He asks if there’s news of Tris, and she tells him no.
‘Nothing so far. I’ll try giving Izzy a call after we’ve eaten. Can you let the kids know dinner’s ready? Only please don’t shout. I’m still feeling too delicate for lots of yelling.’
Josh arrives as Laura’s carrying the chicken to the table, and she asks him to bring the vegetables, knowing he’ll pinch a couple of roast potatoes on the way. Aidan and Gemma come down together.
Gemma’s looking pale, and Laura wonders again what she and Hannah were drinking last night. Without a word, Gemma sits down at the table and starts playing with her phone.
‘Put that away, please,’ says Laura. ‘You can manage without it for mealtimes. Could you go and fetch the gravy for me, sweetheart?’
Gemma lays her phone down with the worst possible grace, muttering, ‘I’m not even hungry,’ as she goes into the kitchen.
Aidan takes his seat and begins to carve the chicken.
‘This looks great,’ he says. ‘Good idea, proper dinner.’
Gemma returns, plonking the gravy boat on the table and herself in her chair. Josh has already sat down, placing himself as close as possible to the potatoes. Plates are filled and passed round, the gravy’s poured. But one bite in, Laura hears her phone ring in the kitchen.
‘Leave it,’ says Aidan. ‘Whoever it is will call back.’
‘Yeah, leave it, Mum,’ says Gemma. ‘No phones at the table, remember?’
Laura does remember, and follows her own rule. There’s plenty of chat from Josh, mostly about PlayStation games, a little about plans for the summer holidays, and too much information about life at Ollie’s house, which makes Laura wonder if Karen and Dave Garner’s marriage might be as bad as people say. While Josh chatters, Gemma pushes food around her plate, eating only a few mouthfuls of vegetables. Aidan asks if she wants to join him on a cycling challenge – fifty miles on Sterndale’s hilliest routes – but elicits no more than a shrug in response.
As they carry the empty dishes back into the kitchen, Laura can’t resist checking her phone.
‘Damn,’ she says. ‘That was Izzy. I’d better call her back. Can one of you find some pudding bowls and the ice cream?’
‘I don’t want ice cream,’ says Gemma, heading for the stairs.
‘That’s fine,’ says Laura, ‘but I want you to stay around and help clear up when we’re done.’
Sighing, Gemma sits back down. Laura takes her phone into the lounge and dials Izzy’s number.
Izzy answers on the second ring.
‘How is he?’ asks Laura, without preamble. In the background she can hear Flora singing.
‘Not good.’ There are tears in Izzy’s voice. ‘He has swelling of the brain. They’re keeping him sedated until it goes down.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘I’m home. His mother insisted I spend some time with Flora, and poor Bridget had been here far too long. It was supposed to be her day off.’
‘Do you want me to come round?’
‘Thanks, but no. I’m going to try and get Flora to settle down early, then I’m going to have a bath and put myself to bed, though I don’t know if I’ll sleep.’
‘We have sleeping pills, if you need one. I had them when my dad died and only ever took one.’
‘I daren’t. I need to keep a clear head for tomorrow. The police have been in touch so I’ll be talking to them, and there are a load of questions I want to ask the consultant. Those things blunt your thinking.’
‘If you change your mind, the offer stands. Josh says he saw a camera crew at your place.’
‘They tried to ambush me when I got home. They got pictures, I think, but Eamon was fabulous. He drew himself up to his full height and shooed them off.’
‘I’d have paid money to see that. Isn’t there anything I can do?’
‘Not at the moment.’ There’s a long silence. ‘Laura, I’m scared.’
‘What do you mean? What of?’
‘I’m scared my Tris is never coming home. Or that he’ll be some kind of vegetable. He wouldn’t want that, I know. We’ve both said, if anything like this happens, we’d help each other – you know. Switzerland and all that.’
Laura feels a lump in her throat.
‘Now you’re being morbid. It’s far too early to start talking about outcomes like that. When we’re having a glass of wine at the kitchen table in a couple of weeks’ time, I’ll tell him you said that. Come on. Chin up. This is Tris we’re talking about. He’s no quitter, is he?’
