He wrinkled his nose. ‘Bit in the middle of nowhere.’ He looked around the shop at all the overpriced masks and fake gold gondolas. ‘This is much better, even if you do have to work.’ He leaned in close, his lips brushing against her cheek. ‘But tonight you have a break, I have other plans for you.’
She laughed. ‘All right, all right. Now what mask do you want?’
‘The red mask!’
‘You sure?’
‘Anything to get us back to the hotel as soon as possible.’
When they got to their hotel – a small but ornate building directly overlooking a canal – they stumbled into their room, Ben’s lips pressing against Claire’s neck, her hand reaching for his belt. Then she suddenly saw Milo’s face as he’d looked during the moments they’d shared on the riverbank. She closed her eyes, pleased it was too dark for Ben to see the look on her face.
Ben paused. ‘You okay?’
‘Fine, just woozy from the wine.’ She trailed her fingers down his back, trying to lose herself in the moment. As he touched her and made love to her, she arched her back and made all the right noises.
She needed this to work.
After, he pulled her against his chest and they stared up at the ceiling until their heartbeats slowed.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said after a while. ‘Maybe we should give IVF another go?’
He peered down at Claire, eyes hopeful.
‘Remember what the consultant said to us last time we saw him?’ she said softly.
‘That’s just one consultant, Claire. I really think we should give it one more shot.’
The road he had planned seemed to crash through the hotel room, their future spreading out before her. A year, maybe two, of countless injections and sore, bruised thighs; lonely train journeys for yet more scans; headaches and nausea and debilitating mood swings; then the pregnancy tests, all negative, because what else would they be with her problems? There would need to come a point where they’d admit defeat, maybe during the tense ‘weekend away to regroup’ that always followed a failed round at some characterless luxury chain hotel. As for the years that would follow, all she saw were silent dinners in their large kitchen; more work trips for her just so she could get away from the tension; then maybe Ben would turn to drink like his father did.
It was better they didn’t waste their time filled with false hope.
‘Oh Ben, we can’t wish our lives away on something that will never happen,’ she said as carefully as she could. ‘I’d so love it if we could focus on doing all the things we wouldn’t be able to do if we had children, like I suggested the other week: taking time off to travel. Make all our friends with kids green with envy?’
‘But you travel for work!’ Desperation flickered over his face. ‘Lauren and Aiden got pregnant on their fifth attempt; Lauren herself said she thinks it’s because she did all that positive thinking stuff.’ He folded his arms and turned away. ‘You’re always so bloody negative about it.’
‘Lauren hasn’t got my problems, Ben! She produced three times the amount of eggs I did each round. We need to be realistic, darling, we need to move on.’
She put her hand on his shoulder but he moved away from her, jaw flexing.
‘Fine, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’ He jumped out of bed. ‘I’m having a shower.’
He stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door. Claire slumped against her pillow, biting her nails. He was so desperate for a family and so intent on glossing over the reality of their situation. But she couldn’t give him what he wanted and she felt terrible about that.
She looked around the hotel room, at the bottle of cheap Prosecco glistening under the light of the bedside lamp, the sheen of the silk covers tangled around her feet. Then she stared at the house across from their room. It was falling apart, its walls pink with mildew, bits of it crumbling away. She’d rather be there than here, at least it was real.
Pink crumbling rocks, the strange gaping emptiness of it all.
Isn’t that what Milo had said about Venice? She squeezed her face into her pillow, driving away the memories away of him.
Claire watched Ben approach her table the next morning, his expression solemn, a newspaper tucked tight under his arm. She understood how hard this was for him, but she was the one who’d have to go through all the physical turmoil of yet another round of IVF.
When Ben got to their table, he didn’t sit down, instead placing the newspaper on the table and peering over to the buffet area.
‘Want some more juice?’ he asked in a stiff voice.
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
He strode over to a buffet table, passing the fette biscottate she’d opted for, a delicious hard sweet bread, and headed towards the English fried breakfast area just as he had each morning they’d been here.
A waitress approached Claire’s table. ‘Anything else?’ she asked in a bored voice.
She wondered what Milo would go for. Probably a caffè corretto. It was the drink her dad always enjoyed during their visits to Italy, a shot of espresso mixed with grappa, an Italian brandy. He used to say it gave him the perfect kick in the backside each morning. She needed that right now.
She ordered it and a few minutes later her waitress brought it over. Claire lifted it to her nose, breathing in its subtle grapey aroma, then took a sip; the alcohol and coffee mixture went straight to her tired brain. As she reached for Ben’s paper, she spluttered on her drink. On the front page was a photo of the groom from the Exmoor wedding, Matt Levine. Claire knew she ought to put it aside but she couldn’t resist reading the article.
Dale James ‘laid down gun before being shot’
Nathan Styles reports
Exmoor groom Matthew Levine told Exeter Crown Court yesterday that he heard Dale James shout out ‘Okay, I’ve put the gun down!’ a few moments before his brother shot him, adding to the prosecution’s case against Milo James’s self-defence plea. Investment banker Levine was recounting the moments just after his new wife, Sarah Levine, was tragically shot dead. As the only witness outside the James family to observe the confrontation between the two brothers, his testimony is crucial, especially because it contradicts Milo James’s statement that the gun went off by accident while he tried to wrestle it off his brother.
