climb into bed and curl up to him. Tuck cold feet into the crook of his leg, it’s an official girlfriend privilege.’
She squeezes me, with a kiss on the cheek, then heads back into her room, slowly closing the door behind her.
I’m alone. I’m cold. My mind is in overdrive as I stare at the wall, my life running through my mind. The job I took to pay bills, which is okay, but not great. The home I share with my friend, who’s moving on without me – as she should – could soon become too cosy for three. The child I care for and the father for whom, it would appear, I have feelings. In the space of a few hours, all the things I would hang my sense of self upon are shifting. I need to find the strength to shift with them, or be left behind forever.
It’s just a matter of working out how. And when. And where…
Thirty
Ed
I wake up with a start, my body turning to ice as I remember what I did last night. Her diaries… the smoke… the hope of truth swallowed in flame. Oli’s link to his mother’s words, now dust and ash in the base of an old metal dustbin. I get out of bed, step across to the window and peer out, down, the fire now nothing more than a slumbering glow of Ellie’s innermost thoughts.
Oli stirs, pulling me away from the sight of last night’s rash behaviour, but the guilt I feel as I pull him close remains. It’s not that I think he’d want to read them necessarily, or that that’s even a good idea, but just to have them; a piece of his mother, her hand, her writing, her choice of words and her dedication to recording her life. And I’ve burnt the lot.
But then I remember the message, the voicemail. Her voice, as if she was still here. Something that could have lifted me instead pushed me darker, deeper into despair and distrust.
I lie Oli down in his bouncy chair, down in the kitchen, before heading to the window to look up to the sky, uselessly searching for answers. The only thing I know with certainty is that it’s time Oli and I moved on. If we’re to find any strength in our futures, we need to rest our past in peace. We can’t do that by living it every day. By living here.
This house, her home. Ours while she was here, of course, but hers now. Her memories, her plans, her vision. I can’t stay in a place where every photo of us, every piece of artwork she chose, stares back at me. Where every conversation we ever had about curtains and colours and the future can be heard, if I listen hard enough. Her laughter in the walls, our love in every corner; it’s all overshadowed with new second guesses about what she meant when she said ‘forever’, about what she felt when we held each other close.
Easy memories of rows appear. The bickering when we were tired, or teasy. Like the day she turned away from kissing me after I told her she railroaded me with her home-making. Or when we argued over where we should have spent Christmas because she was belly full of Oli and wanted us to be on our own here. Did she turn away those times because she was cross, or because she’d had enough of pretending that she loved me? The deep sigh, when we got back home with Oli that first day… was that exhaustion or a realisation that we were forever connected, when maybe she no longer wanted to be?
When she left Simon that message, did she intend to break my heart?
And if so, how much longer did I have? Did we have?
And why can I remember the few dark times more clearly now than the good, the happy, the joyous ones?
The doorbell rings out, making me jump. I wipe my face clear of fear to find Mum on the top step, looking tired, wrung out. ‘May I?’ she asks, stepping in before I answer.
‘Of course.’ I close the door behind her, pausing to take a deep breath and dig for whatever strength I might be able to find. When I get into the kitchen, she’s standing above Oli, looking at him as if he’s about to perform for her entertainment. Has she kissed him and I missed it? Has she touched him? Does he realise she’s anything to him? A grandma is supposed to be fun, loving, someone to cuddle and bake with. Someone who dotes on you. Does she have that in her? Does she wish she could be that way?
‘You look tired,’ she says. I resist telling her the same thing as she stands on ceremony in the middle of the room, dressed in the same clothes as last night, but make-up free. I don’t remember the last time I saw her without it.
‘Have you been home?’ I ask.
She shakes her head.
‘Would you like a drink? Anything to eat?’
‘No. Thank you. I’ll get something when I get home.’ She pulls a chair out. The scrape of the legs leaves a mark on the floor.
‘How is Simon?’
Mum takes a heavy breath. ‘Barely sober, even this morning. I’ve left your father with him while I came here.’
‘Right.’
Mum reaches into her handbag, pulling an envelope out. ‘The paperwork came back from the investigation.’ Her hands shake as she unfolds it. ‘Simon’s solicitor called this morning to tell us that he is to be charged.’ I look up. ‘Driving without due care and attention. The fatality… obviously that adds a complication.’
‘A “complication”?’
‘I don’t know how else to describe it, Edward,’ she says, her stiff upper lip failing to hide the tremor in her voice. ‘I don’t know whether to mention her name. I don’t know how to broach this subject. We’ve all tiptoed around it for so many months now. How do you get it right?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Please… don’t. Don’t apologise. We’re all hurting here, Edward. My sons are breaking and I’m not equipped to deal with it. I don’t know where to begin. I don’t…’ She grits her teeth, adjusting her posture, repainting the game face. ‘Your brother faces a custodial sentence.’
