by Claire Allan
‘They have to investigate everything. All the circumstances and all the factors. Eli’s been suspended, on full pay, pending a full investigation. I’ve told her that’s a good sign. If they thought a crime had been committed, they wouldn’t have suspended her. She’d have been dismissed. I doubt the police would have let her just walk out of there, either.’
‘Intentional or not, I robbed her of what was left of her life,’ Eli cries.
‘A life in which she was in excruciating pain,’ Martin says.
He sits down on the opposite side of the sofa to me and reaches out to hold Eli, but she pulls away. Shakes off his touch as if it hurts her.
‘We’ll face it together,’ Martin says. ‘Eli, I promise you, we’ll face it together.’
She shakes her head and cries more. ‘How can we, Martin?’ she asks. ‘We can’t even think about facing it together.’
He looks stung. I watch as she reaches for her handbag and thrusts an envelope at him. Familiar, crisp and white.
‘This arrived today,’ she says, her voice shaking.
I watch as he opens it, reads what the paper inside says. He stands and throws it across the room.
‘For God’s sake. Who the hell is doing this?’
He’s angry and I see tears form in his eyes.
‘What does it say?’ I ask.
‘It doesn’t matter what it says, it’s all lies,’ he says, angry.
Eli simply shakes her head and I get up and lift the note, see the words printed on the sheet. Another allegation.
‘Martin, has Eli told you about the text message?’
‘What text message?’
He’s blinking at me, confused.
‘From an anonymous account,’ Eli says. ‘A picture from this house. From our bedroom. Making the same allegations. Who is it, Martin? Is it Rachel? Is she who you’re laughing with behind my back?’
‘Rachel?’ he says, incredulous. ‘Get a grip, Eli.’
‘You can’t deny it any more,’ I tell him. ‘Is it any wonder Eli’s making these mistakes in work – when you’re putting her through this unbelievable level of stress?’
‘But I’m not,’ he says, exasperated. ‘Someone else is doing this. I’ve not lied. And I’ve not been having an affair with Rachel or anyone else. Eli, come on – you really think I’d have a fling with Rachel?’
Eli just looks at him as if she can’t process what he’s saying.
‘Can we go, Mum? I think I need to get away from here.’
‘Of course, darling,’ I tell her. ‘Anything you want.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Angela
‘She’s staying here,’ Martin says, flashing me an angry look.
I should’ve known he wouldn’t let her go without a fight.
‘I can make my own decisions,’ she says, her voice shaky but firm. ‘Right now, Martin, I don’t know who I am any more, or what to believe or what to do. I can’t just dismiss these messages because you tell me to.’
‘I’m telling you the truth,’ he shouts, now standing and pacing back to the kitchen. ‘You just want to think the worst of me, just like you want to think the worst of everything and everyone at the moment.’
‘That’s not true,’ Eli says, sitting up straight, squaring up to him.
I sit back in my chair. This is a conversation they need to have between them.
‘Why would I want to think the worst of you? That’s insane.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It is insane. So much about your behaviour over the last few weeks has bordered on the insane, if you want me to be honest. Moping about feeling sorry for yourself while carrying our baby … How do you think that makes me feel? You say you don’t know who you are any more, well I don’t know who you are any more, either. I can’t get through to you. No matter how hard I try. And if you don’t trust me, then I don’t know what else I can do. I’ve told you the truth.’
‘But the notes …’ Eli said.
‘Fuck the notes and whatever sick bastard is behind them. I don’t know how you can’t see how ridiculous all this is. It’s not like you to be so … so … blind to the truth. I’m tired of trying to make you believe in me. Believe in us. So why don’t you just go! Run to your mother. You’re clearly miserable here, so just leave.’
He’s crying and Eli’s crying. I sit. I say nothing. I need to let them work this out between them.