‘If you could see him, though,’ says Izzy. ‘He looks like he’s already gone. Anyway.’ She sniffs, and Laura knows she’s wiping away snotty dribbles and tears. ‘Flora wants her tea, so I’d better go. She’s always so cheerful.’
‘For the time being, she’ll take your mind off things. Keep in touch, won’t you?’
‘I’ll try,’ says Izzy, and ends the call.
Back in the dining room, Josh is squirting chocolate sauce over a large helping of salted caramel ice cream and Aidan’s digging into his. In Laura’s place, a single scoop of vanilla is melting into a creamy soup. Gemma’s bowl is empty.
‘What’s the news?’ asks Aidan.
‘Not good,’ says Laura, settling into her seat. ‘Apparently he’s still in a coma.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ says Aidan. ‘I thought he would have come round by now.’
‘Swelling of the brain, they say. I still can’t quite believe it. I think I expected her to say he’d soon be coming home, but it sounds like he may be in there a little while.’
‘Maybe he’ll have to have brain surgery,’ says Josh. ‘They cut the top of your head off. They’ll have to shave his hair.’
‘Poor Tris,’ says Laura. ‘Such a lovely, lovely man. Who would do that to him?’
‘People in that business, they make enemies sometimes,’ says Aidan. ‘Or maybe it’s just some nutter.’
‘I wonder if the police will want to talk to us,’ muses Laura.
Gemma stands up from her chair, knocking the table as she does so.
‘Everyone in Sterndale loves him just because he’s on the telly,’ she says. ‘It’s nothing to do with whether he’s nice or not. I’ve got to do my homework.’ And she’s gone, disappearing upstairs.
‘What’s got into her?’ asks Aidan.
‘I keep telling her not to leave her schoolwork till the last minute,’ says Laura. ‘She puts herself under so much pressure.’
‘That’s not homework stress, it’s boy trouble,’ says Josh, knowingly. ‘Since she didn’t have any ice cream, any chance I can have hers?’
Ten
Bubbles and giggles invoke a welcome forgetting. At bathtime, Izzy and Flora have fun turning Flora’s hair into Mohican spikes, but as Flora snuggles down in anticipation of her story, Izzy feels an undertow of guilt for the laughter which pushed Tris from her thoughts.
Flora is ready with The Squirrels Who Squabbled, which she and Tris bought from the bookshop in town. As Izzy begins to read, Flora becomes quiet and begins to suck her thumb – a habit Izzy thought she’d left far behind. When the story’s finished, she doesn’t demand another, but asks instead for Piglet, her favourite toy, cuddling him as she snuggles down.
‘Will Daddy be here to read my story tomorrow?’ she asks.
Izzy bends down to kiss the top of her head.
‘It might be me again tomorrow, but he’ll be home as soon as he can.’
‘Shall we go and see him in the hospital?’
‘We’ll see.’
That isn’t going to happen, so there will be disappointment. As she says a final goodnight, all Izzy can do is hope that sweet dreams and a new day will wipe the wanting from Flora’s mind.
In the bedroom Izzy shares with Tristan, it’s easy to believe that
nothing’s wrong. The dress she decided not to wear to the wedding is still lying on the bed, and the jeans and shirt Tristan changed out of are on the floor – despite her nagging, his terminal untidiness persists. On his bedside table, his glasses are in their case, and a yellowing second-hand copy of Isaac Asimov’s The Gods Themselves lies waiting for its reader, who Izzy fears may be long absent before he opens it again. On the dressing table, the forget-me-nots he brought her have lost their freshness, though their intricate flowers are still blue.
Wandering into the en suite, she sees the last towel he used hanging over the shower door, and when she lifts it down, it still holds the residual dampness of the water from his skin, and very faintly, the musky, honey scent of Cartier.
Such a poor, poor substitute for the man she longs to be with.
Pressing her face into the folds so Flora won’t hear, she weeps.
