‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t remember,’ I say, trying to catch my breath. ‘It’s a new phone and …’
‘It’s okay,’ says the girl. ‘I can see it on the phone display.’ She reads it out and I make a note of it.
‘Thanks. I’m so sorry, my memory’s very bad at the moment.’
‘It’s no problem, Miss Nielsson,’ she says. ‘I’ll pass the number on to Sharon and she’ll give you a call as soon as she can. Now is there anything else I can help you with today?’
‘No,’ I say, slumping down on to the bed. ‘No thank you. Goodbye.’
I press ‘end call’ then sit for a moment, staring at the biscuit-coloured carpet.
Who the hell is Freya Nielssen?
28
It’s dark outside now. I should close the curtains but I can’t move from the bed. I try to remember the names of Sean’s colleagues or associates. Was there a Freya Nielssen among them? I have no idea. The name means absolutely nothing to me but it meant something to Sean. Enough to name her as a contact for our family home.
I look down at the notepad. The phone number stares back at me like a challenge. All I have to do is phone this number and then I’ll know. But I daren’t.
The truth is, deep in my gut, I already know the answer and that is why I’m so reticent to make the call. All these weeks I’ve been racking my brain, trying to work out why Sean could leave me like this, and not once did I consider the obvious, that he’d been having an affair.
Whitstable. It was Sean’s idea. He’d booked a cottage for a week in March as a birthday surprise for me. Elspeth was so excited. Whitstable was her favourite place. She spent the whole week before we were due to go packing her suitcase and planning precisely what she would do each day of the holiday. Things had been better since Christmas, and I’d decided it was just a blip. Then in February Sean and his team won a new contract that would require more late nights and occasional trips to Europe. In the run-up to the holiday he worked late and on the rare occasions he made it home for dinner would sit in silence, glued to his phone. When we got to the cottage Sean was distracted, his phone always to hand. And then on the second day he announced that he would have to head back to London, that he was needed at the office. ‘I’m so sorry, Mags,’ he said when I came back from the beach and found him packing. ‘Work’s just gone crazy.’ I told him that this was a holiday, my birthday present, that surely he could delegate whatever problem had arisen to one of the team, but he said there was some legal issue that could turn nasty and he was the only one who could sort it out. Elspeth and I had tried to enjoy the rest of the break but Sean’s leaving cast a shadow over it. When it started raining on the fourth day we decided to give up and go home. We were halfway back when I got the text from Sean. He said that he was flying to Stockholm, where the sports company was based, for an urgent meeting. ‘I’ll make it up to you, Mags,’ he said at the end of the text. ‘And tell Elspeth I’ll get her something special from Sweden.’
Sweden. I look down at the name written on the piece of paper in front of me and a chill courses through my body. Freya Nielssen. What if he met her on that trip to Stockholm? Did she work for the sports company? I need to know, I tell myself, as I carefully enter her number into the phone, otherwise I’ll be trapped in this limbo for ever. I close my eyes, press the ‘call’ button then hold the phone to my ear.
There’s a pause and then I hear a robotic voice.
‘The person you are calling is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.’
I don’t leave a message. Instead I press ‘end call’ then sit with the phone in my hands as it slowly sinks in.
Sean has left me for another woman.
29
Friday 4 August
I stand in the shower and look down at my broken body. What is the point of being clean? What is the point of getting through another day when I’ve lost everything?
I turn off the water and take a towel from the rail. As I dry myself I catch sight of my face in the small round mirror above the sink. My long hair is straggly and dry, the red now threaded with grey. My eyes are swollen from crying; my lips are dry and cracked. I have become an old woman in the space of a few weeks. And then I think of Freya Nielssen. I imagine a perfect blonde with flawless skin and a young lithe body. A woman unencumbered by mental illness, a happy extrovert who likely sidled up to Sean after their meeting and suggested they go for a drink. Or was it the other way round? Did he initiate it? I think back to the day we met, his insistence we go for a drink. Did he do the same with Freya? And then to torture myself I think about them together. Her perfect naked body draped across his, my husband doing things to her that he did to me, things that were unique to us. I imagine him cupping her face in his hands, telling her he loves her.
