by Rosie Fiore
Michael and Sally wrote about her as if she was some kind of invalid, someone who needed to be coddled and protected from herself. She was hot with fury. She wanted to storm back into the living room and wake him to confront him with his duplicity. But she knew that would just play into their narrative. Going through someone’s mobile phone wasn’t considered reasonable behaviour. She finished her glass of wine, poured another and drank it quickly, like medicine. She wasn’t even tasting it anymore. This wasn’t about Michael anyway. It wasn’t him that she had doubts about. For all his emailing behind her back, she knew it came from genuine love and concern. Sally, on the other hand, she wasn’t so sure about.
She took the bottle of wine with her and padded back into the living room. Michael was still fast asleep. She looked at him with pity and love, then replaced his phone on the table and retrieved her own. She went silently into the hallway, put on her shoes and got her keys and bag, then let herself out of the house. She stood for a while, in the dark street. She was swaying slightly, and she knew she was drunk. Way over the limit, she estimated. She had never before got behind the wheel having had more than a single glass of wine. Well, there was a first time for everything.
At first she drove aimlessly, heading out of town on a suburban road. It was quiet, just past ten o’clock, and there were relatively few cars about. She started to think back over the year or so since Joan had died and Sally had come back into her life. She thought about Sally’s physical transformation and emergence into the world. She thought about how Sally had ingratiated herself first with Lucie, then with Michael. How she had made friends with Paul and Tim, and how she was now closer to them than Esther herself was. She thought about Sally at her birthday party, inviting herself to Laura’s funeral and even to the burial, about her memories from their childhood, in which Esther seemed to figure so large. And now this clandestine communication with the two people closest to Esther. What was she trying to do? Did Sally want to be her? Own her? Take over her life? Or was it Isabella she was trying to be?
Esther slammed on her brakes and stopped, without checking behind her. She saw blinding lights in her rear-view mirror and heard the screech of brakes. A 4x4 swerved to pass her, its driver hooting, yelling and gesticulating. She waited for a second, checked the road was clear and then did a U-turn, heading back towards the northern suburbs of London. She felt nauseous and headachey as she pulled up outside Sally’s house. She was very thirsty – she hadn’t eaten anything all day. The half-empty bottle of wine lay on the passenger seat beside her, but she hadn’t thought to bring any water or food, or, for that matter, a glass. No matter. She took a swig straight from the bottle and felt her headache abate slightly.
The house was dark, and Sally’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Sunday evening at eleven? Where could she be? Esther had a vague notion that the amateur dramatic society met on a Sunday evening. But surely they wouldn’t still be at it at eleven o’clock? Some of them at least must have jobs to go to on a Monday morning. Still, it was the only clue she had to go on, so she turned her car around again, clumsily hitting her back bumper on a streetlight pole, then drove to the church where the group met.
The hall was locked up and the car park empty except for Sally’s little car. She was around somewhere. Esther painstakingly backed her car into an alleyway opposite the car park, turned off the engine and the lights, and waited. The wine had made her dozy and ill, and it seemed like a very long time before she saw anything. The rather scruffy locale was all but deserted – even the corner shop was closed. A few people got off a bus and headed off to their homes, but apart from that, she saw no pedestrians. Then she saw Sally walking down the street. She was hand in hand with a tall man. This must be the person she’d been dating. Perhaps they’d been for a drink or to the man’s home and he was now walking her back to her car. Esther leaned back in her seat, keeping her face in the shadows, and hoped they wouldn’t glance her way. They seemed to be engrossed in one another, talking with their heads bent close together. The man was very tall, a full head taller than Sally, and slender, with a fit, athlete’s build and sandy hair.
She knew, in the split second before he stepped into the glow of the streetlight beside Sally’s car. She knew. It was Phil. Psycho, stalker Phil, who had called her a slut, told her no one would want to fuck her, who had scared and demeaned her. She watched him draw Sally into his arms and kiss her. She kissed him back, but not for long, then she withdrew, smiled and got into her car. In the yellowy light of the streetlamp, she looked frail, jaundiced, ethereal, almost. Then, as Phil watched, she buckled her seatbelt and drove away.
Phil smiled and waved, then turned to walk back to his home, which, Esther recalled from having seen him in the street, must be very nearby. As Sally drove out of sight, Esther watched the smile fall from his face as he assumed a grim, forbidding expression, lowering his head and walking quickly away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
She drove fast now. She was vaguely aware that she was very drunk, that she shouldn’t be driving at all, and that she had no idea where she was going. But she also knew that she had to keep moving, and if she did, she might be able to drive away from the hurt and betrayal. She soon found herself in a part of London she didn’t recognize. Harlesden? Willesden? Kensal Green? Somewhere like that. She was somewhere on the west side of town, she knew, and if she could just make it to the North Circular, she might be able to find the M1 and begin driving north – to where, she did not know. But she kept turning down a series of cul-de-sacs and blind alleys, which all seemed to end at a railway line. She was forever having to turn the car round and go the other way.
