by Claire Allan
I spluttered, sat my wine glass down and looked at Ingrid. Cian? Why was she asking about him? ‘I thought this was a piece about how great Rose was?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said confidently. ‘But you must know there are some nasty rumours doing the rounds about her husband too?’
Nasty rumours? This was ridiculous. ‘I’m not aware of any rumours, nasty or otherwise,’ I said coldly. ‘But I can tell you this – no one at Scott’s has a bad word to say about Cian.’
‘No one has ever mentioned that he may have a temper?’
Cian Grahame was the most sensitive man I had ever met. A temper? Perhaps regarding the death of his wife, but that’s all. Not that it was any of this Ingrid Devlin’s business. She was the kind of reporter who gave journalists a bad name. ‘I really don’t think I should continue with this … this … whatever it is.’
‘Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t push it. It’s just, you know, when you hear things …’
‘Hear things like what?’ I asked.
Ingrid Devlin leant across the table towards me, put her hand over her mobile phone to muffle what it was she was about to say. ‘Look, I have a contact in the police. I’m not supposed to say anything – but I have it on good authority that Cian Grahame is about to come under some serious scrutiny. And not just in relation to his beloved wife – there are questions being asked about a suspicious deposit made into Kevin McDaid’s bank account the week Rose died.’
She sat back, hand off her phone, waiting to pick up anything I might say.
‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life,’ I said, standing up, leaving the wine glass barely touched. ‘If you had any idea about Rose and Cian—’
‘But I thought you didn’t really know them? That you hadn’t worked there very long?’ she asked me, a little smile – more genuine than any of her previous tears had been – playing on her lips.
‘I know enough to know he wouldn’t hurt her,’ I said before quickly realising I’d better say no more. I wouldn’t trust this woman not to twist everything I said and make it into some terrible lie in print. ‘I don’t think I have anything more to say to you,’ I said, turning to walk away, leaving her dumbstruck with the best part of a bottle of wine to drink all by herself.
*
When my phone rang as I drove home from work and I saw my brother’s name flash on my screen, my first thought was that something bad had happened to either of my parents. It was a fear I lived with – brought on myself I suppose because I avoided visiting them, not able to cope with the sad, disappointed way they now looked at me. So I mentally settled myself at the thought that any time now I could get a call and my parents – both in their seventies – could have taken ill, or died, or broken a hip and I would be handed another guilt-laden stick with which to beat myself.
Simon never called me. Ever. He occasionally sent a text. Short and to the point. Thanking me for a card sent for his daughter’s birthday. Telling me to call mum and dad.
I couldn’t really remember the last time I’d heard his actual voice. The big Christmas dinner of disappointment perhaps? Where we had all sat mired in shame, embarrassment and an underlying low-level seething anger – scraping our forks around our plates. The turkey had been too dry – turned to dust in my mouth. I lifted my wine glass to wash it down, all eyes, bar the children’s, immediately on mine. How much drink is too much drink on Christmas Day when you’ve gained a reputation as the town mad woman – the one who always smelled faintly of alcohol, whose skin had a permanent sticky sheen to it?
I had pretended, of course, that I hadn’t heard my mother whisper to my father that perhaps they shouldn’t have got any alcohol for the dinner. In support of me. Just as I pretended I hadn’t heard my father whisper back angrily that he had not reached this stage of life to miss out on a fine Sancerre with his Christmas dinner just because his daughter had made a state of herself.
Part of me wanted to let the phone ring. He could leave a voicemail. Deliver the bad news that way – but a conscience is a terrible thing. I pulled over to the side of the road and answered.
‘I was just about to hang up,’ he said, his voice strained. No hello. No warm greeting.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, immediately hating myself for apologising. He always made me feel like this, as if my very act of existing was enough of a hardship on him that I needed to apologise for it. ‘I’m driving. I had to pull over.’