Philly can’t bear David Attenborough – she finds him pompous and sanctimonious, and has doubted for years that he’s physically fit enough to travel to those far-flung places where the films are made. All he does these days, she’s sure, is to rake in an absolute fortune doing the voice-overs, which frankly are well within the capabilities of a ten-year-old. Crafty old beggar.
But Jerry’s a huge fan, and he’s sitting here now, gripped by the glowing images of sapphire seas and the bizarre and hideous creatures that live there. Philly’s bored, but Jerry gets annoyed at interruptions, so Philly’s dividing her time between a book of wordsearch puzzles and playing with the ears of the cocker spaniel lying beside her on the sofa. Around this time of the evening they usually have a gin, but Jerry doesn’t want one with his hangover, and Philly always hates to drink alone.
‘Jerry,’ she says, and he grunts to signify he’s heard her but isn’t listening. ‘Do you think the police will come and talk to us about this Tristan business?’
He glances across at her, and back to the screen.
‘Why in God’s name should they? It’s nothing to do with us.’
‘You’re the only person I know who thinks that. Everybody else is talking about nothing else, and here you are, not even remotely curious. Aren’t you interested to know who people think did it? And how can you say it’s nothing to do with us? We were actually there, at the wedding. I should think they’ll want to talk to the guests.’
‘What, all those people? They haven’t got the manpower to waste time doing that. I expect they’ve got their man by now anyway.’
‘You think it was a man, then?’
‘What?’
‘You think it was a man who did it?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’
‘You just said so. Do you really not think they’ll want to speak to us?’
‘Not without good reason. How come you’re so interested? Did you do it?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me either, so there’s no need for us to think any more about it. Now please, for God’s sake hush, and let me watch the end of my programme.’
Attenborough’s solemnly pronouncing on the vastness of oceans and the negative impact of mankind.
Philly gets up from the sofa and pours herself a generous measure of gin.
Izzy must have slept because she has the sense something’s woken her, but when she opens her eyes, time has barely moved on.
She can hear a vibration, an intermittent buzzing too subdued to be an alarm, like a phone on silent, but her own phone lies mute on the bedside table. Not Tris’s iPhone, either; when she brought it home from the hospital, she put it in a drawer of the kitchen dresser.
The buzzing’s on the floor, in the pile of Tris’s clothes.
Climbing from the bed, she picks up the discarded jeans. The buzzing stops, but there’s a weightiness in one of the pockets.
Izzy reaches in and finds a phone she hasn’t seen before – a Chinese-sounding brand she’s never heard of, plastic and cheap-looking, an object she can’t imagine Tris would want to own. Why would he need a phone like this when he has his iPhone?
Odd that he hasn’t mentioned it, or used it around her. Could it be for some business use? As she thinks about it, she recalls the News of the World phone-hacking scandal, and it becomes logical he’d have a second phone, a throwaway number to give to anyone he doesn’t fully trust.
So if someone’s calling it, could be it’s some chancer from the press, or someone to offer him work. Easy enough to find out; if they’ve left a message, she can pass the details on to Duncan.
If circumstances were normal, going into his phone is not something she’d ever do, but this is an exceptional time. She finds the power button, and the screen lights up, inviting a fingerprint password.
There’s no way she can bypass that. It’s a problem she’ll have to leave for tomorrow.
Climbing back into the empty bed, she hugs Tris’s pillow against her body.
Sleep now comes quickly, pitching her headlong into ominous dreams.
Eleven
As she’s promised, Bridget arrives early, letting herself in by the front door while Izzy’s making Flora’s pancake.
‘Hi,’ she says, dumping her black rucksack on the table. ‘Wow, you look so tired. Sorry, but you do.’
Izzy’s slipping Flora’s pancake on to her favourite plate. ‘I had a restless night.’
‘Well, that’s hardly surprising, is it? If you’re going to go on like this, though, maybe you should get something from the doctor.’
‘I’ll be fine. It’s just shock, isn’t it? Can you take over here? I’d better get going.’
Bridget’s already pouring Flora’s milk. ‘Of course.’
‘And I hate to ask, but would you mind picking up the Fiat? It’s still at the hotel. Oh.’ Her hands go to her face. ‘I’m so sorry, I never thought. How did you get home last night?’