Stop it, I will myself, nausea creeping up my throat. Just stop it. I come out of the bathroom and put on yesterday’s clothes. I’m in a daze. It’s like my brain has finally said ‘no more’ and is shutting down.
Then there is a knock at the door and I hear Sonia’s voice.
‘It’s just me, Maggie. Are you decent?’
I walk towards her voice, trying to compose myself.
‘Hiya,’ she says, smiling broadly as I open the door. ‘How are – oh, what’s the matter?’
It’s the sight of Sonia, so warm and reassuring, that makes me crumple. And once I start crying I can’t stop. I stagger to the window and slump down on the wicker chair.
‘Maggie, what is it?’ she says, closing the door and coming over to me. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s Sean …’ I say, my chest heaving with sobs. ‘He was having an affair.’
‘What? How do you know?’
‘I called the estate agency that dealt with the rental of Larkfields and on their records they had Sean listed alongside his partner, a woman called Freya Nielssen.’
Sonia’s eyes widen and she shakes her head.
‘I suppose it could be a business partner,’ she says optimistically.
‘It was quite clear what kind of partner it meant,’ I say, rubbing my forehead with the palm of my hand. ‘I think it’s someone he met at work.’
And then I tell her about the disastrous Whitstable holiday and Sean’s urgent trip to Stockholm; his disappearance on Christmas Eve and his strange behaviour in the months that followed.
‘Oh, Maggie,’ says Sonia, squeezing my hand. ‘I don’t know what to –’
A knock at the door interrupts her sentence. I sit up on the chair, rigid.
‘Oh God, it’ll be Mr Hutchinson,’ I say. ‘He comes in to empty the bins at this time. Can you get rid of him?’
‘Of course I will,’ says Sonia.
She stands up and goes to the door.
‘Who is it?’ she calls.
‘It’s only Amanda. Can I come in?’
I quickly wipe my eyes and try to compose myself while Sonia opens the door.
‘Sorry about that,’ she says as Amanda strides in on a wave of vanilla oil. ‘We thought it might be the creepy landlord.’
‘Well, we won’t have to worry about him any more,’ says Amanda. ‘Did Sonia tell you the good news?’ She doesn’t seem to notice my dishevelled appearance.
‘I haven’t had a chance yet,’ says Sonia.
‘What is it?’ I say.
‘Well,’ says Amanda, coming to sit on the chair next to me. ‘We’ve managed to find you secure accommodation.’
My heart sinks. In my light-headed state I’d thought for one precious moment that Amanda was going to open the door and bring Elspeth in, tell me that this had all been some dreadful mistake.
‘It’s a nice little flat off the Western Road,’ she continues. ‘I’ve just been to see it and I think you’ll love it. There’s a nice bedroom, a big spacious living area and a kitchen with white goods. Everything you need.’
‘Western Road?’ I say, trying to keep up.
‘Yes,’ says Amanda. ‘Really accessi
ble for town and all the amenities. Now, dear, I’ve got the car outside. Why don’t we get packing and we can be in the new place by this afternoon.’
‘That quick?’ I say, feeling overwhelmed by it all. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I don’t think we should hang around here any longer than we need to,’ says Amanda, taking a jumper from the back of the chair and folding it over her arm. ‘Sonia, you grab Maggie’s rucksack and pop these clothes in. I’ll go and get the toiletries from the bathroom.’
I stand impotently in the middle of the room, watching as the two women collect my meagre belongings.
‘Right, we’re all set,’ says Amanda, gesturing to the rucksack and two carrier bags that constitute my worldly goods. ‘Shall we go?’
I take my coat from the bed and as I’m putting it on I notice the ICU diary lying on the bed, among the crumpled sheets. I grab it and put it into my coat pocket.
‘Right,’ says Sonia, guiding me out of the door. ‘Let’s go find your new home.’