She was feeling more and more desperate, trapped and afraid. Eventually, she found what looked like an arterial road with signs suggesting that if she followed it, she might end up on the elusive North Circular. The road was empty, and she began to pick up speed. If she could just get out of London, she could clear her head, think about things, make some plans for the future. But as much as she tried to keep her thoughts on the problem at hand, she kept seeing Sally kissing Phil in the light of the yellow streetlamp, kept thinking how she had let this woman into her life, a woman who had calmly admitted to being an accessory in the death of Esther’s closest friend. A woman who had cared for her own mother alone and under impossibly difficult circumstances for eight years. What had happened to Joan? People didn’t actually die from dementia, did they?
The fox came from nowhere, streaking across the road in front of her. She hit the brakes, a fraction too late and much too hard, and felt the car begin to spin. It was very slow, very beautiful, and she watched the lights move in and out of her field of vision as the car described a 360-degree turn before drifting inexorably sideways and slamming into the central reservation. She heard the crunch but did not feel it. After that, everything was very quiet.
The engine had cut out and, after a moment, she shook herself lightly. She hadn’t broken any bones and she seemed to be all right. Then she felt a small trickle of something warm and, glancing in the rear-view mirror, saw that she must have hit her head, just above the eyebrow, on the window. There was a small head wound, bleeding steadily. She scrabbled in her handbag for a tissue and pressed it to the cut. No doubt the side of the car was badly damaged, but she’d hit the barrier broadside on and she thought the engine, and hopefully the wheels, were probably all right. There were no other cars on the road ahead of her, and the fox was long gone. She should probably drive home and deal with the car and everything else in the morning. Cautiously she started the engine; it sounded all right. She turned the steering wheel, but even before she had attempted to pull off, she could feel the drag. She had clearly burst a tyre. She’d have to limp the car to the side of the road and ring for a cab. It was absolutely vital, however, to get away from the scene before… But it was too late. She saw the moving sweep of blue lights before she heard the car. They had come up behind her. She couldn’t drive away now. She would just have to sit tigh
t and accept what came next.
CHAPTER FORTY
There were two officers, one black and one white, both male, handsome and clean-cut, both young enough, Esther thought, to be her sons. They were polite and solicitous when they approached the car, and remained so, even when they got her out of the vehicle and saw how unsteady she was on her feet. Then one of them glanced at the passenger seat and saw the bottle of wine, and the other leaned in a little closer. He was still kind and polite, but Esther knew he could smell the alcohol on her breath and skin. They were still courteous and gentle when they asked her to breathe into their machine, still kind as they led her to their vehicle and put her in the back to drive her to the police station, still sympathetic when they had to stop and wrench open the door for her to be sick in the gutter. At the police station, they asked her to do two more breath samples, then a female officer took her to the bathroom to rinse out her mouth and wash the blood from her forehead, where it had dried. They politely asked her if she would accompany them into a cell, which she did, meekly. They asked if they could ring anyone for her, but she said no, she was all right.
She was no fool. The whole encounter had been handled with great civility, but she knew that this was only the beginning. She didn’t know a lot about the law, but she did know she was in a great deal of trouble. She would lose her licence, for certain. For a year, perhaps? Maybe more. She would have a conviction. She might even have to go to prison. What Craig would make of that, she had no idea. What Michael would say, or Stephen, or… Lucie. Oh, Lucie… It didn’t bear thinking about. She knew she should be worried, that she should have asked to ring Michael and get him to find her a solicitor, but she was just so horribly tired. She curled up on the narrow bunk and fell into a deep sleep.
She woke up feeling calm and surprisingly rested. She was very thirsty and could have done with a shower and a change of clothes, but other than that, she was perfectly all right. She touched her eyebrow carefully – the cut seemed to have closed up of its own accord. She thought through the events of the previous evening, and gradually, as she remembered what she had seen and what it had made her realize, she felt a bubble of excitement rising. It was the euphoria of discovery, the sense that she had solved a mystery and seen a truth. She sat on the edge of the bunk and waited. After a short while, a PC came along and unlocked the cell. She motioned for Esther to follow her, and took her to a desk where there was a stack of paperwork for her to read and sign.
The police station had the grim, stale air of a place that had seen people coming and going all night, and now the morning had finally edged in, grey and unpromising. The PC was pretty, in her mid-thirties and with round, apple cheeks. She looked tired; there were blue-grey shadows under her eyes and strands of mousy hair escaping from her ponytail. Her handwriting was neat and even, rounded, almost childlike, and she painstakingly filled out all of the forms and explained to Esther what would happen next. She was to be bailed, pending a court appearance, she was told. However traumatic the events of the previous night had been for her, and however much they would change her life, they were routine for the police. They seemed grateful that she was not troublesome, rude or argumentative and were happy to treat her with bureaucratic politeness. The sooner they could complete the necessary red tape, the sooner they could shunt her on to the next silo in the legal system.
