by Lisa Hall
‘I’m sure she was,’ Rupert sighs, putting his pen down. He won’t get anything done now until Sadie leaves.
‘It must have been a terrible shock, Emily coming out with something like that. Are you sure you’re OK, Rupert? You look dreadful.’ Flirty Sadie is gone, now it’s just his old university friend in front of him and Rupert feels himself relax.
‘Oh God, Sadie, I don’t know.’ He pushes his hand through his hair and then scrubs both palms over his face. ‘I thought meeting Emily, marrying Emily was a second chance for me. A chance to put everything right that went wrong with Caro, but it just doesn’t seem to be happening like that. Emily is convinced that someone wants to split us up – I still don’t know what to think – and her saying last night that she thinks Caro is still alive… If I could go back to that night, the night Caro died and change it all then I would.’ He stops talking abruptly, as if shocked at his own words.
‘Oh, Rupert,’ Sadie says, ‘what happened to Caro wasn’t your fault.’
‘What if it was?’ Rupert asks, getting to his feet, ‘I argued with her, after all, and it was about something silly, nothing that warranted what happened after. I just want Emily and I to get back on track.’
Sadie says nothing for a moment, her lips pressed tightly together. ‘Look, Rupert…’ She pauses as the door opens and Rupert’s secretary pokes her head in with a curious glance at Sadie.
‘Sorry, Rupert, Michael just wants to see you in his office for a second. Could you possibly spare him a few minutes?’
Rupert nods. ‘Tell him I’ll be along in a second. Sadie, are you OK to wait here for a moment while I just speak to Michael?’
Ten minutes later Rupert returns to his office to see Sadie collecting up her things and getting ready to leave.
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she says, kissing his cheek and leaving a smear of her trademark red lipstick, ‘I have to dash, something at school for the twins that I simply cannot miss. But Rupert, what happened to Caro wasn’t your fault, and you know where I am if you need anything – anything – at all, OK?’
Rupert lets her go without an argument, almost relieved to see her leave. It was bad enough when Caro’s parents contacted him a few weeks ago, around the time of Caro’s anniversary, without having Sadie in his office, dredging up more painful memories. He can’t spend any more time today thinking about Caro, or Emily. A worm of guilt squirms in his stomach. He lied to Sadie, when he said he couldn’t remember what he and Caro argued about – of course he can remember. It would be impossible for him to forget. He pushes the thought away and tries to focus on the spreadsheet in front of him. He is about to ring through to his secretary to ask her if she’ll make him a coffee when his mobile buzzes on the desk next to him. It’s another message request on his Facebook account.
Rupert, please meet me at Paulo’s coffee house this afternoon. It’s about Emily. If you’ll just meet me then I’ll explain everything. Henry Carpenter.
At four o’clock Rupert finds himself waiting anxiously in Paulo’s for Henry Carpenter to show up. On receiving the message his instinct had been to ignore it or refuse to come but then he remembers his promise to himself, that he would meet Henry if he contacted him again. Despite his reluctance to get involved, he needs to set this guy straight – and if he is the guy that Emily has been running from, then he needs to protect her and see him off once and for all.
Now, he fiddles with his empty sugar packet as he waits for him, half expecting him to not turn up. He’ll listen to Henry, he decides, he’ll warn him off and then he’ll go home to Emily, make sure he’s back in time for dinner like she wanted. They’ll talk, and get things sorted out, and everything can go back to normal. It can be like it was at the cottage for the weekend. Maybe he’ll book something else, something a little more fancy to take Emily’s mind off it all.
He looks up as the ping of the bell above the door tells him someone has just walked in. A tall, slightly dishevelled man enters, looking around the dimly lit café until his gaze lands on Rupert. He starts to make his way over and Rupert feels his pulse increase. This must be him.
‘Rupert?’ The man stands in front of him, his dark hair falling over one eye, a hand outstretched to shake. ‘I’m Henry Carpenter. You can call me Harry.’
Harry. Rupert’s stomach swoops as he shakes Harry’s surprisingly firm handshake, and Rupert gestures for him to sit down. ‘Harry. I’m not sure I’m the person you think I am…’ Rupert starts to say, even though now he thinks maybe he is.
