Yours sincerely,
Sophie Chapman
The computer, like the entire house, was extraordinarily – spookily – clean, Sophie noticed, pressing the exit button and then tracing a finger lightly across the screen in a manner that, five weeks before, would have left a trammel of dusty evidence. When her finger squeaked, she sat back in the chair, smiling in fresh wonderment that their extraordinary holiday should have concluded with the icing-on-the-cake finale of returning to a home that sparkled in every corner. Either Beth Stapleton had slaved for hours, or they had paid one of those spring-cleaning companies that cost the earth.
Even Andrew, normally blind to the most striking domestic alteration, had been impressed without prompting at the new, pristine state of their surroundings; while the girls had reacted by bursting out of their bedrooms, complaining of rearranged items and the audacity of whoever was behind it. A more fiercely house-proud creature than Sophie might well have joined them in taking offence. As it was, she could muster nothing except delight that Beth Stapleton had gone to such trouble. While not having warmed to the over-prissy condition of the house in Connecticut, returning to so polished a version of her own family home somehow underlined exactly the fresh start on which she and Andrew appeared – much to her joy – to have embarked. And it was a useful woman-to-woman jolt too, like seeing socks pulled up and recognizing one’s own had been round one’s ankles.
Sophie’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, toying with the idea of getting back online to send Beth a more thorough, separate thanks about the cleaning. Leaving Darien, she had done nothing more than run a cloth over the kitchen surfaces and a brush round the lavatories, not because she was lazy but because of a squat, raven-haired woman called Ana who – in accordance with Beth Stapleton’s instructions – had come twice a week to clean and do the laundry. It was only during the course of the cleaner’s final visit – on their last morning – that Sophie had discovered the poor woman’s wages were funding five young children in the Philippines, a fact that had sent her scrabbling through her purse for every last spare dollar, while Andrew chuckled that it was nothing but a cleverly timed sob-story and she was a fool for falling for it.
Faith in people: that was what mattered, Sophie decided, pulling the front door shut five minutes later and setting off at a brisk pace in the direction of the police station. It was a good mile away, but it seemed too nice a morning not to walk, with the sun high and a slight bite of early-morning chill still hanging in the air. Not walking had been one of the few down-sides of their family week in Connecticut. Trying it once, in single file because of the absence of a ‘sidewalk’, with the girls reluctantly trailing behind and the sweat pouring off them all in rivers, they had ended up feeling not so much like tourists as a species from another planet – an endangered species, thanks to the swerving of passing cars and the looks of intrigued bafflement from their occupants.
By the time the square concrete front of the police station came into sight, Sophie had taken off her cardigan and was rather wishing she had worn flip-flops instead of socks and shoes. The bite had gone and the sun blazed. An Indian summer, the papers were calling it – pay-back for the thoroughly foul August. Sophie smiled to herself, hoping for the Stapletons’ sake that such a description didn’t make it into the New York Times.
Carter had preferred the Washington Post, she remembered suddenly, trying out the thought of the American much as she might have tiptoed onto a patch of thin ice. The love-note tucked into the paperback had been a horrible shock. When she had tried to drop it into the bedroom wastepaper basket, it had seemed to cling to her fingers. It was still mid-air when Andrew emerged from his teeth-cleaning, patting his face with a hand towel and singing ‘Unto Us A Boy Is Born’ in a comedic but note-perfect falsetto. Any dim notion of a confession had died in Sophie at that instant. Andrew’s happiness – hers – had simply felt too full, too raw, too precious to risk. And it wasn’t as if the situation with Carter would have been easy to explain either, threaded as it was with complicated elements, some good and some bad, some her fault, some not. ‘I can’t wait to get home,’ she had blurted instead, falling against her husband with a prayer of longing for their speedy and safe passage back to England the following day, picturing how the vast, wonderful buffer of the Atlantic would protect her from Carter’s unwanted passions – the one outcome of the holiday she regretted terribly.