She stared at the PC’s pretty hands. They were white and smooth, and her nails were neatly shaped and varnished with clear polish. She wore no rings. Esther imagined her sitting on her sofa in pyjamas, filing and painting her nails. Perhaps chatting to a friend or a boyfriend? Watching television? What was her life like? The PC, whose name, according to her nametag, was Parker, pushed some papers across the desk for Esther to sign. She’d indicated the necessary places with a small, neat cross. Esther complied, and PC Parker smiled at her for the first time. She handed Esther a plastic carrier bag with her personal effects in it – her mobile phone and handbag, and a few bits and pieces that had been in her car, including an umbrella and a water bottle. She noted that the half-empty bottle of wine was not among the items.
‘Your car has been towed to the police pound,’ PC Parker explained, handing over a card. ‘Here’s the address. You’ll have to settle the towing bill before you collect it. Mind you, I’m not sure it’s driveable. You might just want your insurance company to send it straight to the repair shop.’
‘Thank you,’ Esther said, and turned her mobile phone over in her hand. Unsurprisingly, the battery had gone dead.
‘Can we call you a taxi?’
‘Er, yes. That would probably be best.’ It was over, for now at least. She was going to have to go back out into the world.
PC Parker showed her to the front of the station. There was a man sitting on a plastic chair in the reception area. He looked grey and exhausted, as if he had been through a harrowing ordeal. It took Esther a split second to realize that it was Michael. He stood up when he saw her. ‘I’ve rung every hospital, looking for you. And every police station in north London. Why didn’t you get someone to call me?’ She didn’t say anything, just stood and looked at him, her belongings in their plastic bag dangling by her side. He sighed. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, and turned to walk out to the car park. He hadn’t touched her.
Esther remembered a biology class at school where a teacher had explained the process of ring-barking. You remove a strip of bark from all the way round the circumference of a tree trunk. It doesn’t look like a radical thing to do, but it will kill the tree as certainly as if you had hacked it down with an axe. The tree will starve – all the vessels which feed it are in the bark, so everything above the line withers and dies. The tree may still be standing, just as it always has, but it is irretrievably, mortally wounded. Michael would stay, for a time at least. That was the kind of man he was – loyal and steadfast. But it was almost inevitable that the thing was broken. She had broken it.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Craig was scared. It was really very funny when you thought about it. They were sitting in the principal’s office, side by side, facing the principal across his big polished desk. The principal was scared too. In days gone by, Esther might well have lost her job for getting a drink-driving conviction, but now she could see them thinking how this might play out if it ever made it into the public eye. A university head of department, a woman of impeccable credentials and record, hounded out of her job, subjected to immense pressure by a colleague, losing custody of her daughter, crashing her car drunk. They were imagining spreads in the Daily Mail, constructive dismissal accusations at an employment tribunal, unwelcome scrutiny at a time when the university’s reputation was shaky anyway.
She glanced across at Craig, who was sitting very upright, his hands folded across his small, barrel belly. There was a stiff smile on his face, and it looked as if his mouth was so dry, his top lip had adhered to his teeth. The principal was affecting a tone of grave, warm concern as he spoke.
‘I don’t think we realized,’ he said very carefully, ‘how difficult all this has been for you, with your bereavement and so on. We’ve held some discussions, and we felt we’d like to make you an offer.’
It was a cushy one and no mistake – a year-long sabbatical on full pay, to ‘work on your research’. They didn’t question whether she had a current research project, just made it clear that there were funds available should she have any travel expenses. Her court date was a week away, and she knew she was almost certain to lose her license for a year at least, so the break couldn’t have come at a better time. Craig hadn’t spoken at all during the meeting. Esther didn’t think she had ever seen him at a loss for words before. It was refreshing. She thanked them both, stood and shook their hands, and left the principal’s office. She walked to her courtesy car, a little blue hatchback. Her own car had been retrieved from the police pound and was in for repairs. At least it would look smart and new as it sat outside her house, undriveable, for a year or more.
She dr
ove home and walked into the unnatural middle-of-the-day quiet of her living room. So there it was. Work, the last vestige of her old life, finally stripped away. Michael was still living with her and was treating her with kind carefulness, like an invalid. Oliver and Luke had stopped coming to stay at weekends. She suspected Michael had asked them not to. Michael himself was gentle as always – he had not reproached her for the night when she had crashed the car. She had not confronted him about his emails to Sally. Once or twice, when he was in the shower, she checked his phone, but there did not seem to have been any further communications from Sally, and nor had Michael contacted her to tell her about Esther’s accident.
Michael was practical in his sympathy and insisted that she go to see her GP. She complied, and the harassed doctor had listened to what had happened, while keeping one eye on the clock. Then, with a rapid-fire burst of typing, he had issued a prescription for anti-depressants and sent her on her way. Esther showed the pills to Michael and put them in the bathroom cabinet. Every morning, she popped a tiny pill out of the packet and dropped it into the sink, washing it down the drain with a splash of water.
Of all the people in her life, Stephen was the most brutal. He was furious with her for the drink-driving incident, and told her so. She was perversely grateful to him for his censure. It was infinitely better than the careful tiptoeing everyone else was doing. He barked down the phone at her. ‘For God’s sake, how do you think this will look to Lucie?’