‘You are,’ Harry says shortly. ‘You married Emily, didn’t you? Crazy bitch.’
‘Hey,’ Rupert says, a spark of anger flaring, ‘don’t speak about her like that.’
‘So, you did marry Emily Beaumont then?’ Harry forces his eyes up to Rupert’s face, and Rupert can’t fail to notice that his hands shake slightly as he pulls out the chair and sits down.
‘No, I didn’t,’ Rupert says, ‘I married a girl called Emily Belrose. I’ve seen her birth certificate, her passport. That’s definitely her name.’
Harry fumbles in his pocket and brings out an older generation iPhone. He flicks at the screen before turning it to Rupert. ‘Emily. See?’ Rupert peers at the screen, swallowing as he sees a photo of Emily, his Emily, smiling back at him. It’s a photo he’s never seen before, but it’s her all the same. Emily as she looked before all the trouble started.
‘Look, Rupert, I know it’s difficult, but I came here to warn you.’
‘What do you mean warn me?’
‘About what she’s really like.’ Henry – Harry – sits back as the waitress brings him over a foamy cappuccino. ‘I bet she’s all sweetness and light, isn’t she? It won’t last like that, though. Before long she’ll show you what she’s really like. I was married before Emily came along. Happily married, or so I thought. And then she wormed her way into our lives, and I lost everything.’
‘That’s not the way she tells it,’ Rupert says, thinking of the fear on Emily’s face as she told him what Harry had done to her.
‘Oh? Whatever her story is, let me tell you the truth.’ Harry drags a hand through his unruly hair before sipping at the coffee in front of him. A delaying tactic, Rupert thinks. ‘Emily and I worked together in IT. It sounds like a cliché, and it was I suppose. I was the boss, the director, and she was the new girl. Emily was – she was talented, enthusiastic, like a breath of fresh air. It was like she cast a spell on all of us, and yeah, I’m guilty of letting her get under my skin.’
Harry stops for a moment, as if catching his breath. ‘We started an affair… It was only a couple of times, but then I broke it off. I loved Liv, my wife. Emily was a mistake. Emily wouldn’t accept it. She hounded me day and night, broke into our house, things went missing – silly things like Liv’s necklace that I bought her for her birthday, my favourite tie. Emily reported me to the police for stalking her – as if I couldn’t get away from her if I tried. Obviously, Liv found out, and she was devastated. She took the children and left. Emily thought that meant that we would be together, and I came home to find her in my bed.’
Rupert says nothing, waiting for Harry to finish.
‘That was the final straw. I’d lost my wife, my children, and that day I’d found out I had lost my job because I had taken so much time off with the stress of dealing with Emily’s behaviour. I dragged her out of the bed and threw her out of the house. I’m not proud of myself, I behaved in an appalling manner. I grabbed her by the throat, and I told her if I ever saw her again, I would kill her.’
Harry presses his fingers to his lips, as if pushing the words back inside. ‘She hacked into my bank accounts and stole every penny Liv and I had saved together for the children. I tried to get her arrested, but she’d covered her tracks so well she’d made it look like I had taken the money myself. I haven’t seen her since, but neither have I seen Liv or the children.’
Rupert doesn’t know what to say. ‘Harry, I’m sorry, I really am, but this doesn’t sound like Emily. S
he’s nothing like that.’
‘Don’t you get it, Rupert? I’ve lost everything because of that woman. Everything.’ Spittle flies from Harry’s mouth as his face contorts in anger and he slams a fist down on the table making Rupert jump. ‘I’m trying to warn you – to help you – and you’re so infatuated with her you can’t see what she’s like! I know where you live, Rupert, I know exactly where she is, and I could destroy her anytime I wanted to.’
‘So, why haven’t you then?’ Rupert says, starting to get his things together. It looks like Emily was right after all about Harry, he is mad. ‘Why haven’t you come to our house and demanded that she repay you every penny?’
Rupert leans down and touches Harry’s badly knotted tie, a tiny threat.