‘I can’t talk to you any more,’ Eli says. ‘We’re just pulling each other apart.’ She stands up, roughly brushes at her cheeks with the sleeves of her cardigan. Taking a deep breath, her voice shaking, she says, ‘I have some bags packed here, Mum.’ She gestures to two purple wheeled weekend cases behind the front door. ‘They should do for now.’
‘Do you have your notes with you?’ I ask, ignoring the miserable picture of Martin, standing, head bowed, watching his perfect life disintegrate.
She looks at me blankly. I can see grief and pain and exhaustion all over her face. In that second I feel such a deep love and sadness for her that I almost break down. But I have to stay calm. It’s my job to be in control now.
‘Your maternity notes, pet. Just in case.’
We have to be prepared for everything. Even the birth of her baby.
‘Okay, okay. I’ll get them.’
She walks back down the hall to the console and opens a drawer, pulling a green folder out, then she looks at it for just a second before walking back to me.
I don’t know if I expect Martin to follow us out. To make a last-ditch attempt to ask her not to go. But it seems his male pride gets the better of him. He lets us leave.
Side by side, in my car, the sleet still falling, the sound of the windscreen wipers only broken by the occasional sniff from my poor, broken girl, we drive towards Belfast. Her cases are in the boot. Her notes are on the back seat and her hand is clutching mine.
‘Let’s go home,’ I say.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Louise
He had been easy to talk to. I’m not sure what I expected, but when I saw him sitting at a table in the café across from his office, I knew I had to talk to him.
‘Is this seat taken?’ I’d asked.
He’d looked at me and smiled, and I was dazzled by his soulful brown eyes. I’m not a vain woman. I don’t court the attention of men, but I noticed that he looked me up and down, and I could tell that he liked what he saw.
I’d made more of an effort that day.
I’m not saying I’d intentionally chosen to visit the café closest to his work, but I’m not saying it wasn’t intentional, either.
I knew I wanted to talk to him. I knew I couldn’t just walk up to his front door and ask to speak to him. That would look insane. This was my best, and safest, option.
He’d gestured at me to sit down, and I did, ordering a cup of tea from the waitress who’d walked past. He took that as an opportunity to ask for a refill of his coffee. He told me he was on his tea break – needed to get out of the office to clear his head. I told him I was going shopping – picking up some pieces for a forthcoming trip away.
I could feel the connection between us, immediately. How it felt comfortable to be with him. How his smile made me feel funny inside.
I never in a million years thought that he’d end up in my bed that afternoon, but at the time it felt so right. We needed each other. It was more than lust. More than a physical act. More than body parts and gasps and moans.
I knew it was wrong. Of course I did. But I think maybe that was part of what made it feel so good. But still, I vowed that I’d never do it again. I couldn’t do it again. It complicated everything. It took my focus from what really mattered.
I prayed that night, harder than I’d prayed in months:
Lead me not into temptation
And deliver me from all evil.
CHAPTER FORTY
Angela
Eli is quiet throughout the journey. Occasionally, I notice her wipe away a tear, or I hear
a prolonged sigh, but when I ask her how she is, she simply replies that she’s ‘okay’, which of course she isn’t. She looks wretched, but I know I can make it better now, you see. I have experience of dealing with some of life’s curveballs, after all.
I’d never planned to be a single mother. Always thought I’d live in a lovely semi-detached house with a well-manicured lawn front and back and a swing for the children. I’d dreamed of cooking our dinner just in time for my hard-working, handsome husband to arrive home. And that we’d sit, him and me, with whatever children we were blessed with, around the table and talk about our day.
I never thought I’d end up doing it alone. Without the only man I’d ever loved. With no army of children around my feet. But you make do, don’t you? You adapt. You roll with the punches and you don’t ever let the hurt and the bitterness in.
Eliana would come to see that. Life might be taking her in a completely new direction, but that didn’t mean it was a bad direction.
As long as the powers that be had a bit of sense about them. I hear myself sigh as it crosses my mind that what happened in the hospice could have devastating consequences for Eli. Her career. Her freedom.