‘Are you on your way home?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Traffic’s heavy. I should be there in about ten minutes – do you want me to call you back when I get there? Is everything okay? Is it mum or dad?’
‘Ten minutes,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to you when you get here.’
With that he hung up and I was left to absorb what he had just told me. I’ll talk to you when you get here. Why could he not just have told me what it was he wanted? Why did he have to continue to try and play some sort of mind game where I was the silly little sister and he could talk down to me whatever way he wanted? He didn’t drive here, seventy miles from his home, for good news. I felt my hands grip the steering wheel tighter – but at the same time my palms were sweaty, my grip on the wheel and my equilibrium wavering. ‘Just breathe,’ I whispered to myself as I pulled out into traffic and towards home.
His car was parked on the road outside, half on the pavement. Blocking the footpath for anyone trying to get past with a buggy or a wheelchair or bags of shopping. But that was Simon. He thought mainly of himself. I pulled into my reserved parking space and walked around to the communal entrance where I found not only Simon, but my mother too. Immediately I found myself relieved that she was clearly okay but Simon’s lips, pursed in disdain, soon had me feeling uneasy again. I wanted to tell him he looked stupid – all cat’s arse pouty. But the tilt of my mother’s head and the way she reached out to me and pulled me into a hug, whispering over and over that I should have come to them for help, blindsided me.
Come to them for help over what? I pulled back. ‘Mum, lovely and all as it is to see you, there’s really no need. I’m fine. I don’t need any help. Who’s told you I need help?’
I could almost hear the dramatic roll of Simon’s eyes in his head, watched as my mother elbowed him into behaving. ‘You don’t have to put up a pretence with me, Emily. I know what’s been going on. But look, the doorstep’s not the place to discuss this kind of business.’ She whispered ‘business’ as if it were a dirty word.
I perched uncomfortably on my sofa while Simon made tea, and my mother sat staring directly at me. I noticed the fine lines that were less fine than before. Had her skin looked that delicate and crêpe-like before? If so, for how long? Had I not noticed the paleness of her eyes, red-rimmed with age, framed by wrinkles that didn’t disappear no matter her expression? Had I not noticed her ageing?
‘You aren’t to be cross with Maud,’ she started. ‘You know she has your interests at heart. She’s worried about you. She says you think Ben is after you? Ben? Seriously, Emily?’
I could hear the crack in her voice. The underlying worry that we were going there again.
‘Look Mum, something happened and it upset me and yes, I got a little carried away …’ I looked around the room. The curtains pulled. The multiple locks. I realised I probably wasn’t looking the most sane.
Simon walked back into the room carrying three mugs of tea.
‘I’m going to cut to the chase here because Mum won’t – and I don’t want to see her and Dad go through what they did before.’
‘This is nothing like that,’ I said, angrily perhaps. Enough to make my mother stiffen. The fear never far. A small pocket of anger was building inside of me – threatening to release. Simon, my mother – both seemingly more concerned that I was losing the plot again without bothering to ask the nature of my concerns. Without caring about whether or not I actually was in danger. As long as I didn’t upset them again.
‘They want you to move back
home for a bit. Maud told them you left CallSolutions.’
‘And I have another job – one I love. I’m not moving home. I’m happy where I am.’
Simon cast a glance around my flat – dark, closed in, safe – and rolled his eyes. ‘Really?’
I eyed him back. ‘Really!’
Mum took my hand. ‘But you … you saw that woman die, Emily. That can’t be easy. It might have triggered something. It’s no wonder you’re thinking of Ben and getting a bit … well—’
‘Obsessed,’ Simon cut in.
‘I’m not obsessed,’ I said loudly. ‘But I can’t let go of what happened then either. It may not suit you to believe that your friend could treat me so badly, but he could.’
Simon shook his head and my mother looked to the floor. It was clear they still thought I had been the only one at fault when things went wrong. Maybe if I had pushed it? Reported him? Told police about the abuse? But of course I didn’t because I wanted him back. I’d made my bed and here I was lying in it.