A look crosses Harry’s face that Rupert can only describe as fear, and a shot of adrenaline pumps through him. He pushes the knot further up the tie.
‘Why, Harry? Why haven’t you come after her?’
‘Because…’ Harry swallows, and Rupert realizes the fear isn’t aimed at him, it’s because of Emily. ‘She… she’s fucking crazy. I don’t ever want to see her again.’
Rupert shoves him back into his chair and snatches up his jacket. He doesn’t need to sit here and listen to Harry’s lies. Emily was right to be afraid of him, the man is insane.
‘Bullshit. I don’t believe a word you’ve said – stay away, Harry. If it’s you that’s been sending her letters and trying to frighten her then just stay away. Because if you don’t, I’ll come after you, understand? I’ll kill you.’
Harry scrambles to his feet, his face flushed a bright, unhealthy pink. ‘You’re welcome to her. I tried to tell you, but you’re just as crazy as she is. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, when the truth comes out about her.’
Rupert sits motionless, his heart thundering in his chest as he watches Harry leave, waiting a few moments before he makes his exit.
As Rupert strides towards the train station, he keeps seeing Harry’s face change as anger consumes him and he shakes his head. He’s never seen any sign of Emily behaving the way Harry has just described. In fact, he can’t marry up the Emily presented by Harry to the Emily he knows at all. The Emily he knows is fragile, loving, maybe even a tiny bit broken by what has happened to her in the past, and yes, they have their problems at the moment, but his Emily is nothing like the woman Harry has described. What he can picture though, is Emily cowering in fright as Harry’s meaty fist comes down on her body. Emily’s face, fear written all over it, as she tells Rupert that someone is watching her, she’s sure of it.
Rupert pushes back his chair and pulls out his phone. ‘Emily, it’s me. I will be back for dinner after all. Meet me at the Italian on the corner, you know, the one… where we went last time.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I clear away the dead bird, without any mention of it to Rupert, and I fix a smile on my face and make sure my handsome husband’s shirt is ironed for work, without any mention of his possibly not-dead wife, and I make sure to be as sparkly and normal as I possibly can, while all the time in the back of my mind is the possibility that Caro is behind everything.
When Rupert goes to work, I watch him walk briskly along the street in the direction of the train station, his coat pulled up around his ears against the March chill. In a few weeks it will be Easter, and I think back to last year, to Rupert getting down on one knee in front of everyone and the way I had felt just the tiniest flutter of panic before I said yes. Premonition, maybe? I wait until he is out of sight and then scan the road both ways, double-checking that no one (Caro) is lurking outside. The street outside is empty, but I close the blinds anyway before I head upstairs, my feet slowing as I approach the door to the spare room.
It makes sense to start in here, as Rupert had moved Caro’s things in before I’d even met him. Sitting on my feet, I pull out the shoeboxes that line the bottom of the closet, riffling through each one, but none of them contain anything other than shoes. I pull out drawers, dig beneath mattresses and even try Rupert’s desk, but there is nothing. There is no trace in the house, other than the wardrobe full of clothes, that Caro ever even existed, let alone lived here.
Sweaty and dusty – I did a much better job of cleaning the house than Anya has, that’s for sure, despite wrecking the marble tiles – I head downstairs for a glass of water, pausing as I reach the orangery doors. Rupert has closed them back up again, despite my leaving them open. Could there be anything in there? I push the doors open, marvelling again at the light that floods the room. Such a waste, not to use it.
The only thing in the orangery that could possibly hold any answers to Caro’s secrets is a large footstool, with storage inside. Even though I’m ninety per cent sure it won’t contain anything of interest, I pull up the lid, to reveal a half-sewn cross-stitch pattern, the H and O of HOME embroidered in navy blue, and two photo albums. The sight of the half-finished needlework gives me a pang in my chest as I lift it to one side, imagining Caro sitting in here, stitching it for the house, only for it to be left unfinished. Lifting the albums, I dust off the covers and open one up. The first picture is of Caro and Rupert in a dingy pub. They are young, barely in their twenties and it must have been taken in the Nineties as Rupert is holding a cigarette. I didn’t even know he’d ever smoked. Flicking through, I chart their progress together – graduation days, fancy dress parties, other people’s weddings, their own wedding, and then finally the last photo – a grainy black and white scan picture, Caro’s name and the date at the top. I slam the album closed, not expecting the sharp fingers of hurt that ripple through me. I knew Caro was pregnant when she died, but I just hadn’t ever imagined a real baby.