One prayer answered, one to go, Sophie told herself now, pushing through the station’s heavy front doors and introducing herself in clear, fearless terms at the front desk. When a skeletal young policeman with a shaved head arrived to usher her down the corridor, she followed with her shoulders back and her chin high. She was to watch a videotape of mug-shots, labelled with numbers, to see if she could pick out the youth who had conned his way into their home in January. Bumping into the boy himself was out of the question, she had been assured, since he was being held at a different location.
It would be easy. Sophie clenched her fists, cursing the emergency pre-school-inspection meeting that had necessitated Andrew postponing his attendance till the following day. He had been so busy since their return that they had had most of their conversations passing in the hall or over the phone. ‘What if I’m not sure?’ she asked the policeman. ‘Will that mean he gets off?’
‘Not necessarily. A victim of a more recent crime will be watching the same tape. And there’s your husband to come too. We only need two positive IDs to have a good shot at a successful prosecution.’
Sophie perched on a lilac chair in a small grey room, while her angular companion fired the controls at a large television and DVD player. Once so haunting, she now couldn’t picture the intruder’s face at all, she realized, panicking; the slight frame, the full mouth – none of it was real any more. But then the tape began to roll and there he was, the first picture, as sorry a mug-shot as one could imagine, the face full-on, but the body language slouched and reluctant, the eyes seething.
‘That’s him.’ She pointed a finger, feeling fantastic.
‘Are you sure?’
‘One hundred per cent. Number twelve. That’s him.’ Sophie leant closer to the screen, frowning. ‘Why isn’t he number one if he’s the first?’
‘We change the numbers for each ID session to rule out the possibility of conferring, like with your husband, say.’
‘Wow, that’s clever.’ Sophie exhaled, the exultation coursing through her. Life went through bad phases, of course, but never had she emerged from the thick of one so bad or been so certain that it was at an end. A couple of days before, wanting to test Carter’s theory, she had paid a visit to the south London cemetery that housed her younger sister’s remains, a once regular habit that had lapsed when her parents moved to the Algarve. If her nameless crisis had been about grief and guilt, going underground, tangling with other things, she would know it there, surely. She had taken a miniature white winter cyclamen with her, scooping it out of its plastic pot and planting it with her bare hands. Afterwards, she sat back on her heels, picking out the clogged dirt from her nails, aware not so much of sadness or understanding as a new resolve. Whatever the elements were that had led to all those months of unhappiness – the distance between her and Andrew, the melt-down in the hot Darien woods – it was a phase of her life that was done with, she decided joyfully, leaving her stronger, as bad things so often did.
And now this hateful child-criminal, so insidiously linked to that phase, would go to jail – or Borstal, or wherever they sent young offenders, these days. It was the perfect finishing touch. Sophie reached for her bag, grinning at the policeman.
‘You have to watch the whole tape.’
‘Oh, yes, of course, whatever you say.’ She sat back down, wriggling herself into as comfortable a position as the hard lilac chair would allow.
‘There’s tea or coffee in the machine.’
‘No, thanks. I’m all right. Thanks so much.’
There was a small window i
n the room overlooking an alleyway, stacked with boxes and bags of rubbish. As the grim on-screen parade continued, Sophie kept glancing through it, not at the rubbish but at the small square of blue sky in its top corner, deepening in colour as the morning wore on. She would change her shoes and go into Richmond, she decided, have a coffee at a pavement table, maybe buy herself a new skirt – she could certainly do with one if she was going back to work – and possibly a top too, something white or cream to maximize the glow of her fading tan. In New York that last afternoon she had indulged both her daughters in a variety of department stores, but with the shadow of Carter still stalking her, she had been in no mood to make any purchases for herself.
And maybe she would buy something for Andrew too. He was hopeless at choosing clothes – too disinterested and impatient. She could perhaps get him a new shirt, smartish but not for work, bright colour, something he might decide to wear for their little dinner party, Sophie speculated happily. Picking up with old friends was all part of her new resolve and she was really looking forward to it. Once upon a time she, Karen and Zoë had lived in and out of each other’s houses, exchanging domestic triumphs and woes over biscuits and cups of tea. Where had those days gone? Sophie wondered suddenly. Why had she let them go?