‘Regardless of that,’ I continued, ‘I’m not obsessed. If I never saw him again or heard mention of his name it would be absolutely fine by me.’ I bit my tongue. As much as I wanted to tell them I was scared, I couldn’t. They would haul me back up the road to Belfast and put me on suicide watch, fill me with more mind-numbing medication. I couldn’t go there again. I wouldn’t.
‘There’s no need to upset yourself,’ my mother said, oblivious to the fact it had been both her and Simon’s inability to believe I wasn’t the villain in all this that was the cause of my upset.
‘I’m not,’ I said. I took my mother’s hand and rubbed it, assured her over and over again that I was honestly, truly okay and I internally wished with all my heart that she believed me, that it had never been me in the wrong back then so that I could tell her exactly how I was feeling at that moment. I wished she believed in me as much as she believed in Ben. He always could win anyone over with his charisma. Even my parents, it seemed. When he came to them, full of mock concern for my mental health after he had destroyed me, they believed that there was no better, more caring man than he. Everyone loved him. There had to be something inherently wrong with me that I had fucked things up so spectacularly with him.
‘Ben’s not even in the country, Emily,’ Simon said. ‘Moved to Birmingham. Settled there.’
Would it have made things worse if I said I knew? Would they believe me if I said he had been in touch? I didn’t have any evidence to prove he had been. The request had been deleted. So there was little point.
‘We just worry,’ my mother said and I watched as her rheumy eyes filled with tears and one rattled down her cheek, skimming over the wrinkles, the soft, fragile skin, the frailness of my beloved mother. ‘It was just such a horrible time. For all of us.’
The phrase ‘for all of us’ jarred but I pushed my feelings aside. It wouldn’t do any good to have this argument again.
‘There is no need, Mum. I promise you. I promise you with all my heart.’
*
When they left, I got into my car, drove to the nearest off licence and bought a bottle of wine. It had a relatively low alcohol content but would hit the spot – quench the thirst that talking with Ingrid, and Simon and my mother had given me. It would help dull the edges of the anger I was feeling at Maud. She’d spoken to my family, for God’s sake, sounded the ‘Emily is going off the deep end’ klaxon.
I wasn’t one minute back in my flat when I unscrewed the lid from the bottle and poured, feeling my heart beat a little quicker as the straw-coloured liquid sloshed into the glass, filling it just shy of the brim. I stood in my kitchen, leaning backwards against the worktop and brought the glass to my lips. I don’t think I even tasted the first half-glass – there was no savouring. No gentle swishing of the liquid around the bowl of the glass to release the bouquet. No sniffing. No slight sip and swirling of it around my mouth allowing the subtle hints of fruit and floral tones to burst on my taste buds.
This was simply drinking to drown any notion Ingrid Devlin had tried to plant in my head that Cian Grahame was anything other than a good and loving man.
I felt the warmth in the pit of my stomach as the wine slid down. The second half of the glass helped drown out the worries, the fear, the shame I felt when I looked at my mother. I refilled the glass, knocked back some more and walked to the living room, a slight buzz somewhere in my head. A light-headedness that came with a large glass of wine on an empty stomach. And a few pills, too. Just enough to relax me. To remind me to keep things in perspective. Maud was concerned about me. My mother was concerned about me. Simon was doing a very good job of pretending to be concerned about me – so I should push down the notion to tell them to fuck off. They were good people, beneath it all. Even Simon.
But Ingrid Devlin, my gut told me, was not a good person. She lied. She conned me into talking to her. She was muckraker. A dirt digger. She probably hacked mobile phones of the dead and dying too. I would have no further dealings with her and I would tell them all at work that she was scurrying around, asking questions, saying things she had no right saying.
I picked up my phone and sent Cian a message. A quick hello. We had exchanged the odd message over the last few days. I knew he wouldn’t mind me reaching out to him just as much as I knew I wanted him to reach back to me.
