The House on the Cliff

by Charlotte Williams

  “My new beau. He’s moving in with me next month. We’re going to live in sin.” Jean giggled.

  I was beginning to feel nonplussed. Jean was behaving like a completely different person from the one I’d known. She’d never shown any sign of a sense of humor before. I’d never realized she had one.

  I looked over at the rabbits. Windsor had picked up a pellet from the counter displaying the pet foods, and was feeding one to the rabbit, much to Rose’s delight.

  “Well, that’s lovely,” I said. “I’m pleased for you.”

  “Oh yes. It’s all turned out very well.” Jean lowered her voice. “He’s very good around the house.”

  I nodded, thinking of the curtain rail.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.” Jean waved her hand airily. “I’ve been so busy. It’s been such a whirlwind.”

  I thought for a moment of pointing out that she really should have phoned to cancel the sessions, but decided not to go there, as they say. Instead, a silence fell as we both looked over at Windsor, Rose, and the rabbits.

  “Well,” she said eventually. “Nice to see you again.”

  “And you, Jean.” I spoke with sincerity. “Good luck with everything.”

  “Thanks.”

  She gave me a little wave, then went over to Windsor and took his arm. As they sauntered off together, I joined Rose at the rabbit cage.

  “Who was that lady?” Rose asked.

  “Oh, just one of my clients.” I paused, wondering why I didn’t feel angry with Jean. She’d quit her sessions without any notice, without a word of thanks. I’d lost fees, wasted time. And yet, seeing her like that had made me feel good. Really good. For a moment I forgot my worries about Nella and remembered why it was that I’d decided, all those years ago, to become a psychotherapist. I’d done it to help people. It was a clichéd phrase, but it was the truth. That had been my aim, and I realized now that sometimes—not often—I managed to achieve it. In Jean’s case, I’d only offered a holding operation while she recovered from her grief, but that had, apparently, been all she’d needed to get her back on course.

  Rose pointed to a small gray rabbit in the corner, sitting alone. “That’s the one.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Rose nodded.

  “OK, then. Good choice.” I put my arm round her shoulder. “Shall we celebrate with a bacon sandwich?”

  Rose looked up in surprise. “You mean, over there?” She pointed to the café. She knew I didn’t like it, that I often complained about the smell of bacon fat that pervaded the market because of it.

  I nodded.

  She looked pensive. “Are you happy about something, Mum?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “What?”

  “That lady. She used to be sad. And now she’s feeling better. That’s all.”

  “Cool.” Rose paused for a moment. “Can I have a doughnut as well, then?”

  We paid for the rabbit, arranging to collect it later, went over to the café and found ourselves a seat at the bar running along the edge of the gallery. I ordered two bacon sandwiches, a cup of tea, and a glass of bright green pop that didn’t even pretend to bear any resemblance to fruit juice.

  As we waited for our food, Rose drank her pop noisily, sucking happily on her straw, gazing dreamily into space. I knew by the look on her face she was thinking about the rabbit.

  On the countertop was a copy of that day’s Echo. The Echo is our local newspaper. It normally carries stories of buses failing to run on time, children recovering from suspected meningitis, and baby birds falling out of nests. I glanced casually at the front page, not expecting it to tell me anything more earth-shattering than that a dog had nearly bitten a man, and caught my breath.

  In the center of the page was a headline: EVAN MORGAN CHARGED WITH MURDER. Underneath, there was a picture of him, taken some time ago, and an article that began:

  Following sensational revelations received yesterday at the South Wales Echo, police have charged Evan Morgan with murder. The internationally renowned theater director spent three hours this morning at Central Police Station being interviewed in connection with the death by drowning, in 1990, of a Swedish au pair employed by the Morgan family. Bob Cadogan, Mr. Morgan’s lawyer, declined to comment.