After her skinny custodian had led her back down the corridor to the front desk, Sophie glided out into the sunshine. She bought herself a small bottle of water from a newsagent and then dawdled on her way home, pausing every so often to try Andrew on his mobile. Getting on well again meant not minding sharing him with the outside world, she reminded herself wryly, leaving a message on her eighth attempt to say the ID session had gone really well and could he give her a call?
10
Since they had got married and moved to Connecticut, breakfast with William had become one of Beth’s favourite times of day, with the view of the garden through the glass doors and the table laid just as it should be – a jug of juice, a basket of fresh pastries, a steaming pot of coffee, yoghurt, a dish of sliced fruit, strawberries, mango, kiwi, whatever had looked nicest that week in their excellent Darien grocery store. It was as perfect a start to any day as she could imagine, with her darling seated opposite her, offering companionable comments on the headlines before handing over the inner sections and turning his attention to whether stocks were up or down. With William’s commute, it meant getting up early, but she didn’t mind since it fitted in with her running. William was the one who needed encouragement sometimes, clinging to the bedclothes, dear sleepy-head that he was, always putting off the plunge under the shower.
Two weeks after their return from the UK, however, it seemed to Beth, tapping her knees together under the breakfast table, picking at a slice of kiwi, that some glow – or innocence – about such treasured routines had slid out of reach. There were shadows between them now, clouds on the once pure canvas of their love.
The holiday, laced with its various misfortunes, was responsible, of course. Difficulties had arisen that would take a while to iron out. Yet something in Beth sought a darker level of blame too, based on the dim but irrepressible sense that the English family’s recent occupation of their precious home had somehow corrupted it. Ana had done her usual good job – every room had been tidy and spotless, only a few things were out of place (mostly in the kitchen) – and nothing had changed, yet nothing felt quite the same either. Worst of all, Beth kept finding herself arrested by sudden vivid images, invariably of Sophie, filling the same precious space, breathing the same air, changing it. Sometimes she was even sure she picked up a hint of the Englishwoman’s scent, in the en-suite or the main bedroom, seeping out of a towel or buried deep in the pressed cotton of a pillowcase.
It didn’t help that, by the cruellest coincidence, the east coast heatwave had ended on the day of their return – minutes after they had pulled their suitcases into the hall, in fact, almost as if William’s turn of the key in the front door had been the trigger for the deluge. The rain had fallen in torrents for three straight days, to the accompaniment of plummeting temperatures and a blackened sky. When the sun did reappear it was still only a washed-out smudge, patchy, reticent, a spent force, ready always to segue to the re-amassing clouds. That morning fat dollops of rain were again thudding against the garden doors, while the wind rattled the panes and handles like a fearless stranger determined to break in. William was holding the newspaper high, as if to shield himself from the sight, while absently chewing his way through the slices of banana.
‘More coffee, honey?’
‘No, I must go.’ He folded the paper into his briefcase and patted his pocket to check for his wallet and cell phone. ‘Are you busy today?’
‘Sure.’ Beth looked out of the window. It was her body-sculpting day but she had already decided not to go.
‘Because …’ William hesitated, his face flexing in agitation ‘… I don’t think you should spend another day looking, that’s all,’ he blurted. ‘You’ve worn yourself ragged with it. You’ve asked around, put up notices, checked countless times with the SPCA – there is nothing more you can do. Dido has gone, Beth. Best to face it, let it go – busy yourself with other things. Maybe even …’ he paused, chewing his lower lip ‘… could it be a good time to start looking for another job?’
‘Okay, right. And is that before or after I’m to get pregnant?’ Beth caught her breath, astonished by the comment that had fired out of her like some kind of involuntary gun shot. What kind of a dumb idiot was she, raising the subject she most wished him to forget?
William bounded round the kitchen table, knocking chairs with his briefcase. ‘Is that a yes? Tell me, my darling, is that a yes?’
‘No, it’s not …’
He stopped short of her, his eyes wide with the effort of reining his hopes. ‘But you’re still thinking about it, aren’t you? Tell me you’re still thinking about it.’
