by Lisa Jewell
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This book is dedicated to all my friends on the Board
part one
1
April 2011
They might have been fireworks, the splashes, bursts, storms of color that exploded in front of her eyes. They might have been the northern lights, her own personal aurora borealis. But they weren’t, they were just neon lights and streetlights rendered blurred and prismatic by vodka. Maya blinked, trying to dislodge the colors from her field of vision. But they were stuck, as though someone had been scribbling on her eyeballs. She closed her eyes for a moment, but without vision, her balance went and she could feel herself begin to sway. She grabbed something. She did not realize until the sharp bark and shrug that accompanied her action that it was a human being.
“Shit,” Maya said, “I’m really sorry.”
The person tutted and backed away from her. “Don’t worry about it.”
Maya took exaggerated offense to the person’s lack of kindness.
“Jesus,” she said to the outline of the person, whose gender she had failed to ascertain. “What’s your problem?”
“Er,” said the person, looking Maya up and down, “I think you’ll find you’re the one with the problem.” Then the person, a woman, yes, in red shoes, tutted again and walked away, her heels issuing a mocking clack-clack against the pavement as she went.
Maya watched her blurred figure recede. She found a lamppost and leaned against it, looking into the oncoming traffic. The headlights turned into more fireworks. Or one of those toys she’d had as a child: tube, full of colored beads, you shook it, looked through the hole, lovely patterns—what was it called? She couldn’t remember. Whatever. She didn’t know anymore. She didn’t know what time it was. She didn’t know where she was. Adrian had called. She’d spoken to him. Tried to sound sober. He’d asked her if she needed him to come and get her. She couldn’t remember what she’d said. Or how long ago that had been. Lovely Adrian. So lovely. She couldn’t go home. Go home and do what she needed to do. He was too nice. She remembered the pub. She’d talked to that woman. Promised her she was going home. That was hours ago. Where had she been since then? Walking. Sitting somewhere, on a bench, with a bottle of vodka, talking to strangers. Hahaha! That bit had been fun. Those people had been fun. They’d said she could come back with them, to their flat, have a party. She’d been tempted, but she was glad now, glad she’d said no.
She closed her eyes, gripped the lamppost tighter as she felt her balance slip away from her. She smiled to herself. This was nice. This was nice. All this color and darkness and noise and all these fascinating people. She should do this more often, she really should. Get out of it. Live a little. Go a bit nuts. A group of women were walking towards her. She stared at them greedily. She could see each woman in triplicate. They were all so young, so pretty. She closed her eyes again as they passed by, her senses unable to contain their images any longer. Once they’d passed she opened her eyes.
She saw a bus bearing down, bouncy and keen. She squinted into the white light on the front, looking for a number. It slowed as it neared her and she turned and saw that there was a bus stop to her left, with people standing at it.
Dear Bitch. Why can’t you just disappear?
The words passed through her mind, clear and concise in their meaning, like a sober person leading her home. And then those other words, the words from earlier.
I hate her too.
She took a step forward.
2
“According to the bus driver, Mrs. Wolfe lurched into the path of the bus.”
“Lurched?” echoed Adrian Wolfe.
“Well, yes. That was the word he used. He said that she did not appear to step or jump or run or fall or slip. He said she lurched.”
“So it was an accident?”
“Well, yes, it does sound possible. But obviously we will need a full coroner’s report, a possible inquest. What we can tell you with certainty is that her blood alcohol reading was very high.” DI Hollis referred to a piece of paper on the desk in front of him. “Nought point two. That’s extraordinarily high. Especially for a small woman like Mrs. Wolfe. Was she a regular drinker?”
The question sounded loaded. Adrian flinched. “Er, yes, I suppose, but no more so than your average stressed-out thirty-three-year-old schoolteacher. You know, a glass a night, sometimes two. More at the weekends.”
“But this level of drinking, Mr. Wolfe? Was this normal?”
Adrian let his face fall into his hands and rubbed roughly at his skin. He had been awake since three thirty a.m., since his phone had rung, interrupting a fractured dream in which he was running about central London with a baby in his arms trying to call Maya’s name but not able to make a sound.
“No,” he said, “no. That wasn’t normal. She isn’t . . . wasn’t that kind of drinker.”
“So, what was she—out at a party? Doing something out of the ordinary?”
“No. No.” Adrian sighed, feeling the inadequacy of his understanding of the night’s events. “No. She was looking after my children. At my house in Islington . . .”
“Your children?”
“Yes.” Adrian sighed again. “I have three children with my former wife. My former wife had to go to work today. Sorry. Yesterday. Unexpectedly. She didn’t have time to organize child care so she asked if Maya would look after the children. They’re on their Easter holidays. And, obviously, Maya being a teacher, so is she. So Maya spent the day there and I was expecting her home at about six thirty and she wasn’t there when I got home and she wasn’t answering her phone. I called her roughly every two minutes.”
“Yes, we saw all the missed calls.”