She passes me the paperwork, but blurred vision prevents me from reading all the words. ‘I don’t understand. What does this mean? “Due care and attention”, what was he doing or not doing?’
‘A witness, who came forward, says your brother was tailgating at high speed.’ My stomach turns. ‘Which is why they’re charging him.’
I jump from my seat to the sink, retching into the Belfast sink Ellie bought at a car-boot sale. ‘It was a bargain, Ed. Don’t you just love it?’ I hear, as I throw up.
I spit into the basin, running water to splash my face. ‘Why?’ I say, rubbing my eyes. ‘Why!’ I spin round to face Mum. ‘Why did this happen? What is wrong with Simon? What the fuck is wrong with him?’
‘Edward, he wouldn’t have done this to Ellie on purpose. He didn’t set out to kill her. It was an accident. I don’t know why he was driving that way, or what was going through his mind. He must have been upset or stressed a
bout something. He would never have intentionally hurt her. He loved her.’ Mum’s voice is now shrill, out of control. For the first time in my life I see emotion in her eyes.
‘What did you say?’
‘She was your wife,’ she stutters. ‘You’re his brother. She was family. Even if she hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have put himself at risk like that. He was lucky to survive, Edward.’
‘He had my wife in the car, Mum. He had my son!’
‘I know, Edward. I know!’
I run the cold tap again, this time shoving my head beneath it, letting ice-cold water take my breath away until my heart pounds with an urgency to breathe.
‘It’s why he’s drinking, it has to be. He can’t forgive himself. He’s tortured.’
‘He’s tortured? He’s fucking tortured, Mum?’
‘I know. I know. I don’t know what to say, I don’t know how to deal with this. It was an accident.’
‘It was avoidable.’
‘It was…’ Mum doesn’t bother finishing her sentence. I sink to the ground, and she steps towards me. I study her shoes, tidy, black court shoes with a low heel, the same kind of shoes she’s worn since I was a kid. Presentable. Giving the right impression.
She crouches before me, her knees clicking. ‘Simon is killing himself with the pain of what happened. He needs to know…’ She stops herself, gathering strength for what’s about to come. ‘He needs to know that you can forgive him, Edward.’
‘I don’t know if I ever can,’ I say, cradling my forehead in intertwined hands. I press my thumbs into my temples; the pressure gives brief respite from the ache. Mum’s hands touch mine. They’re cold, but soft. She doesn’t hold me, more rests her hands on mine, but it’s enough to make us see each other again. To look at each other with new light. ‘How can I forgive him when I don’t know what I’m meant to forgive?’
‘He made a bad choice, he was distracted. He wouldn’t be the first person or the last to drive recklessly. It’s just that in this instance, the outcome was… devastating.’
‘But it’s not just that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There was a message, Mum. On his phone, from Ellie. There was a text from him on her phone. It isn’t just that he could have avoided this, that he could have driven more safely, been more aware of the road, of other cars around him; it’s the messages that make me question why they were together in the first place.’ Mum shakes her head, not understanding. ‘What if they were having an affair?’
‘An affair? Edward… why? Why would you think that?’
‘Why would he be so distracted, enough to cause an accident, if it wasn’t something major? Why would Lisa say so if they weren’t?’
‘What did Lisa say?’
‘That it wouldn’t surprise her. That she never knew where he was any more. That their marriage was over. You put it all together, it’s hard not to question it.’
‘Oh, Edward. It can’t be. Surely. He wouldn’t do something like that. Ellie wouldn’t have. You know that.’
‘Sometimes I do. Sometimes I believe I knew the very bones of her and at other times I find myself staring into blackness, wishing everything would be over.’ My skin prickles.
‘It seems to me that Lisa is the problem. Your brother, he’s different. He’s changed. He’s quieter. Weaker, maybe. Simon was never the strong one, that was always you. He never had total confidence in himself, in his worth. But she’s… I don’t know… whittled away what confidence he had over the years. She’d say anything to hurt him. I believe that more than I believe her accusation.’
A text message comes through to her phone, the volume of the alert splitting through our conversation. It sends a bolt from her bag to her hand, making her withdraw from me as if we were never connected at all. ‘Your brother’s awake. I should go.’
Mum picks her bag up, slipping the strap over a bony shoulder. Her eyes are tired and sad but she holds her head up high. ‘We have to meet with his solicitor this morning. He’s going to advise us on what happens next.’
‘Okay.’
I pull myself up and Mum catches sight of a look I’ve tried to hide. ‘I am pulled in both directions, son. You both need us, but maybe… maybe Simon needs us more right now. You have strength, you have Oli. He has nothing.’
I grit my teeth as I watch her leave. Because I feel anything but strong right now.
Thirty-One
Rachel
‘Vicky, I’m due some time off, I wondered if I could book it?’ I’m hovering at the top of the stairs leading to the mezzanine office in the main entrance hall. I lean against the wooden stairgate between us.
Vicky peers over her glasses, reaching for the diary. ‘When did you have in mind?’