‘I guess.’ Beth folded her arms and looked back out at the rain. William could say what he liked about Dido. It wouldn’t stop her heading off in her car the moment he was gone, winding the window down so that her voice could carry, cruising every street, wearing the spectacles she only just needed to be sure she didn’t miss the slightest movement behind every tree shadow, every clump of grass. Whenever she was tempted to give up, she thought of her beloved pet, disoriented and trembling in a nook somewhere, her beautiful fur matted, her green eyes dim.
‘I still don’t get it,’ she murmured, sufficiently calm to wrest her attention to William, who was gripping the back of a kitchen chair as if his life depended on it. ‘Like me, you were so sure about not wanting kids.’ She frowned, remembering the horrible shock of his convulsion at the airport, the evangelical blaze in his eye. ‘What has changed?’
William shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘It’s … it’s hard to put into words … I’ve probably not done it that well …’ He traced his finger round the heart carved into the back of the chair. ‘I guess the bottom line is about wanting to be a family rather than just a couple …’
‘Just a couple? Wow, that makes me feel really good.’ Beth noisily stacked their plates and marched to the dishwasher. ‘So I was right. I’m no longer enough for you.’ She dropped the fruit fork, points down, into the cutlery rack, where it stuck fast. ‘And anyway …’ she cast him a sly look from under her lashes ‘… what about money? Since getting back you keep saying how tight things are. So tell me, how would having a kid help that?’
‘But this is so much more important,’ William cried. ‘And money will be fine soon. It’s just a question of hanging on till bonus time. You are already more than I ever dreamt of, Beth,’ he pressed more gently, ‘but to have our own child would give us more of each other, don’t you see? Bits of you and me bundled together – it’s such an everyday commonplace thing that people forget the wonder of it … I had forgotten the wonder of it. Hey. Stop doing that and come here a second.’
He held out his arms and she stepped between them with a sigh.
She had grown thinner, William noticed, feeling the gentle undulations of her ribcage under his palms; from the lamentable hours of cat-hunting, he supposed, since, if anything, she had been eating more since their return from holiday – even having seconds sometimes, a habit she had once laughingly declared to be out of bounds. The desire to protect her – to make her happy – swelled inside him. ‘I know you’re hurting about Dido. It’s so sad. I miss her too –’ William broke off, swallowing the urge to point out that such proven capacity to mourn a lost pet was the perfect reassurance – if she needed it – of the intensity with which she would love a child.
He had to be patient, William told himself, picking over the conversation as his train pulled out of Darien station twenty minutes later, sliding past the parking lot and into the town’s woody surrounds. Beth was only thirty-eight, after all – a spring chicken, given the age some women had babies these days, well into their forties and fifties. And changing her mind-set would take time, knitted as it was to the kind of childhood she had endured: being so shy, with the unloving bolting father, and an embittered lonely mother, not to mention the uncle who had visited and tried to take over. Little wonder, then, that the desire not to experience parenthood – confessed to and explained during the early days of sharing personal histories – had become so ingrained.
It was clear that his boyhood, with loving, no-nonsense parents, had been a paradise in comparison. Reconnecting with that remained, for William, the greatest wonder of the holiday. The desire for another chance to be a good father himself had sprung as a direct result. With Harry, George and Alfie he had got so much wrong. How obvious, how irresistible then, to want to do it all again, better, with a woman he truly loved. The only really astonishing thing was how long it had taken him to realize it.
He would win Beth round, William vowed. In the meantime, what had he been thinking with the impulsive off-beam suggestion about job-hunting, increasing Beth’s stress levels instead of reducing them? She had been noticeably fragile since their trip, brittle-tempered, inclined to tears, letting the Dido business get on top of her. And hadn’t Susan’s grim determination to run a cottage industry between breast-feeding and nappy-changing been one of the earliest factors to trip them up? His arrival home to over-tired, hungry, squabbling toddlers because his wife had been too busy ‘working’ had always guaranteed rows that made the walls shake.
Before I Knew You Page 15