We’d call her union. Speak to a rep. See where she stood. We’d take control. Surely accidents happened. It was terribly sad for the poor lady in question, of course, but she had been dying. She was going to die anyway. There was no need for anyone to get hysterical about it.
‘Are you okay, Mum?’ Eli asks.
I reply that I am. Which isn’t exactly true, but I’ll be strong for her.
‘We’ve come through worse than this, Eliana. I know how hard this is, but you’re a strong woman. I raised you well. We raised each other well, didn’t we?’
She nods.
‘You must be exhausted,’ I say. ‘I doubt you’ve had much sleep.’
She shakes her head.
‘Well, we’ll deal with things one at a time – one hour at a time and one day at a time. The first thing we’ll do is make sure you get a good night’s sleep.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to. My mind’s racing,’ she says quietly. ‘Poor Mrs Doherty. I wonder, maybe, should I go back? Talk to her son. Explain what happened.’
No, I think. That wouldn’t be the right thing to do. At all.
‘I don’t think that’d be a good idea, pet. He’ll be very upset. He needs time to think it all through and I really don’t think your management would want you to talk to him, either.’
‘But I need to tell him I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘You never say sorry,’ I say, and I know that sounds cold, but I have to be practical. ‘Sorry is an admission of guilt.’
‘But I am guilty,’ she says.
‘Look, why don’t you wait to see what the investigation throws up.’
Eli goes back to looking out of the window. I can see her breath steam against the car window. I’m transported back to when she was little, when we’d huff and puff on the cold glass of the single glazing in our flat in Paisley and draw stick figures in the condensation. Huddled close. Laughing. Our breath mingling into one exhalation.
‘I’ll make some warm milk when we get home. We’ll get you a warm bath. I’ll light the fire in your room if you want, make it nice and cosy for you. I’ll even sit in your room with you, sleep beside you if you need me to. I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Because you’re my child and you mean the world to me. I’m so sorry the world is hurting you just now, but we’ll make this right, darling. I promise.’
I hear her sniff but I keep my eyes on the road and focus on moving ever forwards.
When we arrive home, I carry in Eli’s cases for her, even though she insists that she’s okay to carry them herself. The sleet has turned to snow and the house is cold when we walk in, so I switch on the heating, light the fire that I’d set in the hearth earlier, then carry some logs and firelighters upstairs to light the one in Eli’s room. Hopefully, the flicker of the flames and the warmth will soothe Eli to sleep.
Taking one of my fluffiest towels from the airing cupboard, I go into the bathroom and hang it over the towel rail, which is heating nicely. After lighting scented candles, I switch on the taps and run a bath for her, adding some of my expensive oils. No Mr Matey bubble bath any more. No giggles while pulling her shampooed hair into a Mohican. Those days are long gone, but maybe we’ll have them again when my granddaughter’s born.
I smile. Memories come flooding back of Eli as a little girl and her Sunday night baths before school. I’d sit on the closed toilet seat while she played with her dolls in the bath, chatting nineteen to the dozen to me about her day, her hopes, her dreams, what she wanted for her birthday – even though it was months away. Talking about nothing and everything. It was the nicest ritual of parenthood, lifting her from the bath and wrapping her in a giant towel, dressing her in fresh pyjamas and sitting in front of the fire, brushing her hair out with a large wooden-handled brush.
I’m not sure when that stopped exactly. But it had; her need for help had waned. She’d become this fiercely independent young woman and while I’m so very proud of her, my heart still aches for those precious days.
Now, watching the bubbles foam and rise in the bath, feeling warmth spread through my home, looking at the candles flickering on the windowsill, I feel something else rise and spread within me. No heartache. No loneliness.
Only hope.
Hope that she’ll realise that she still needs me in her life.
I call her name and watch as she climbs the stairs, tired and broken-looking.
