by B P Walter
Although the food had been excellent at the Allerton-Joneses’, I was suddenly starving, and scrabbled around in the freezer for something easy I could throw in the oven. I settled for a cheap, heavily processed pizza I’d picked up at the reduced counter in Sainsbury’s a week earlier.
While it was cooking, I went into the bedroom and felt under the bed for the photo album. I nestled there, on my bed, pulling the covers around me, and looked at picture after picture of his smiling face. His bright blue eyes. So kind-looking, so happy with life. In the midst of sobs, curled up in my duvet, I ended up drifting into a half-sleep, thoughts and fears and memories circling my mind. I only woke when the smoke alarm cut through my dreams, alerting me to the charcoal-like state of the pizza in the oven.
Chapter Seventeen
Charlie
Eight months to go
When I was a child, one of things I loved most about Christmas was term finishing at Eaton Square School and, on that very night, my parents driving us down to Tolleshunt D’Arcy in Essex to spend the Christmas holidays at Braddon Manor. I probably over-romanticised it in my head over the years, but I still have vivid memories of the car winding up the drive past all the big trees glowing with warm-white lights. Inside the manor, nearly every room would have a Christmas tree, adorned with whatever theme my mother had negotiated with the decorators.
Although no longer eight years old, there was still a certain magic about arriving at Braddon at Christmas time. Of course, although I didn’t know it then, that Christmas would be the last we’d all spend together as a family. It’s a shame I would come to look upon that week over the festive season that year with hatred – both of myself and the situation I found myself in. For my inability to spot what was happening, almost in plain sight.
Matthew and I arrived separately that year – me in the BMW, him in his Tesla, me in the afternoon of the 22nd, him the next morning on the 23rd. We were supposed to all be going down together, but he said he had a dinner with some old school friends over in Ealing that night and it made sense to him to go back to the house in Chelsea then follow on the next morning. ‘We’ll wait for you,’ I’d said, but he told me to go. He looked pained. ‘You’ll miss your mother’s annual dinner,’ he said. ‘I’m just so sorry I’ll have to miss it.’
My mother’s annual dinner was less of an event than he made it sound. She would just end up inviting a select cluster of friends of the family, usually their close friends Lord and Lady Ashton, a handful of my mother’s old friends she’d known from school and who’d become more-or-less aunts to me throughout my childhood, along with some rather dull people my father was working with at that point in time – usually from the world of politics. Occasionally she’d add in a surprise, left-field choice. It’s amazing who my mother knows, or has connections to through her many networks of friends and acquaintances. One year she rustled up two minor royals and a celebrated film director.
This year the Ashtons had a prior engagement, to the disappointment of my parents. ‘It just won’t be the same,’ my mother sighed.
‘Who have you asked instead?’ I’d enquired back in the autumn when she was planning the whole thing.
‘Oh, just a few others – nice people, I’m sure you’ll get on with them.’
These ‘nice people’, it turned out, were a former Prime Minister and his wife – something I wish my mother had warned me about, if only to avoid me freezing in surprise as they walked into the drawing room. I whispered this to my mother once they’d gone into the drawing room for pre-dinner drinks. ‘Well, it was either them or the Kellmans or the Knights, and what with one of the Kellmans now being sort of … out of the picture, and one of the Knights … well…’
‘Dead,’ I said.
‘Yes, well, quite. So I just thought they’d make up the numbers nicely. I did, in the end, ask Louise Kellman but she’s rather withdrawn from view, as you can imagine, now married to a convict.’
The rest of the evening passed relatively pleasantly, with Titus clearly enjoying talking to our former PM, politely but firmly letting him know which parts of his policies he approved of and which, with respect, he felt were misguided. At dinner I was stuck next to one of my mother’s friends, Baroness Vanessa Woodford, a sixty-year-old widow who simply loved the fact she had a close connection to a married gay couple (with an adopted child to complete the picture) and would regularly give me updates she believed I would find interesting (‘Did I mention my window cleaner is gay?’). She considered herself very active on Twitter, although her timeline was mostly filled with retweeting anything posted by Stonewall, the Terrence Higgins trust, or me. In short, she generally considered herself to be a self-elected ambassador for the ‘LGBTQ+ community’ (I got the impression she loved the ever-lengthening nature of this acronym and spent most of her days hoping they’d hurry up and add a few more letters). On this night, over the pistachio ice-cream dessert, she told me that she had ‘added her gender pronouns’ to her Twitter bio, something she clearly expected me to congratulate her on. ‘And where is dearest Matthew tonight?’ she asked, looking terribly let down. ‘It’s simply ages since I’ve seen him.’
‘He’s got a work thing,’ I replied, trying not to show my disapproval. ‘He couldn’t get out of it. You know what academics are like. Odd bunch. He’s got to keep them happy.’
I have no idea really what academics are like, outside the forgettable lecturers I had at university, and I cringed inwardly at my attempts to make out as if they were like high-flying city-traders.
‘Oh, completely understandable,’ Baroness Vanessa said, patting my arm, almost knocking the glass of wine out of my hand.