Bridget shakes her head. ‘Don’t worry about it, honestly. I went to Manzi’s. It’s only a short walk.’
‘He’s at the other end of town. You should have said, I’d have run you over.’
‘You were in no state to run anybody anywhere. And yes, I’ll pick up the car, but I don’t have a key. I gave it to Tris when we swapped.’
‘I brought his keys back with me,’ says Izzy, opening the dresser drawer where she’s put his phone. ‘Here.’
‘So go on, go,’ says Bridget. ‘And don’t worry about us. We’ll find plenty to do on a fine day like this, won’t we, my poppet?’
At the hospital, Izzy finds Steph sipping coffee by the window where they talked yesterday, staring down on the world outside. An emergency ambulance is arriving at A&E, bringing in someone else’s crisis, and Izzy feels a flash of sympathy for another family having a terrible day.
Steph looks drained, debilitated.
‘Hello, Izzy. I’m just grabbing a breath of fresh air. Not that it’s very fresh in here, is it? You look tired, my dear. Did you sleep at all?’
‘Off and on. How is he?’
Steph shakes her head. ‘Still the same. Go through and see. Now you’re here, I think Eamon and I should head for the hotel and try and get some sleep ourselves.’
Eamon’s already dozing in a chair at the bedside, and Izzy does her best not to wake him as she takes a seat opposite. In Tris she sees – as Steph has said – no discernible change, except that his pallor has increased, as if the essence of him has sunk deeper. When she squeezes his hand, there’s no pressure in response.
She whispers, ‘I’m here, my love,’ in his ear, and glances at the monitors, hoping for some indication he might have heard, but the neon line is steady in its track, echoing a heartbeat that it’s hard to believe is there.
After Steph and Eamon have left, the hours slide slowly by, one bleeding into another without waypoints or context. Wondering what the time is, Izzy hunts for her phone, and instead
finds Tris’s second.
Staring at its blank screen, she has a choice to make. The option to put it back where she found it is still there, but her curiosity is piqued.
She switches it on. Here’s the difficult part, the part which last night seemed easy, but now feels both unethical and devious, a betrayal of the mutual trust he believes they have. She’s going behind his back, prying into matters which if he were present and conscious he’d no doubt happily share.
Except he hasn’t shared.
She lifts his hand, and speaks to him aloud. ‘I’m so sorry to do this. When you wake up, I’ll explain.’
Placing the phone under his index finger, with her own finger she presses down.
The screen unlocks. Replacing his hand where it will be most comfortable, she finds the phone’s settings and adds herself as a second user.
Tom the nurse arrives to change an empty bag of intravenous fluid. As she talks to him, Izzy puts the phone away.
Out of sight, but not quite out of mind.
Laura’s one of those lucky people who doesn’t mind Mondays. Still in her dressing gown, she makes scrambled eggs and toast for Aidan, Josh and herself, though when she calls up to ask Gemma if she wants any, predictably Gemma declines.
Aidan drains his coffee, thanks Laura for breakfast and kisses her on the cheek before taking down his cycling helmet from the hall coat-rack and heading out the door.
She calls after him to be careful, knowing it will make no difference; the carelessness around cyclists is mostly in the motorists who overtake too close or don’t see them at all.
Josh eats his eggs at the breakfast bar, then asks if he can have cereal as well. He’s starting to grow in a way Gemma never has, and his school trousers are too far above his ankles. Happily he’s still at an age where he’s not self-conscious about the way he looks, and those trousers will be fine for the last few weeks of term. Fingers crossed he stays relaxed about his appearance, not always obsessing like Gemma and her friends.
The kitchen TV’s volume is turned down low, and Piers Morgan is interviewing an uncomfortable-looking woman in a suit which looks bought for this occasion. Laura can’t hear what’s being said but doesn’t care; her priority is getting Gemma to eat something before school. Finding the last few pieces of a fresh pineapple in the fridge, she opens a zero-fat strawberry yoghurt and pours it over the fruit.
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