  It took me a moment to take in what I’d read: not only that Evan had been charged, but that Bob was representing him. My husband had gone off behind my back and offered his services to Evan Morgan, knowing that I was liable to be an expert witness for the other side. What the hell was he thinking of? Was he trying to make me look a complete idiot? A red fog began to rise up in front of my eyes. I locked my teeth together, in pure fury. I wanted to jump up, then and there, and rush home to confront him. But, for Rose’s sake, I stayed where I was.

  The bacon sandwiches arrived. Rose opened hers up, smeared ketchup over the inside, and started to tuck in. I put a squirt of mustard on mine and took a bite. The bacon tasted salty, the bread synthetic. Minutes before, I’d been hungry and would have enjoyed it all the same, but now I’d lost my appetite. Instead I watched Rose eat, trying to be patient as she savored each bite, laying the sandwich carefully down on her plate each time she took another sip of her drink. Finally, when she’d finished, and was slowly licking the last of the tomato sauce off her fingers, I said, “Come on, sweet pea. Let’s go.”

  Rose looked horrified. “But what about the doughnut?”

  “We’ll get one for you to eat in the car.”

  She began to scowl.

  “I’m sorry, Rosie.” I took a tissue out of my pocket and handed it over for her to wipe her fingers. “We’ve got to get home.”

  “But why?”

  “I need to talk to Dad.”

  “About what?”

  “About something.” I paused, looking for a way to change the subject. “Now, let’s go over and pick up the rabbit. Have you thought of a name yet?”

  Rose ignored me.

  I persevered. “I suppose it depends if it’s a boy or a girl.”

  I got up to go, but Rose didn’t budge.

  “You said I could have a doughnut here.” Her voice rose indignantly. “You said.”

  I sighed. Rose is a determined child. If she thinks she’s being treated unfairly, she digs her heels in. When she does, she’s quite immovable. Thankfully her demands are usually reasonable enough, so I try to meet them wherever possible. And, on this occasion, she had a point. I had promised her a doughnut in the café. Not in the car, or anywhere else. Besides, there was no real reason to suddenly up sticks and rush off home—other than my mounting anger with Bob, which, to be fair, was nothing to do with her.

  “OK, then.” I sat down again, took some money out of my purse, and handed it to her. “You go up to the counter and order it. But after that, we really will need to get going.”

  Rose went off to get the doughnut. Meanwhile, I rolled up the paper and put it into my bag.

  When we arrived home, Bob was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and working on his laptop. Rose showed him the rabbit and he took her off to help her install it in the hutch we’d set up in the garden shed. Afterward they came back in, and there followed a long discussion about nesting, and straw, and litter trays, and pellets, and carrots, and water, and then, finally, once these matters were settled, Rose went upstairs to practice her clarinet.

  When she’d gone I produced the newspaper from my bag.

  “What’s this?” I thrust it under Bob’s nose.

  “Ah yes.” Bob looked guilty. “I was going to—”

  “How dare you?” My voice was shaking with anger. “How dare you take this on? Without telling me.”

  I threw the paper onto the kitchen table beside his laptop. Then I marched over to the kettle, filled it, and switched it on.

  “I told you that information in confidence,” I said, as it began to heat up. “I trusted you. I wanted your advice. . . .”

  “Look, Jess.” Bob came up behind me
. “I’ve done nothing wrong. You know that. I’ve spoken to Evan, and I’m convinced he’s innocent. So I’ve decided to help him.”

  “But why didn’t you consult me? You should have asked me first. I could be a witness for the other side. It’ll be incredibly awkward—”

  Bob interrupted me. “But you said you hadn’t made up your mind yet . . .”

  The kettle began to boil furiously. It’s one of those modern ones that heats the water in about fifteen seconds flat, but looks as though it’s about to take off when it’s doing so.

  “No. But you could have talked to me first. Surely this is a decision we should have taken together?”

  “Well, yes. But it’s so difficult to talk to you at the moment. You’re always so distant. So prickly.” Bob’s voice rose a fraction. “Anyway, it’s not just about Evan. If I take on this case, it’ll be what I need to get my career back on course. We’ve been talking about this for ages, haven’t we? You’ve always advised me to leave the Assembly and go solo. And now my chance has come up.” He paused. “This is a real opportunity for me. A chance to break free. I only took the job at the Assembly because I wanted a secure future for you and the children. . . .”

