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It was our separation she was referring to, I am sure, when she told Catherine Ravenscroft that she had
lost her husband.
For a while, we were lost to each other. But I had always believed that it was me who had lost her, not she who had lost me. I thought I was alone in feeling alone, so it was a comfort when I read in her notebook that she had felt as I had. She missed me as much as I had missed her.

I took her home and I cared for her and she rallied a little. She survived another two years at home with me. I was still working at the private school, and I admit that I took out my pain on those children. The Macmillan nurses were wonderful. They came in while I was at work to make sure she was OK. She never complained. As I say, she embraced her suffering. It was the kind of suffering she had been searching for, something concrete to dig her nails into.

But now she is alive again – my constant companion. I hear her voice and I speak to her regularly. I told her about the phone call and the sound of fear in the whore’s voice. There are no secrets between us any more. And Nancy is becoming impatient to get on with it, we both are. We want to see her fear, not just listen to it.

32

Summer 2013

Catherine sits at work, her eyes fixed on her computer screen, seeing nothing. Her head is in revolt, unable to hold a coherent thought: each one, old and new, carries its own pain. The newest, freshest memories hurt the most. Robert has moved out. She thinks he has checked into a hotel, but she is not sure. He won’t speak to her. The last thing he told her was that he couldn’t bear the sight of her. The words had left her gasping. What had she expected? Not that. She knew she had concealed parts of herself from Robert, but she had not realized, until now, how much of him she didn’t know. When she had tried to imagine his response to the book, she had failed to conjure up this bitterness. His anger has shocked her; he has allowed it to fill every space, making him deaf to anything she might say. She sleeps in the spare room, hiding from the emptiness of their bed.

She clicks on her screen, pretending to work, but the shock she’d felt when he had confronted her with the photographs slices through her again. He wants her to be punished. He thinks she deserves it. She had tried not to look at the pictures – tried to flick them away – blinking them into fragments, but they have broken through into her head and it is a one-way street. Those images will never leave now. The photographs were used as the source material for the book, crude and base, wriggling themselves into a false projection of the real story. Unfortunately it is a story which Robert has chosen to believe. And her years of secrecy have helped him reach his verdict of guilty; her misguided belief that she had a right to silence has condemned her.

‘You know the headmaster who left Rathbone College after Brigstocke was “retired”? Well, I’ve found out they were friends at Cambridge. I’ve got a number for him – shall I give him a call?’

‘Back off, Kim. There’s no story. Leave it,’ she snaps before she can stop herself. Fuck. She’s losing control here too. She doesn’t want to alienate Kim, so she reaches out, lays a hand on her arm: ‘Sorry, but there’s nothing there. Forget it. Forget Stephen Brig-stocke.’

Kim shakes off her hand and limps away. Catherine shouldn’t have spoken to her like that. She must hold it together. Work is her only refuge. She fingers the piece of paper Kim gave her a few days ago, with Stephen Brigstocke’s telephone number and address, and puts it in her pocket.

‘Tea?’ she calls across. Kim ignores her, but Simon looks up and gives Catherine a smile.

He follows her into the kitchen, cup held out, whitened teeth gleaming.

‘Everything all right, Cath?’ A whine of concern in his voice. Oh fuck off. Her hate for this man is unreasonable, she knows.

‘Yes, fine thanks.’

‘Moving house is one of those things, isn’t it – right up there with divorce – enough to make anyone stressed.’ She keeps her back to him, hiding her fury. He must have witnessed her snap at Kim. She puts two bags in the pot, fills it with water, pours his tea without giving it time to brew, ignoring his gesture to wait, and enjoying the insipid grey she slops into his mug. Her phone beeps as she hands him the tea.

A text from Robert? She tries to hide her shaking hands:
Your recent accident could make you eligible …
It’s an advertisement. Shit.

‘You all right?’

She nods yes, but feels trapped by Simon’s presence, unable to think. She stalks out, taking her phone to the ladies’. She needs privacy, some fucking privacy, to be able to think. Robert is not going to call her. She had hoped that once the first shock had settled he would find it in himself to listen to her; that she could tell him everything in her own words. Instead he has amputated her as if she were a gangrenous limb. She tries to suppress her own anger, but it is becoming harder. Doesn’t she deserve a hearing? He is making her feel like a stalker, her endless texts and voicemails ignored. She calls his secretary.