She looked at the photo of the journalist, a man with a squint and receding hair. He must have been referring to the moments before Claire entered the marquee. Was he really implying Milo hadn’t acted in self-defence? She’d presumed Milo would easily get let off. Even her sister Sofia, who was a solicitor, had said it was a formality. The police had to charge Milo, but there was no way he’d go down for it. It suddenly all seemed so different now.
Ben approached the table, so she quickly shoved the paper back to his side of the table and took a big gulp of her drink.
‘They didn’t have any bacon left,’ Ben said as he sat down.
‘Hmmm,’ was all Claire could muster, the article still strong in her mind.
‘You okay?’
She looked up at Ben. ‘Yes, fine.’
He sighed. ‘Look, about last night. I shouldn’t be pushing you, it’s too soon.’
She put her hand over his and smiled with relief. ‘It’s fine, but I just need some time to get my head around the future. We both do.’
Her eyes strayed back to the paper. Could Milo really be sent to prison for murdering his brother? It wasn’t right! Claire had been with him right before he ran into the marquee; she knew his state of mind. He loved his brother and would never have hurt him unless in self-defence.
‘So, with time, are you saying there’s a chance we might try IVF again?’ Ben asked, his voice hopeful.
She looked back at him, the article whirling around in her mind with the grappa and coffee. ‘Ben, we—’
‘Let’s just leave it at that. Keep an open mind.’
‘Right,’ she said, thinking of Milo locked up in prison. ‘Open mind.’
‘To
us,’ Ben said, raising his glass of champagne the next evening. ‘Happy anniversary, babe.’
Claire clinked her glass against his just as a cheer went up from the crowds around them. Their hotel was ideally placed to watch the Vogalonga, the rowing regatta that took place in May each year. The building had a magnificent balcony, gilded gold with tiny caricatures of birds all over it. Claire and Ben were two of the lucky few who were being treated to a champagne lunch as they watched the dozens of boats float by. The canal danced with colour, reds, greens and blues, flags fluttering in the wind, oars battling each other as the boats crowded into the water. Claire smiled, feeling more optimistic. Ben hadn’t mentioned the IVF thing all day. In fact, he’d talked about looking for a new house that morning, ‘somewhere in the middle of nowhere, just us two’. It wasn’t quite taking time off to travel, but it was a hint he might be willing to carve out a different kind of life that didn’t include having a family.
‘So,’ Ben said, turning back to Claire, ‘we’re not just celebrating the fact we’ve been married for five years today but also how we’ve overcome everything we’ve been through the past few months. I really didn’t think we’d get here, Claire.’
‘But we have, haven’t we?’ The champagne and the atmosphere were making her feel optimistic again. Maybe things could really work out between them.
‘We certainly have.’ He took a deep breath, placing his free hand over hers. ‘I don’t want to dwell too much on the bad stuff. But all those months ago, when I saw the name of your hotel flash up alongside the word “shooting” that day…’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘All I could think about was that terrible conversation we’d had before you left and how little I’d done to save our marriage.’ He leaned forward, looking into her eyes. ‘I’d given up on our dream, Claire – we’d both given up. Not only on us, but a family too.’
Claire paused mid-sip, disappointment flooding through her. Why couldn’t he accept that wouldn’t happen?
‘I know you need time,’ he said, noticing the look on her face. ‘But, like we agreed yesterday morning, that doesn’t mean we can’t try again in the future. We need to keep an open mind.’
Had they agreed that?
A boat passed directly beneath them, carrying five men dressed in striped red and white T-shirts, a length of ruby chiffon draped all around the boat, plump red roses dangling from its sides. One of the men peered up at her and bowed before blowing her a kiss. Claire waved back, trying to force herself to get into the spirit of things.
Ben took a quick sip of his champagne, too, and laughed nervously. ‘This is going to sound stupid but when I got that call from you to say you were unharmed, I made a list of all the things I should’ve done to save our marriage and I promised I would do every single one. And that’s what I did over those few months you lived with your sister. Now look at us! When we kissed that night, and then it started to snow, it was just – well, perfect. I knew we were starting to heal ourselves then; heal our marriage.’
But Claire wasn’t healed, was she? And she was going to be dragging Ben into a childless life with a wounded, barren woman
‘Thank you, Claire,’ Ben said, squeezing her hand. ‘Thank you for giving us another chance.’
Was she really giving him a chance? He could be so much happier with another woman: a fertile woman who could give him all he wanted. A woman who in turn would be happy too – because she herself wasn’t happy, was she?
He raised his glass again. ‘So another toast. The future!’
Claire lifted her glass, her hand shaking as she contemplated their future together. Champagne sloshed over the edge of the glass onto the sleeve of Ben’s blue shirt.
‘Sorry,’ she gasped.
He quickly mopped it up with his napkin as he smiled at her. She looked into his eyes and realised with shock she desperately wanted to be looking into another pair of eyes: Milo’s dark eyes.