‘Yes,’ I nodded, ‘completely understandable.’
Matthew arrived the next day, and we all generally had a fun time going on long walks through the grounds, eating a lot and watching films by the fire while my mother wandered around, checking the staff had sorted out the right food for the coming week.
It was on Christmas Day that things turned odd.
We had, as is tradition, unwrapped our presents after Christmas lunch, then sat and watched the Queen’s speech. Afterwards, Titus requested we watch some Dickensian drama thing involving lots of snow and poverty, and I was trying my best to look interested in it. My father had just asked Matthew if he’d like a brandy – only to find Matthew wasn’t in the seat he’d been in moments before.
Puzzled, I presumed he’d nipped off to the loo. When he didn’t return for another five minutes, I went exploring to see if he’d gone to get some of the leftovers from the kitchen.
He wasn’t in the kitchen, but through the thin windows I could hear him; he was talking on the phone, outside.
‘I’m sorry. You’re right, I should have called earlier…’
My attempts to move closer to the window resulted in me knocking an iron tray into the sink. Matthew then stopped talking abruptly, finishing his call with ‘I’ve got to go.’
I waited for him to come back into the kitchen, but instead he took the long way round, taking a right so he looped around the back of the house on the outside to enter through another side door. Frustrated, I stomped through, out of the kitchen, down the corridor, and almost collided with him as he came through.
‘Christ, you made me jump,’ he said, jumping back.
I had the feeling he’d thought he’d been able to sneak back in undetected. Before I could ask who he’d been talking to, he volunteered the information.
‘Sorry, I was just talking to Ali.’
I looked blank, so he continued. ‘My colleague, remember? There’s been a flood at one of the co-publishers we’re working with in Ireland. We’re probably going to have to push back some of our projects. Bit of a nightmare.’
I couldn’t help raising my eyebrows at this. ‘And Ali called you on Christmas Day about this?’
Matthew laughed – a strange, tight laugh, somewhat unlike him. ‘He’s a Muslim, so he doesn’t celebrate it, and it was me that phone
d him. I didn’t respond to his emails about it yesterday and he was getting in a bit of a flap. And it’s an important book we’re working on, about how the current economic policies in the west are deliberately rigged to disadvantage the poor.’
I could see his face become animated and eager, stimulated by his enthusiasm for the subject. Part of me wanted to roll my eyes in response, but I stopped myself. Matthew and I have avoided discussing politics and social issues too much in recent years. I never noticed the differences in our views so much in the early days, and if I ever did I’d just joke he was one of the ‘trendy left’ or a ‘champagne socialist’. Now, his earnestness about the perceived injustices of the world had started to grate on me more than ever. ‘Well, I hope it all sorts itself out,’ I said. I turned to lead the way back to the lounge, but he spoke again behind me.
‘Do you know, I think I might go for a drive. I’ve got a bit of a headache. I need to clear my mind.’
I turned round again to look at him. ‘Are you sure everything’s OK?’ I asked, taking a step closer, peering at him. He wouldn’t quite meet my eye, his gaze resting around my neck.
‘Yes, I’m sure. I’ll just drive about a bit, take advantage of the empty streets.’
I continued to stare at him, ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
He shook his head and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘No, no, I’ll be fine. You go back to the lounge. Tell me what happens at the end of Bleak House or whatever it is we’ve been watching.’
My mother looked puzzled at Matthew’s decision to go out for a drive to clear his head. ‘Surely a paracetamol or something would be better than getting behind the wheel?’ she said, peering over the selection guide for a very chic-looking selection of Belgian truffles.
‘Sounds like a jolly sensible thing to do, in my opinion,’ my father said. ‘I’ve always found a good drive around the countryside does me wonders.’
‘Providing he doesn’t feel too unwell,’ my mother replied.
‘He’s not ill,’ I said, sitting back down. ‘It’s just something to do with work.’
‘Oh, I see,’ my mother said, returning to her chocolates. ‘Why’s he worrying about work on Christmas Day?’
I shrugged a little and turned to look at Titus. He was engrossed in the drama unfolding on the screen, and had only vaguely looked in our direction, not properly taking in what we were saying.
‘Do you know, I think these are even better than Pierre Marcolini’s Grand Cru,’ my mother said, offering the tray of chocolates out to the room in general.
When the clock reached 9.30pm, I began to get worried. I’d started clock-watching about an hour after Matthew had departed. This marked two hours and I could tell my parents were starting to get a bit puzzled too. ‘Hasn’t he messaged or anything?’ my mother asked, going over to the living room windows to see if there was any sign of car lights on the driveway.
‘He hasn’t,’ I said, lighting up my phone for what must be the hundredth time that hour.
‘He wouldn’t have gone back to London?’ my father asked, pouring himself another drink. It always astonished me how much alcohol he managed to put away without it having any visible effect on him.
I shook my head. ‘Not without telling me. And there’s no reason why he should. His offices are closed until the New Year.’
It reached 9.50pm before, finally, the sound of the front door made everyone look up. I left the lounge immediately and walked into the hallway and towards the front door.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ I called out to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Fucking car died on me.’