‘Hi, Katy. I was wondering if Robert’s in at the moment. I don’t need to talk to him, I just wanted to drop something by …’ She sounds like a woman who suspects her husband of having an affair. If he is in his office she will go there and confront him; he won’t be able to run away; he won’t want a scene; he will have to listen.

‘No, he left early,’ she is told. ‘He said he was going to work from home this afternoon.’

‘Of course. Stupid me. I forgot.’ Every day a new lie.

When she walks through the front door she trips over a holdall and her heart races. He’s come home. Thank God, he’s moved back in. But it is Nicholas’s bag, not Robert’s. It is Nicholas who is moving in. There’s already a heap of dirty washing outside the kitchen. Robert is at the flat though, sitting at the kitchen table with Nick. A beer each. A smile on Robert’s face, the sports pages open in front of Nicholas. Neither looks up as she walks in. There is a brief moment, a flash, when she thinks: Nicholas in the spare room, her back in bed with Robert? But when Robert looks at her she knows this is fantasy and his words confirm it.

‘Nick’s come to keep me company while you’re away.’

What the …? Nicholas turns to her and she is struck by how pale and tired he is. Does he know? But then he smiles and returns to the newspaper. She opens her mouth to speak but Robert beats her to it. Robert is in charge.

‘Sounds like a big story, so I guess you’ll be gone for a few weeks. I packed you a bag – I thought you’d be in a hurry to get off.’

Every sentence feels like a slap across her face. He has told Nick she is going away for work. She approaches him, takes his hand: ‘Robert …’ She wants him to go upstairs with her, to listen to her, but he pulls his hand away and picks up the phone. She hears him call a cab.

‘What’s the story, Mum?’ Nicholas asks.

Robert answers for her. ‘Oh, your mother won’t even tell me.’

He sounds so glib and Nicholas isn’t that interested anyway and returns to the football gossip.

‘The cab’s on its way. You’d better go and check I’ve packed what you want.’ She stays where she is for a moment, wanting to scream at him how dare he, but she doesn’t, in front of Nicholas.

She goes upstairs and sits on the bed. He has packed a small case, enough for a week. She looks at the folded clothes, the knickers stuffed down the side, the wash-bag zipped up and placed on top. She feels around in the case, hoping that maybe he will have slipped in a note to say he needs time to think. A little space and then they can talk. There is no note. He doesn’t need to explain. She does.

‘Your cab’s here,’ he yells up, and she closes the case and carries it downstairs. She wants Robert to look at her, to meet her eye, but he won’t. He is all brisk and bright. There’s supper to get ready. They can manage very well without her, thank you, she hears in her head. Nicholas gets up and shambles towards her, kicking a sock that has strayed from the pile of dirty clothes.

‘See you, Mum.’ She gives him a hug. No words. She looks over his shoulder at Robert; still he refuses to look at her. Coward, she thinks, and feels Nicholas slither from her embrace. The cab is waiting.

She closes the front door and walks to the car with its engine running. The driver watches her put her case on the back seat and get in next to it.

‘Where to?’ he asks. So Robert hasn’t decided her destination. Where to? She gives the driver an address.

33

Summer 2013

Nicholas takes his holdall up to the spare room, drops it with a bang on to the floor and launches himself backwards on to the bed: freefall, legs out, shoes on, head hitting the pillow. He closes his eyes and smells his mum. He opens his eyes. Yes, he really can smell her. He sniffs the pillow. It’s definitely her. She’s been sleeping in the spare room. What the fuck’s going on? His dad didn’t say goodbye when she left. He didn’t even go to the door. That’s not like him – he’s a devotee. That’s why Nicholas made the effort – well, someone had to. He’d felt sorry for her. He can’t remember ever feeling sorry for his mum.