‘Um, this week?’ I offer, hopefully.
‘This week! Rachel, you can’t waltz in here on a Monday morning and ask for time off. I have ratios to meet, quotas.’
‘Okay, okay.’ I didn’t really expect it to be that easy. ‘So, when then? When’s the earliest you could spare me?’
Vicky stares at me suspiciously. ‘If you’ve got a job interview, I’d rather you just told me.’
‘No! I don’t. I just…’ I pick at a splinter on the gate, peeling it off, which lifts more of the wood and makes the splinter worse. Vicky stares at me, lips thin, unimpressed. I try to stick the splinter back down. ‘I just feel I’ve left it too long for a break. I’m… tired.’
She chews on her pen, checking the diary, muttering as she flicks weeks and days back and forth. ‘I suppose next week could work. If you absolutely must.’
‘Next week? But—’
‘The week after?’ she offers, making a point.
‘Okay, okay. Next week. Yes. Thank you.’ I take a holiday application form from the tray, leaning across the gate to her desk so I can complete the form and get it signed before she changes her mind. She scribbles on it, slipping it into her in-tray before turning back to her computer.
I hover.
‘Yes?’ She sighs. ‘What else?’
I swallow. ‘I’d like to request a room change.’ She stops typing. ‘To the pre-schoolers. I’ve given it a lot of thought,’ I lie. ‘I think I’d be better suited to the older children. I realise that may mean a pay cut, I know Julia may not want to swap as a manager. I’m happy to work as her junior. However, it works best for the team, really. I’m in this for the long haul,’ I lie again, ‘and I’m prepared to make the relevant sacrifices to get to where I want to be.’ I am so full of shit it’s making me squirm.
‘It works best for the team if you stop in your room, the one you are qualified to manage – training paid for by us, if I remember rightly – thereby leaving everyone else where they are, too.’ I bite my lip. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’ Vicky asks, putting her pen down and swivelling her chair around to talk to me properly.
I cough a frog clear from my throat, lowering my voice. ‘I just… I think I’d be good at it. I’m really not enjoying the baby room any more. I haven’t for a while.’ The bell goes for the front door, a parent arriving to drop off. I hold my breath. Please don’t let it be Ed.
‘It doesn’t work like that, Rachel. Moving rooms takes planning.’
‘Moving rooms?’ says a voice. ‘Rachel? You can’t!’
Maisie’s mum looks up at me, arms full with Maisie, change bag and home-made cakes; reminding me Maisie is one today. ‘The birthday girl!’ I deflect. ‘Take her on through, I’ll be there in a second.’
When I turn back, Vicky is leaning back in her chair, peering at me. ‘You see, the parents like you in there. The babies too. Why this sudden change of heart?’
‘I can’t explain.’ Well, I could, but I suspect I’d get fired.
‘What’s going on? You stand there, looking like your world has crashed at your feet. You ask for an out-of-the-blue holiday, swiftly followed by a room swap. Now, why would you think I’d be suspicious of all of that?’
Well, w
hen she puts it like that.
The phone rings, my interrogation interrupted. I snatch to answer, relieved to have something else to do. ‘Good morning, Little Toes nursery, Rachel speaking, how can I help?’
‘Rachel. It’s Ed.’
‘Ed.’ Shit. ‘Good morning!’ I turn my back on Vicky as my cheeks flush. ‘Are you okay?’
‘No. Oli won’t be in today. He’s… I’m… he won’t be in.’
His voice is flat, disconnected. Oh God, does he know? Has he worked it all out? Is this an excuse before he just stops bringing Oli in altogether?
‘We probably won’t be in all week. Maybe two. I’m not sure how long. I’ll let you know.’
‘Is everything okay, Ed?’ I ask, my voice low as I try to take a step further away from Vicky so she has less chance of hearing his response. ‘Can I do anything? What’s happened?’
‘No, no, Rachel. You’ve done enough.’ I’ve done enough? What does he mean?
‘I’ll let you know when he’s coming back. Bye.’
‘Okay, bye,’ I answer, but he’s already hung up. Oh God. Oh no. He’s worked it all out and he now, totally and understandably, hates me. He’s going to take Oli elsewhere and I won’t ever see either of them again.
Maybe that should be okay. Maybe it’s for the best.
Oh God, what have I done?
‘Rachel?’ Vicky is standing beside me. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, Vicky. Nothing at all. Ed Moran was just calling to say that Oli is going to be off for at least a week.’ I fight back the urge to cry. ‘I don’t know… he’s obviously poorly. I’m not sure. Anyway, that’s fine. I’ll make a note in the diary. Thanks for the holiday approval.’ I fumble my way back down the stairs. ‘I’d better get on.’
Jogging up the corridor, passing the ‘No Running’ sign, I hide in the safety of my room, leaning against the door to click it shut, my eyes closed.
The Lost Wife: An uplifting page-turner about grief, love and friendship Page 15