It was just before 8pm when my phone beeped and I saw his message. A cool: ‘Hey’ – just hanging there. Friendly. Intimate. I imagined him saying it – his deep voice, whispering close to my ear. I felt something shudder deep inside me. I had to remind myself to play it cool.
Hi. How are you?
Okay, all things considered.
I’m glad to hear it.
I considered adding a smiley face but decided against it. As I did against putting an x after my sentence.
I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it all soon. Leave you to grieve in peace.
I do too, Emily. I feel sick every time I hear his name. People feeling sorry for him now? It’s almost as if Rose never existed.
Stay strong, and I’m here if you need to chat.
I wondered if I should tell him about Ingrid Devlin and her horrible insinuations.
Thanks. I hope you don’t mind me offloading to you. There aren’t many people who understand. It’s nice to feel someone is on my side.
Don’t worry about it.
I decided to stay quiet. He trusted in me. I didn’t want that to change just yet.
I’d like to talk to you more. I was thinking since last week went south so fast – what with me making a complete idiot of myself in public – maybe we could try again? Dinner this time, perhaps?
I may have squealed with delight, just a little bit.
I’d like that.
We chatted some more. Decided Saturday night would suit, only if I didn’t have any other plans, you know, like seeing my boyfriend or anything? I told him I didn’t have a boyfriend to see. I was rewarded with another smiley emoticon, which I tried not to read anything into. He asked what kind of food I liked and I replied that anything other than seafood was good by me.
He suggested The Red Door, a nice little eatery just across the border into Donegal. Far enough outside of town to avoid gossipy locals. I agreed, of course. I knew the restaurant he mentioned – it had a good reputation and the seating was such that we wouldn’t be sitting on top of the other guests, we would have space to talk privately. In other circumstances, it could even have been considered romantic.
We signed off our conversation and maybe high on the thought of seeing Cian for dinner and buoyed by the several glasses of wine I had consumed, I opened my laptop and clicked into my email.
I knew it would still be there. His old email address. [email protected].
I could do this, you know. I could face my worst fears. I could prove Simon and my mother, and even Maud, that I could deal with things myself.
And if necessary I could get proof that he had been tryin
g to get in touch with me. It was something, at least, to go on.
I typed a quick message.
Ben,
You wanted to get in touch? I got your friend request. I’m sure you understand why I rejected it. What do you want from me?
Hitting the send button, I vowed that I wouldn’t let myself be so scared of Ben again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rose
2012
Rose Grahame: Today’s the day! We finally move into our dream home! The next step of our life together – and proof that hard work and talent pay off. Housewarming party details to follow later when we’re unpacked and settled. So excited! #Newhome #Blessed #WhereDidIPacktheKettle?
‘You know we won’t be having a housewarming?’ Cian laughed, looking over my shoulder.
‘Not even a little one?’ I asked him. ‘Close friends and family?’
He sniffed. ‘People just looking for a nosy around the house? Let them look at the magazine spread when it’s done – we don’t need them snooping in the bathroom cupboards.’
‘Close family and friends don’t care what brand of shampoo we use, Cian,’ I mocked, but he didn’t laugh back. He was becoming a little more reclusive these days – the pressure of book three was building. He wanted From Darkness Comes Light to be his breakthrough book – the one that won him awards, recognition from the literary community. His second book had earned him the sales he wanted – but the reviews from his peers weren’t always kind. He’d have swapped the first for the second.
‘Maybe when the book’s done,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to worry about a party and everyone asking how my writing is going before then.’
I couldn’t help but feel a bit deflated – this house was more than I could have dreamed of. It was beautiful, filled with character. A home that I could see us raising a family in. I was standing in our new kitchen – which was bigger than my first flat – looking at the new furniture that had been delivered and how good it all looked and of course I wanted to show it off. Maybe it did make me shallow, like Cian said, but I was proud of what we had achieved.