  I turned to face him. My whole body was shaking with rage. I was surprised at the intensity of it. And I was surprised at what came out next.

  “Don’t give me that. You don’t care about me. Or the children. The only person you care about, Bob Cadogan, is yourself.” Strangely, I felt as though someone new—me, yes, but not the usual me—was talking. Someone whose voice had been in my head for a long time, but who’d never spoken before, and who was now releasing a huge burden of pent-up anger, to my surprise as much as Bob’s. “All this”—I waved my hand around the room—“the house, our marriage, the whole thing—is just a bloody sham. A lie.”

  Bob’s eyes widened. He stepped back in surprise, staggering a little, as though I’d struck him.

  “For the last two years, all I’ve done is listen to you whine on about your career. Then you go off and screw some woman at a conference, just to boost your ego. And now, all of a sudden, you’ve decided to poke your nose into my business, take advantage of what I’ve told you, in confidence, about one of my clients. And decide, without consulting me, to defend his lying, cheating bastard of a father, one of your disgusting, lecherous old cronies at the Assembly . . .” I didn’t recognize the words coming out of my mouth. “Well, I’ve had enough. It’s never going to work between us. Because it’s always going to be about you and your ego, isn’t it? You’re a selfish little shit, and you always will be.”

  The kettle reached a climax, then switched itself off. Steam was pouring out of it, misting up the air. I stood by the sink, shaking, looking out of the window, Bob standing behind me.

  There was a silence. Then Bob said, in a reasonable tone, “I’m not little.”

  In the past, I might have laughed when he said that, and turned round, and he would have come over and put his arms around me, and we would have kissed and made up. But not this time. This time, he’d gone too far.

  “I didn’t realize you felt like this about . . . about us . . .” He sounded crestfallen. For a moment I was sorry for him. Sorry, but not repentant, because at last I’d vented the anger that had been bubbling up inside me since I’d learned of his infidelity.

  “Well, I do.” I kept my voice low, but it still shook with anger. “I’m not going to back down about this. I’m going to act as a witness at the trial, whatever you decide to do. Got that?”

  I marched past him out into the hall. Just as I reached the front door, Rose came down the stairs.

  “What’s happening?” She leaned over the banister. She looked anxious.

  “Nothing.” The tremor in my voice was unmistakable. “Nothing, my love. Don’t worry. I’m just nipping out for a little while. I’ll be back soon.”

  But I wasn’t back soon. I drove around Cardiff for a while, then found myself taking the road out to Carmarthen, heading down to West Wales. It wasn’t that I had a particular destination in mind; I only knew I wanted to get out of the city, drive along a motorway with the radio on, mile upon mile, until I felt calmer, and ready to come back home. So it was odd that, after about an hour, I found myself turning in to a service station, parking the car, and phoning Gwydion on my mobile.

  The phone rang a few times. I was just composing a message in my head when he picked up.

  “Hello. Jessica?” I realized he had my number keyed into his phone.

  “Gwydion. It’s me,” I said, rather unnecessarily. “You’ve seen today’s paper, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  There was a silence.

  “How’s Arianrhod taking it?”

  “Oh, she’s pretty philosophical. But all this is going to be hell for her.” He paused. “Listen, we need to talk. Where are you?”

  “In a service station on the M4. Junction 47.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Oh. Nothing. Just driving around.” I tried to think of a better explanation, but failed.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  He registered the hesitation in my voice. “What’s happened?”

  “Just a bit of a row at home.” It didn’t sound so bad when I said it out loud.

  “Well, wait there. I’m coming over right now. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “OK,” I said. “I’ll wait for you in the coffee bar by the entrance.”

  “Keep your phone on.”

  He didn’t say good-bye, and neither did I.

  I got out of the car, locked it, and walked over to the service station. It wasn’t busy. There were a few teenagers playing on the slot machines in the foyer, and a few more in the burger bar. Other than that, it was pretty much deserted.