‘I can’t do this to you,’ she said. ‘I can’t pretend any more.’
His face drained of all its colour and Claire felt sick with guilt. But she couldn’t carry on the charade. It wasn’t fair on him.
‘You deserve better than me,’ she said, reaching for her bag, unable to see him looking at her like that. ‘I’m sorry, Ben.’
Then she ran from the balcony, the roar of the regatta pounding in her ears.
8
Exeter, UK
1998
‘Can I ask why you didn’t give a statement to the police after that night, Miss Shreve?’ the barrister for the prosecution asked, a petite Indian woman with strange blue eyes that seemed to drill right into Claire’s.
Claire felt her heart thump like a boxer’s fist, the gravity of what she was doing really hitting her. She looked up at Milo but his head was still bowed, his black suit loose on his now-thin frame.
It had been an impulsive decision to call his barrister when she arrived back in the UK a couple of days before. On the flight home, she’d felt this overwhelming urge to help Milo by putting herself forward as a witness. If she could provide evidence about his state of mind before he shot his brother, perhaps it would add weight to the fact Dale’s death wasn’t premeditated as the press were trying to make out? His barrister had reassured her there was a low chance of her being prosecuted for lying to the police because she’d been one of the wedding guests the police had failed to question. But sitting there right now, with everyone’s eyes on her, she was starting to regret her decision. Milo had barely looked at her when she’d walked in, and now the prosecution’s pit-bull of a barrister was laying into her.
She felt so desperately alone. She’d told Jodie about her decision to come here, but her friend had had to fly to Estonia that morning for a film festival she’d helped organise. She peered towards the public galleries. Among the sea of faces were the groom Matt Levine and his friend, Jay Hemingford. Jay had become a bit of a media star since that evening, giving interviews, even writing a few articles for the Daily Telegraph about what had happened. A few rows behind them was Nathan Styles, the journalist whose article she’d read in Venice.
Claire fiddled with one of the pearl earrings Jodie had suggested she wear and looked back at the barrister. ‘I didn’t want my husband to find out I’d been with another man. I was in shock too.’
‘So to hide the fact you were being unfaithful to your husband, you decided to withhold vital information,’ the barrister snapped.
‘I…’ Claire paused, her mouth going dry. She peered towards the public galleries again and Matt Levine stared back at her with red-rimmed eyes. Her own eyes started filling with tears. What the hell had she been thinking coming here? She looked up at Milo and was surprised to see his head was lifted now and he was staring at her with his intense brown gaze. Her stomach did a flip. He leaned forward, hands clutching at the rail in front of him, and mouthed two words: It’s okay.
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. ‘I apologise for that,’ she said to the barrister, trying to keep the tremble from her voice. ‘I was scared. But I’m here now and I’m telling the truth because it’s the right thing to do.’
Milo leaned back, face unreadable again.
‘You were scared? Do you mean scared of what Milo James would say if you went to the police?’
Milo frowned.
‘No!’ Claire said. ‘I’m not scared of Milo, nobody should be, he’s a kind—’
‘Why are you coming forward now?’ the barrister asked, her face hardening as she leaned towards Claire.
‘People need to know I was with Milo before what happened and there was absolutely no suggestion he wanted to intentionally kill his brother. He loved his brother!’
‘Have you been in contact with Milo James since that night, Miss Shreve?’
Claire looked up at him and noticed his shoulders tense.
‘Miss Shreve?’ the barrister pushed.
‘No, I haven’t seen Milo James since that night.’
‘How would y
ou describe your feelings towards him?’
‘I barely know him. But what I do know of him, he’s a good man and he was acting completely normally the moments before he saved all those people from his brother.’
Milo held Claire’s gaze a few brief seconds, his face softening.
‘But you clearly care for him,’ the barrister said, ‘so much so, you’d be willing to lie and say you spent time with him before the shooting?’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
The barrister looked towards the jury. ‘Most people wouldn’t keep such a thing a secret for eight months. I think that’s everything. Thank you.’
Claire stood up on shaky legs and walked away from the dock. As she passed under the area where Milo was sitting, he looked down at her, his brown eyes indecipherable. Had she made things worse for him? She thought she’d done a good job of explaining his state of mind when his defence barrister questioned her ten minutes ago. But it had all gone to pieces when the prosecution barrister approached the witness stand.
She rushed down the walkway, desperate to get out as everyone’s eyes focused on her. As soon as she got outside, she sank down onto a bench, putting her head in her hands. What if she had made things worse? If Milo was sent to prison, she’d never forgive herself.
Her phone buzzed. Her sister Sofia. Could she know already? She took a deep breath and put the phone to her ear.
‘Claire, is that you?’ Sofia’s voice sounded panicked, out of breath.
She knew.
‘Yes, Sofia.’
‘My PA was just listening to the radio and told me you came forward as a witness for Milo James. Are you okay?’
‘I guess.’
‘What happened in Exmoor? Is it true you slept with him?’
‘No! It was just a kiss. Is that what they said on the radio, that I slept with him?’
‘They implied it. My God, Claire, the press are going to tear you apart.’
The Lost Mother: An absolutely gripping and emotional read that will have you hooked Page 14