30
Dear Mummy,
I’ve written you a poem. This is it:
When I think of home I think of you and me.
A warm cosy place, a place where I feel free.
I think of all the good times
That we would have in there.
A big lovely house, pretty and fair.
When I think of home, there’s water all around.
Running down the windows.
Rising up through the ground.
The river’s always flowing
Down towards the sea.
It’s carrying a secret.
That belongs to you and me.
I love you Mummy.
Xxx
31
I sit on the lumpy sofa in my new home, cradling the phone in my hands. I’ve spent the last few minutes searching the name ‘Freya Nielssen’ on Google but by the third page the only people coming up are an elderly Canadian vet and a Hollywood personal trainer, neither of which I could see Sean running away with.
It’s 8 p.m. Sonia and Amanda left an hour ago after spending the afternoon getting me settled. It’s a ground-floor flat in a quiet street, and though I suppose I should feel grateful, it isn’t my home.
There are two armchairs as well as the sofa and a large flat-screen television hangs on the wall above the fireplace, its bulk dominating the entire room. From where I am sitting on the sofa I can see my reflection in it. I look crooked and small.
There are some built-in shelves next to the television that Sonia said would make wonderful bookshelves. I told her that I don’t have any books; that all of mine had been in Larkfields and who knows where they are now. She’d suggested we go to Oxfam to buy some more but the last thing I want to do right now is read. Once, books were my lifeline, my sanity; now it feels like that part of my brain has been closed for good.
I get up from the sofa and walk through into the narrow galley kitchen. Sonia drove me to Aldi to get some shopping before she left. My money is depleting fast. I had never been to Aldi before, though Sonia assured me it was the best of the supermarkets in terms of value for money. She has set my weekly food budget at £20 and recommended that I buy basic items and cook meals that can last a few days – like casseroles and soups.
She means well but if I’m honest food is the last thing on my mind. When I was sent away as a teenager I stopped eating. After the bad thing happened I wanted to punish my body and I did a very good job of it. When I came out my mother gasped because I was so thin. She tried feeding me up but I couldn’t eat more than a few morsels without feeling sick. I was still suffering when I met Sean. He knew I had issues with food but he never pushed it or made me feel uncomfortable. In the end it was getting pregnant with Elspeth that made me better. The fact that my body had been given a second chance, that I had another life inside me, made me want to nurture it. When she was born and they placed her in my arms I made a promise to her that I would stay strong for her, that I would never get ill again.
But I didn’t keep my promise. I let her down. I look at the small round dining table standing in the middle of the kitchen and I feel sick. How could I even begin to think about cooking a meal? The very act of setting a table just for me, without Sean and Elspeth, is too painful to contemplate. I can hear the old voice rising up again, the one I used to hear when I was sent away, the one that told me it was my fault, that I should punish myself. My stomach rumbles with hunger but I ignore it. The voice is right. I deserve to be punished.
I rinse my coffee cup and put it on the draining board. But as I turn to walk out of the kitchen I hear something. A voice. I look up at the ceiling. According to Amanda, the tenant in the upstairs flat is a bedridden elderly woman. ‘No loud parties, then,’ Sonia had remarked. But the noise is not coming from above, it’s coming from next door, from my bedroom.
‘Hello,’ I call as I tiptoe out of the kitchen, my skin prickling with fear. ‘Who’s there?’
This is a ground-floor flat. A prime target for burglars. I should call the police but my phone is on the sofa in the living room and I am here, standing in the dark hallway that connects the kitchen to the bedroom and bathroom, frozen with fear.
And then I hear something that makes every hair on my head stand on end. Someone is singing. As I edge along the corridor it gets louder and that’s when I recognize the voice and the song.
‘The moon is shining bright tonight.’
‘Elspeth?’ I whisper as I approach the bedroom door.
‘We’re all warm and cosy tight.’
‘Elspeth, baby, where are you?’
I push the door open, every fibre of me expecting to see my little girl lying in the bed singing the song my dad had sung to me at bedtime and that I had passed on to her. But the room is empty.