  I went to the toilets, had a pee, came out and looked at my face in the mirror as I washed my hands. The skin on my face was dull and drawn, and there were bags under my eyes. The damp air had frizzed my hair, so that it looked shapeless and untidy. I scrabbled in my bag, wishing I’d brought some makeup with me, but all I found was a lipsalve and a comb. I did my best with them, but they didn’t hide the tired look in my eyes. So in the end I gave up, went out to the coffee shop, ordered myself a double espresso, and sat down to wait.

  I usually carry a book in my handbag, and a pencil for making notes in the margin as I go along, just so that I have something to do when I get stuck somewhere, as on occasions like this. They’re usually books on psychology, with knotty, technical words strung into tortuous sentences that force me to concentrate. So, in order to calm myself before my encounter with Gwydion, I brought out my book, furrowed my brow, and got down to work.

  That week I was reading a biography of my old pal Freud, by his old pal Ernest Jones. Jones was a Welshman, a rather unsavory one, by all accounts, but it was he who was largely responsible for introducing psychoanalysis to the wider world. The biography was exactly what I needed, a fascinating portrait of a complex man, parts of it crammed with dense terminology, but that day it didn’t seem to be drawing me in. Every few minutes my eyes would wander off the page and I’d glance out of the window, checking to see if Gwydion had arrived.

  After forty minutes or so, I started to get restless. I thought of phoning him, but I don’t like phoning people when they may be driving, in case I cause an accident, and besides, I didn’t want to pester him. But somehow, I couldn’t sit still and be patient. I was getting more and more nervous. I’d resolved after our last meeting not to see him again, except perhaps in my office for a clear purpose—for example, to discuss my part, if any, in the upcoming trial—yet here I was, once again, straying into his neck of the woods, phoning him on impulse, and doing my best not to ask myself why. I was being childish, I told myself. Time to get a grip. Time to get out, drive home, before any more harm could be done.

  I was just getting up to leave when my phone rang. It was Gwydion.

&nb
sp; “I’m in the hotel opposite. Can you meet me there?”

  I was nonplussed. “Why all the secrecy?”

  He ignored my question. “I’m in Room 17. On the ground floor.”

  “But . . .”

  The phone clicked off. I got up, gathered my belongings, and walked out of the coffee bar. The entrance to the hotel was just a few yards away. I came up to it and for a moment had an impulse to walk past it, to the car park beyond, get into my car and drive away. But I didn’t. Instead I pushed open the door and headed down the corridor, ignoring the receptionist, who didn’t look up as I passed.

  I turned the corner, following the signs to Room 17, and stood in front of the door for a moment, glancing quickly up and down the corridor. There was no one around. I knocked.

  Gwydion opened the door. He was wearing a tracksuit, as if he’d been out jogging when I called. He looked worried, which didn’t surprise me. I went in, and he quickly shut it behind me.

  The room was dark, the curtains closed. They were an ugly red and yellow tartan, matching the bedspread. On the walls were the kind of pictures that you buy by the yard for hanging in hotels. To one side of the bed, a door led off to a tiny bathroom. If Gwydion was trying to seduce me, I thought, he’d chosen an odd place to do it.

  There was a chair over by the window, so I went and sat on it. Gwydion came over and sat opposite me, on the edge of the bed. My eyes were adjusting to the dark, so I couldn’t see the expression on his face, but his gestures were nervous.

  “It’s good to see you.” He smiled, then gave a deep sigh. “I’ve been feeling so stressed what with Evan being arrested. I mean, I utterly despise him, and I know he’s guilty, but even so . . .”

  “I can imagine. It must be terrible.”

  He reached out and took my hand. I let him hold it. It felt small and childish, innocent and trusting, in his.

  “Gwydion, I . . .” I wasn’t sure how to put what I wanted to say. “I’m not here for . . .”

  “I know.” He let go of my hand. “I’m sorry about this”—he gestured at the room—“but I had no choice. I think I’m being followed.”