“She finally picked up at about ten p.m. and I could tell she was drunk. She said she was in town. Wouldn’t tell me who with. She said she was on her way home. So I sat and waited for her. Called again from roughly midnight to about one o’clock. Then I finally fell asleep. Until my phone rang at three thirty.”
“How did she sound? When you spoke to her at ten p.m.?”
“She sounded . . .” Adrian sighed and waited for a wave of tears to pass. “She sounded really jolly. Happy drunk. She was calling from a pub. I could hear the noise in the background. She said she was on her way home. She was just finishing her drink.”
“Often the way, isn’t it?” the policeman said. “When you’ve reached a certain point of inebriation. Much easier to be persuaded into staying on for that one more drink. The hours pass as fast as minutes.”
“Do you have any idea who she was with, in that pub?”
“Well, no. For now, we’re not treating Mrs. Wolfe’s death as suspicious. If it becomes apparent that there was foul play involved and we need to investigate Mrs. Wolfe’s last movements, then yes, we’ll talk to local publicans. Talk to Mrs. Wolfe’s friends. Build up a fuller picture.”
Adrian nodded. He was tired. He was traumatized. He was confused.
“Do you have any theories of your own, Mr. Wolfe? Was everything OK at home?”
“Yes, God, yes! I mean, we’d only been married two years. Everything was great.”
“No problems with family number one?”
Adrian looked at DI Hollis questioningly.
“Well, second wives—there can be, you k
now, pressures there?”
“Actually, she’s . . . she was . . . my third wife.”
DI Hollis’s eyebrows jumped.
“I’ve been married twice before.”
DI Hollis looked at Adrian as though he had just performed an audacious sleight-of-hand trick.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, for my next trick I will confound all your preconceptions about me in one fell swoop.
Adrian was used to that look. It said: How did an old fart like you manage to persuade one woman to marry you, let alone three?
“I like being married,” said Adrian, aware even as he said it how inadequate it sounded.
“And that was all fine, was it? Mrs. Wolfe wasn’t finding it difficult being in the middle of such a . . . complicated situation?”
Adrian sighed, pulled his dark hair off his face and then let it flop back over his forehead. “It wasn’t complicated,” he said. “It isn’t complicated. We’re one big happy family. We go on holiday together every year.”
“All of you?”
“Yes. All of us. Three wives. Five children. Every year.”
“All in the same house?”
“Yes. In the same house. Divorce doesn’t have to be toxic if everyone involved is prepared to act like grown-ups.”
DI Hollis nodded slowly. “Well,” he said, “that’s nice to hear.”
“When can I see her?”
“I’m not sure.” DI Hollis’s demeanor softened. “I’ll talk to the coroner’s office for you now, see how they’re getting on. Should be soon.” He smiled warmly and replaced the lid of his pen. “Maybe time to get home, have a shower, have a coffee?”
“Yes,” said Adrian. “Yes. Thank you.”
The key sounded terrible in the lock of Adrian’s front door; it ground and grated like an instrument of torture. He realized it was because he was turning the key extra slowly. He realized he was trying to put off the moment that he walked into his flat, their flat. He realized that he did not want to be here without her.
Her cat greeted him in the hallway, desperate and hungry. Adrian glanced at the cat blankly. Maya’s cat. Brought here three years ago in a brown plastic box as part of an endearingly small haul of possessions. He wasn’t a cat person but he’d accepted her cat into his world in the same way that he’d accepted her bright floral duvet cover, her wipe-clean tablecloth and her crap CD player.
“Billie,” he said, closing the door behind him, leaning heavily against it. “She’s gone. Your mummy. She’s gone.” He slid slowly to his haunches, his back still pressed against the front door, the heels of his hands forced into his eye sockets, and he wept.
The cat approached him curiously. She rubbed herself against his knees and she issued a vibrato warble. He pulled the cat towards him and he wept some more. “She’s dead, puss. Beautiful, beautiful Mummy. What are we going to do? What are we going to do?”
The cat had no answers to offer. The cat was hungry.
Slowly, Adrian pulled himself to standing and let the cat lead him to the kitchen. There he searched through cupboards and shelves for something to feed the cat with. He never fed the cat. He had no idea what the cat normally ate. He gave up in the end and gave the cat tuna meant for humans.
The sun was out, flooding this spartan, unpretty, east-facing room with unaccustomed sunlight. It picked out the grubby honey tones in the floorboards and the dust in the air. It picked out the whorls of black fur left wherever the cat had settled for a sleep and the circular sticky patches on the coffee table where Maya had rested her morning smoothie. It picked out the damp bubbling behind the wallpaper and the cracks in the plasterwork.
Such a rushed decision, this flat. Maya’s flatmate had found a replacement who wanted to move in that weekend, and as civilized as Caroline had been about his still living in the family home three weeks after his telling her he was leaving her for another woman, he’d known it was time to move on. They’d looked at three flats in one morning and chosen the worst one in the nicest street.