Seeing her leave that way reminds him of when he was little and she used to go away for work. It never bothered him. When she got home she’d fuss around him as if she’d missed him so much. He used to ignore her – it never felt real – she was putting it on. He could keep it up for days, not talking to her. She’d come home with presents – Sandy the dog was one of them. She probably bought it at the airport anyway, but he loved it – used to sleep with it every night. When she was home she was always the one who put him to bed and read to him. He’d lie there with his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep, still she’d carry on and he’d listen to the sound of her voice until eventually he did fall asleep. He’d hurt her when he told her he didn’t want to keep Sandy. For fuck’s sake, why would he?

If it was the other way round, she’d never have invited him to stay in their nice, new home. Dad’s soft though. Mind you, it’ll drive Nicholas mad if he keeps up the cheery banter: constant fucking chat about what they’re going to eat. Even watching him pick away at the cellophane on their meal for two made Nicholas’s skin itch; he couldn’t wait to get upstairs. Still, it’s good to have a few home comforts. Will he be able to stand being round his dad if he’s like this the whole time? Yes, because he needs the cash. He’ll sublet his room; no need for Dad to know – there’s money to be made. Poor old Mum, the last thing she wants is him messing up their spanking-new spare room.

He hangs over the side of the bed and drags his bag towards him, taking out his wash-bag. He’s brought his toothbrush but no soap, no shampoo. No need. He’s ‘home’. Mum would have a fit if she knew he’d brought drugs into their home. She’d think he was
losing control; not on top of things
; worried he was going to
slip off the edge
again. Of course he won’t. Steady job. Suit. What more do they want? It’s like old times – his parents knowing fuck all about what’s going on. Something’s going on with them though, but he can’t be arsed to find out what. They can keep their secrets, he has his. Still, generous of the old man to offer to help out with a holiday. With his girlfriend. He cringes at the memory of his lie. He doesn’t have a girlfriend, but it’s what his dad wanted to hear.

From where he’s lying he can see the tops of the trees in the garden. They fill the frame of the window. Like their old house, only smaller. It’s even in the same neighbourhood, a spit from where he grew up. His dad was pleased when he said he had a girlfriend, but Nicholas doesn’t want the hassle of a girlfriend – too much fucking bother. He’d like the money though, so he’ll have to spin it out a bit longer – or maybe he’ll say he’s decided to go away with friends instead. Dad’ll still cough up – he’ll find it hard to back down after saying he’d help out. He laughs when he thinks what his dad would make of his friends.

Nicholas hates that word.
Friends.
What does it mean? Muckers? Mates? Companions? They’re people he hangs out with, that’s all. They don’t bother getting to know each other. It’s like being part of a shoal of fish, slipping in, dropping out, different faces all the time but all swimming in the same direction, keeping formation, floating along. The money for a holiday could keep him afloat for a whole week: close his eyes and disappear; a nice break and then back to work. He rolls a joint and sticks it in his mouth, unlit. Don’t want the old man to worry. Work/life balance – that’s what it’s called, isn’t it? And Nicholas is managing that very well: just a little something now and again to soften the edges, but never too much.

‘Supper’s ready,’ his dad calls up. Nick rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer. Not answering. It used to drive them mad.
Supper’s ready.
No answer. Eventually one of them would have to come up and get him. Had he heard? They’d been shouting for ages. It’s getting cold. He rolls on to his side and buries his face in the pillow, taking in one more draught of his mother. They’ve never been close, yet the smell of her nearly brings tears to his eyes.

34

Summer 2013

The smell makes Catherine shrink further into herself: the smell of an old person’s home. Not urine, nothing as definable as that, and yet a very particular smell. What is it? Bins left a little too long before being taken out? Years of pets? Fur merged with fabric? Fake floral scents plugged in to try and disguise all of the above?

‘Hello, darling.’ Her mother stands up in welcome, unsteady on her thin legs. Catherine sets down her case and moves into her arms, careful of her fragile bones as she lays her arm across her back. A gentle pat. A mother’s pat, but from her, the daughter who wants to be mothered yet fears she is past it.

‘Thanks, Mum, for letting me stay. It’s such a mess with the builders, and Robert’s away so …’ She banks on her mother not remembering that the builders left weeks ago and Robert hasn’t travelled for work for years.

‘Is he in America again?’

Catherine nods, not wanting to lie to her mother more than she has to.