‘This is where it starts to get better,’ I assure her.
She blinks at me, her eyes red-rimmed, but no tears fall. She reaches her arms out to me and I pull her into a hug so tight that I can feel her trembling.
‘I promise you it’ll be okay.’
‘I love you, Mum,’ she said. ‘What would I do without you?’
While Eli soaks in the bath, I do what I said I would. I carry her cases upstairs and unpack them for her, leaving out some pyjamas, her dressing gown and a pair of fluffy bed socks. I fill a hot-water bottle and slip it under the covers of her bed before going into my room and changing into my own pyjamas.
Shrugging my dressing gown on, I pad across the landing and stand at the bathroom door for a moment, just listening to the sound of my child as she bathes. Smiling, I walk downstairs and start preparing some supper. My phone beeps as I cut thick slices of bread ready to toast under the gas grill.
I pick it up to see Martin’s name. Rolling my eyes, I open the message:
Angela, I know I’m public enemy number one just now but you must believe me. I’m telling the truth. I’ve never cheated on Eli. I never would. I don’t know who’s behind all this, but there’s no truth in it. Can you please help me to help her see sense? I don’t feel I can reach her any more. I swear to you, I’d never hurt her.
I can’t and won’t believe him any more. He’s proven himself to be unreliable when it comes to keeping promises. I type:
The best thing you can do now is give her space.
I hit send and then switch my phone to silent.
I resume preparing our supper, but it strikes me that if Martin’s texted me, he most likely will have texted Eli as well. I know her handbag is still in the living room, so I go in and have a look through it. Sure enough, the notification light is flashing on her phone and I can see that the message is from Martin. She’d told me her PIN code before – their wedding anniversary – so I type it in and delete the message from Martin without even reading it.
I don’t want him upsetting her any further.
When Eli comes back downstairs, her face scrubbed of all make-up, her hair damp and brushed straight, she looks younger than her years, but there’s no denying the tension she’s carrying.
‘Go and sit down,’ I call to her as I load a tray with our toast and warm milk. ‘I’ll be in now.’
‘I’m not sure I can eat,’ she says, but I h
ope the smell of the buttered toast will whet her appetite.
‘You have to try something,’ I say. ‘Just a little, for me.’
I decide not to mention how much her baby needs the nourishment. I know right now that I need to focus on her, solely on her.
I smile as she nibbles, albeit slowly, on a piece of toast. I encourage her to drink some warm milk.
‘I think I’d really just like a cup of tea instead,’ she says.
And of course I jump up and make it, coming back to find she’s abandoned any attempts at eating. She does, however, sip from her mug. I’ll take the victory.
‘Shall we watch a movie or something?’ I ask, hoping the distraction might help her.
‘I’m not sure I’ve the energy or concentration for it,’ Eli says. ‘I might just go to bed, if you don’t mind. I didn’t sleep last night.’
I can tell that each time she thinks about what’s happened ‘last night’, it’s like another slap in the face for her. Sleep may be just what she needs – to escape her own thoughts for a while. I should’ve slipped a sleeping tablet into her tea. The ones I have are safe for use in pregnancy.
‘A sleep will do you wonders,’ I say.
She pauses for a moment. I expect her to get up and go to bed straight away but she speaks, her voice quiet, small.
‘Mum, I’m scared.’
‘What of?’ I ask.
‘Everything. What’s going to happen. My marriage, my career – they’re both in a mess. And I don’t know how to fix it.’
‘You don’t have to fix it. Not tonight anyway, sweetheart. And it’s not all down to you. There are other people who can fix things, you know.’
She starts to cry and I pull her into my arms, relishing the smell of her freshly washed hair, the feel of the weight of her head on my shoulder. I rock and shush, and when she stops sobbing, I lead her up to her room and pull back the duvet on her bed. She climbs in and I pull the cover over her. Her eyes are already drooping as I switch off the light.
‘Don’t go,’ she whispers.