It hadn’t mattered then. It hadn’t mattered to either of them. Because they were in love. And ugly flats look pretty when you’re in love.
He watched the cat pecking at her tuna fish. The cat would have to go. He could not have Maya’s cat without Maya.
Then he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and he stared at it for a while. He had phone calls to make. Terrible phone calls. Phone calls to Maya’s dry, unsmiling parents; phone calls to Susie in Hove, to Caroline in Islington, to his young children and his grown children.
And what would he say to them when they asked him why Maya was walking drunk and alone around the neon-lit streets of the West End on a Wednesday night? He really did not know. All he knew for sure was that his life had just come off its rails and that for the first time in his adult life, he was alone.
3
March 2012
The woman in the pale gray coat stood on the other side of the post office, looking through a carousel display of greeting cards. She spun the carousel slowly around and around, but her gaze was not upon the cards, but on the gaps between the cards. It was on him. Over there. Adrian Wolfe.
He was wearing a big tweedy overcoat, black jeans, walking boots and a burgundy scarf. Tall and slim, from behind he looked about twenty, from the front he looked middle-aged. But he was distinguished, almost handsome, with his mop of dark hair and spaniel eyes. His looks had grown on the woman over the weeks, as she’d followed him from place to place.
She watched him pull something from his pocket. A small rectangle of white card. He said something to a member of the staff, who nodded and pointed at a blank area on the community noticeboard. Adrian Wolfe pulled a thumbtack from the board and then punctured his card with it. He stood back for a moment and regarded it. Then he put his hands into the pockets of his big tweedy overcoat and left.
The woman scooted from behind the carousel and walked to the noticeboard, where she read Adrian Wolfe’s card:
She looked from left to right, and then from right to left, before pulling the card from the noticeboard and stuffing it into her handbag.
Good Home Wanted for Mature Cat
Billie is roughly eight years old. She is a black and white moggy with a sweet temperament and very few annoying habits.
I am going through some personal changes and am no longer able to care for her as well as she deserves.
If you’d like to come and meet Billie and see if you hit it off, please call me on the number below.
“She sheds a bit.”
Adrian glanced in the general direction of the cat, who was looking at the strange woman as though she knew that she was here to offer her the chance of a better life.
The strange woman, who was called Jane, smiled and ran her hand firmly down the cat’s back and said, “That’s fine. I have an Animal.”
Adrian narrowed his eyes at her. In his mind’s eye he saw her sitting on a sofa with a tiger at her side, or possibly a horse. “An animal . . . you mean another pet?”
She laughed. “No, sorry, I mean one of those vacuums, you know, for people who have pets. That suck up hair.”
“Aaah.” He nodded knowingly. But he did not know.
“So. Why are you getting rid of her?” She picked some fur off the palm of her hand and let it drop to the floor.
Adrian smiled sadly and let the next words fall as lightly as possible from his tongue. He was practiced by now in the art of making the unpalatable bearable for other people.
“Ah, well, Billie was my wife’s cat. And my wife passed away. Eleven months ago. And every time I look at Billie I expect my wife to walk into the room. And she doesn’t. So . . .” He shrugged. “There you go. Time to say good-bye to Billie.” He looked f
ondly at the cat although he felt no fondness at all towards her. But he didn’t want this strange woman to see this side of him, the dead-inside part that could feel so antipathetic towards a mere cat.
The woman looked up at him, her eyes filled with pain. “My God,” she said, “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.” Her blond fringe flipped across her eyes and she moved it back with delicate fingers. All her movements were perfectly executed, like a trained dancer or an Alexander technique student. Adrian noticed this at the same time as noticing her waist, small and neat inside a highly pressed blue shirtdress pulled in with a belt, and her earrings, tiny bulbs of blue glass hanging from silver hooks, the shade a perfect match for her dress. She was wearing tan leather ankle boots with a scattering of silver studs across the toe and a small heel. She was immaculate. Almost unnervingly so.
They both turned to look at Billie once more.
“So,” said Adrian, “what do you think?”
“I think she’s lovely,” she said. Then she paused and looked at Adrian. He noticed with a start that her eyes were mismatched: one gray-blue, the other gray-blue with a chunk of amber. He caught his breath. There it was, he thought, the imperfection. Every woman he had ever loved had had one. A scar across the eyebrow (Caroline). A gap between her teeth (Susie). Bright red hair and a violent patterning of ginger freckles (Maya).
“But,” she continued, “I’m not sure you’re ready to let her go.”
He gazed at her curiously, interested to hear the theory behind her opinion.
“How long have you lived with Billie?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Maya brought her with her. When she moved in with me. So, I guess, nearly four years.”
He saw her rapidly working out the dates, behind those mismatched eyes. A wife who’d moved in and then died all within the space of four years. Tough stats to absorb. Unlikely and tragic, like a bad movie. But it wasn’t a bad movie. Oh no, indeed. It was his Real Life.