‘What?’ I walked towards him as he hung up his coat and took his shoes off.
‘I know. Just died on me halfway along a narrow country lane. Somewhere near Goldhanger, I think. Was terrified another car would bomb round the corner and career into me. I had to walk across ditches and a field to get anywhere with a bloody signal. Called the breakdown people. Took them an age, then the car just started again.’
I was rather at a loss with all this information. ‘How … what…? So you drove it home?’
Matthew nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s outside. But they said I should have a full check done on it. I told them it could wait until we get back to London.’ He smiled at me and put his hands on my shoulders.
‘It’s fine, I’m fine. I’m just sorry to worry you.’
I smiled, relieved he was back and in one piece, not lying bleeding in an upturned motor on some dark, deserted back road.
Titus was, of course, relieved his dad had been found, but after a while he opted to go to bed with one of the large books he’d been given for Christmas. My parents had settled into a late showing of a James Bond film, so Matthew and I decided to get an early night. I still felt over-full from lunch, and struggled to get to sleep, so after a couple of hours I sat up properly and looked over at my still, peaceful husband next to me. Was I going mad? Was this just jealousy, or my tendency to control things? Or was there something strange going on here?
I didn’t like these thoughts. I didn’t like feeling unsure about someone I’d loved as strongly and passionately as was humanly possible. It made me feel dirty, or tainted, as if sprayed with that invisible dye that banks and cash vaults use to deter thieves. I watched Matthew’s chest rise and fall for a few more seconds, then stepped out of bed and pulled on some pants and a T-shirt.
I could hear the television from the landing rumbling away from the living room. That was the problem with big, old houses – everything echoed. I padded quietly down the stairs, considering going to find something to snack on, when the door to the lounge opened and my father came out. ‘Charles, I thought you’d gone to bed?’
I stood still, as if I were a teenager caught sneaking in late. ‘Yes. I … couldn’t sleep.’
‘There’s lots of food, darling, if you’re hungry,’ my mother called out from inside the living room, the sound of Daniel Craig’s tones getting quieter as she turned the volume down.
‘I’m fine,’ I called back.
My father looked at me, as if trying to work something out. I’ve always found his gaze somewhat penetrating, ever since I was a child, and now it was as if he could tell there was something wrong and, crucially, I wasn’t getting very far in working out what it was.
‘Sleep well,’ he said, finally, and went back into the lounge.
I was about to go back upstairs, try to read or do something until sleep overtook me, when something caught my eye.
Matthew’s shoes.
They were by the door where he’d taken them off. The shoes of someone who had traipsed, according to him, through ditches and fields in order to get a signal to call for help. A call to a breakdown service, but not to me, his husband, or his son. And somehow he had managed to do this without getting a speck of mud on the main body of the shoes or the laces or, as I saw as I turned them over in my hands, on the soles. They had a few bits of grit and dirt on them. But that was it. No sign anyone had trampled through damp undergrowth. Through puddles. Through a muddy field.
I put the shoes back down, then went silently back upstairs, through the doors to our bedroom, then into the bed and under the covers. And all the while, I was desperately trying to stop my imagination running away with itself.
Chapter Eighteen
Rachel
Eight months to go
I started to find it very difficult, turning up to the book-club meetings, appearing all happy and friendly, even though everything around me seemed pointless and impossible. I tried to get work in a garden centre in Hampstead, but they clearly wanted a plant specialist, not someone to stick ‘reduced’ stamps on the leftover Halloween decorations. A café in Battersea didn’t want me, since I’d never had any other jobs waiting tables or handling food. They said they had twenty-two candidates answer the job advertisement and some of them had ‘extensive experience in the food services sector’. This was for a minimum-wag
e position in a basic café. The whole thing made me want to cry.
It was Meryl who came to my aid. At the end of the November book-club meeting, she offered me a lift home on her way back home. I told her it wasn’t on her way home at all – it would mean her veering off in a different direction – but she just waved her hand and said her driver Kenneth was used to her taking detours. In the car, Meryl asked me some direct, probing questions. Was I happy? What sort of work was I looking for? What could be done to improve my current situation?
It turned out she had the answer.
‘I can put you forward for a job, my dear. It would be no bother.’
I blinked at her as the car crawled along in the slow-moving late-evening traffic. ‘You mean … at Streamline?’
I was familiar with the brand – who wasn’t? – but it had always been well out of my price range and the thought of entering their offices in my normal clothes filled me with horror. I’ve always thought I dress as well as I can on a budget, but thinking of setting foot in the corridors of a major beauty company … I’d feel like a fish out of water.
‘Yes, at Streamline. I still flatter myself to think I have at least some sway with what goes on there, even if I have taken a bit of a back seat in the running of the business in recent years.’ She must have seen how worried I looked because she smiled and reached across to lay a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t look so worried, my dear. It wouldn’t be anything too high-powered or stressful. Just office work. I’m sure they can find you an admin role of some sort. It may not be the most intellectually stimulating job in the world, but I imagine it will be better than fighting for shifts in some dodgy café.’