‘It’s the pills,’ I think to myself as I stagger inside and sit down on the single bed. They’re playing tricks with my head.
I lie on the bed, tucking my knees to my chest. I want someone to hold me and let me cry and cry until I have no tears left in my body. This loneliness is unbearable.
I turn on my side and see the ICU diary sitting on top of the chest of drawers. I need to distract myself, need to fill this unbearable silence. So I sit up in the bed and grab the diary. I read the next of Claire’s entries where she notes that I was ‘twitching my hands a lot this morning’ and that my ‘eyes flickered when we turned the radio on’. I turn the page and what I see makes my stomach flip. Sean’s handwriting. He has written in this diary. How could I have missed it? I turn the pages. There are several entries, all in his distinctive jagged handwriting. I’m lightheaded with shock. Turning back to his first entry, I begin to read.
32
14th May 2017
Hi Mags
They’ve told me that writing in this diary might help, whatever that means. Will it help bring Elspeth back? Will it help you wake up? Christ, these last few hours I’ve been sitting in this chair like a zombie, unable to even fathom what has just happened let alone write it down. But the images of yesterday are hammering against my head, begging to be let out. I can either scream and rage and bang my fists on the walls or I can write it down here.
I’ve been to see her, Mags. The doctors came in and said she was ready and for a split second I was sure they were telling me that it had all been a big mistake, that Elspeth was waiting in one of the cubicles, ready to come home, that it was some other poor soul’s child that died. Not ours. Not our Elspeth.
So I went with them, the doctors, down this long sterile corridor, the road to hell. There was a policewoman there too, the same one who came to our front door. She didn’t say anything as we walked along, just smiled this sickly smile. I wanted to rip it off her face. I mean, who smiles when you’re about to see a dead child?
And then we got to the door. They opened it and, Christ, Maggie, it was the most horrific thing I’ve ever had to do. It was so cold in there, freezing, and there was this weird smell. I started to sh
ake then and I couldn’t stop. Even my teeth started chattering. The policewoman grabbed my arm. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Think of the worst nightmare you’ve ever had then multiply it a million times.
Someone said my name and I saw a woman coming towards me, dressed in green scrubs. The pathologist.
She started talking but I couldn’t really take in what she was saying because she was there. Elspeth.
I heard the woman say something. She was asking if this was my daughter. And every part of me wanted to say, ‘No, that’s not my daughter. My daughter’s at home, safe and well.’ But when I looked down there was no question who it was. Her little face was so white and she had a big purple bruise underneath her right eye. I just wanted to lift her off that block and carry her out of there, take her home. I wanted to shake her until she woke up.
God, Elspeth.
I can’t really remember much after that. Everything just blurred. The police officer led me out of there and the doctor asked if I was okay. I told him that I would never be okay again, not after what I had just seen.
But as they walked me back to your bedside all I could think was that this was my fault. That you’d found out what I’d done.
15th May
Dear Mags,
I’m sitting by your bed and all sorts of feelings are battling inside me: fear, guilt, anger, confusion.
Yesterday I blamed myself. You’d found out, I was sure of it. You’d found out what I’d been up to and you were driving towards the station to confront me. But there are so many things that don’t make sense. Why would you stop at the pub car park? You can’t have been going in there. We hated that pub. Why would you get out of the car and lock Elspeth inside it? Jesus, Mags, you left the bloody handbrake off. Our little girl was in the car and you didn’t secure it properly.
Anyway, I’ll only get the answers to those questions when you wake up. If you wake up.
It’s really quiet in here now and I’m glad of the peace. During the day there’s a steady stream of doctors and nurses coming in to prod and poke you but they never have anything new to say. The way they look at you then scribble down their notes just makes me anxious. There’s a lot of talk online about positive thinking, positive communication and the strength of the human spirit and I’m trying, Mags, I really am, but to be honest I don’t even know if I want you to make it.
Day of the Accident Page 13