As I get to my feet, writing off this whole search as a waste of time, I catch sight of the shed at the bottom of the garden. Could there be something in there? It was Caro’s, after all, and she might have left something. Rupert doesn’t go in there, and I’ve never bothered, apart from to fetch the gardening things. Shoving my feet into my trainers I snatch up the key to the padlock and hurry across the damp lawn, not noticing the chill in the air.
As I slide the key into the padlock it turns easily, and I shove my way in through the door, sticking and swollen with damp. The shed is tidy, with the garden tools hanging on nails on the wall, and racking against the far end filled with boxes, all slightly musty-smelling. Brushing aside cobwebs, I reach for the first box and open the flaps, only to find it full of damp, mouldy card beer mats. I vaguely remember Rupert telling me his dad used to collect them for him, so I close the box and place it on the floor and pull the box behind it towards me. This box is newer, with no sign of the damp that has infected the others. A tingle works its way up my spine, and I shiver, tugging the box down and opening it before I can change my mind.
Pay dirt. That’s what runs through my mind as I reach in and pull out a sheaf of envelopes and paperwork. Ignoring the spiders that run out from under the racking, I scan the envelopes first – they are unopened, all in Caro’s name and appear to have come from the bank. I pause for a moment, listening hard, and once I’m sure I am alone, I run my fingernail under the flap and slide out the sheet of paper inside. It’s a bank statement, for an account in Caro’s name only, dated June last year. Rupert must have taken it from the pile of post and hidden it out here. I run my eyes down the columns, gasping when I see the balance. There is a vast amount of money in the account, but no transactions have taken place.
I turn to the pile of papers and start to flick through them. They are bank statements too, some for Caro’s account, and some for an account that is in both Rupert’s and Caro’s names. This account has a significant amount of money in it, too, but it’s not an account I recognize as Rupert using regularly. I start to organize them into date order, and I see that occasionally a lump sum will leave the joint account, transferred into an account I recognize as Rupert’s sole account. Nothing has left Caro’s account since the day of the party. I check every single one painsta
kingly, going through over two years’ worth of statements but there is nothing. Caro hasn’t touched her bank account since the day she walked out of the house. Rupert, however, has topped up his personal account – the one without my name on it – several times using their joint account.
Frowning, I lay the statements to one side, a flicker of doubt stirring low in my belly. Maybe I have it all wrong after all? But then who, if not Caro, has been doing all this? I dig deeper into the pile of paperwork, determined to leave no stone unturned. Just because she hasn’t used that bank account doesn’t mean she doesn’t have another one, one that she had been siphoning money into. Maybe, despite Rupert’s adamance that Caro would never have left him, she was planning to leave all along. The box seems to be never-ending, full of receipts, theatre tickets, formal correspondence and handwritten letters, that appear to be from a friend to Caro, written while they were at university. I resist the temptation to read them, not sure if my heart can take written descriptions of Rupert and Caro’s love affair, and I am ready to bundle everything back into the box when I see there is one final envelope at the bottom, the first spots of mildew starting to discolour it.
I slide it out and pull out the contents. It’s only a couple of pages long, and is on headed paper, from a solicitor in West London. As I scan the words, realization dawns, and only because my mother had been up in arms the day her third husband to be (who never became her third husband in the end) asked her to sign a similar document. It’s a pre-nuptial agreement between Rupert and Caro. It states that in the event of a divorce Rupert would not be entitled to half of Caro’s estate, and would only be entitled to certain amounts on prior agreement. However, if Caro died before Rupert, he would inherit everything, with a clause stating that on Rupert’s death, any inheritance shall be divided between any children born to him and Caro, and not to children born by a subsequent partner. All pretty straightforward. I pull out the bank statements and run my eye down the column again, disappointed in my failure to prove what I was so convinced was right.
