The Woman Who Lied(3)
‘Couldn’t you ask your copper friend, whatsherface?’ Her husband is dreadful with names. Everyone is either whatsherface or whatshisname.
‘Louise. I could, although she’s in CID, so I doubt she’d know.’ She reaches down, gets four plates automatically from the cupboard and places them on the worktop, then remembers Jasmine is at her dad’s and puts one back. She hates it when Jasmine is away. The house feels too large, too empty without her. Elliot said Kristin had come to pick her up as Jonas wasn’t sure when he’d be able to get away from the office. That had instantly annoyed Emilia. He only sees Jasmine every other weekend – the least he can do is make sure he leaves work on time.
She turns to assess Elliot as he stands at the hob, his soft cashmere jumper straining across his broad shoulders, accentuating his slim waist and his tanned skin. She has often wondered over the years whether, if Kristin had set her sights on Elliot, he would have succumbed as easily as Jonas. He’s so different from her ex, not only in looks – dark and stocky while Jonas is wiry and blond – but in personality. Jonas always was a bit of a flirt: he likes to think other women find him attractive and charming, wanting everyone to like him, always the life and soul of the party, the last to leave the pub, always out with different mates. Elliot is honest, sometimes brutally so (he once told her she looked like Morticia Addams when she dyed her hair a few shades darker) and would quite often shy away from social situations, but at least she knows where she stands with her second husband.
Elliot wanders towards the TV at the family-room end of the kitchen; a mirror image reflects back at them from the bifold doors that lead onto the garden. He picks up the remote from where Wilfie had thrown it onto the grey linen sofa. ‘It might be on the news.’ He turns to smile at her, as he aims the remote at the TV and her heart explodes with a sudden burst of love for him. He’s a good man. A solid man. He’s not vain. As an author, she earns more than he does and it doesn’t bother him at all. It’s because of her money that they can afford this five-bedroom detached whitewashed Victorian villa on one of Richmond Hill’s premier streets. Jonas had sworn under his breath when he’d first seen it.
She stirs the wok, satisfied to see the chicken and peppers sizzling away nicely, the smell making her stomach rumble despite her huge lunch.
‘Dad! Can I watch Adventure Time?’ Their eight-year-old son, Wilfie, bursts into the room from the den, clutching his PlayStation controller and hopping from one foot to the other, a ball of energy with wavy dark hair like his dad’s.
‘Hold on, little man,’ says Elliot. ‘Just need to check the news – Mum saw something interesting on her way home and we just want to …’ But Wilfie’s already left. Elliot raises his eyebrows at Emilia and she laughs. It’s a long-standing joke between them that their son is never still for long enough to do anything, apart from eat and sleep. When it comes to food he takes after her.
‘Dinner’s nearly ready!’ she calls after him, although there’s no answer. She’s only allowing him on the PlayStation because it’s Friday night. He’s certainly taking advantage of it – he’s barely surfaced from it since she got home.
‘Hold on … I think this must be it,’ says Elliot, backing towards her, his eyes trained on the TV.
She turns off the wok and goes to stand beside him. He wraps one arm around her shoulders. She feels tiny at just over five two compared to his nearly six feet. They watch as BREAKING NEWS flashes onscreen and then a well-dressed news presenter with an immaculate blonde bob is talking over a series of photos that show the entrance to Kew Gardens and the police outside.
‘There has been a serious incident today at Kew Gardens in London. Police had to evacuate visitors and clear Kew Road directly outside the popular tourist attraction over fears of a terrorist attack. Personnel at Kew Gardens received an anonymous tip-off, at approximately four twenty-five p.m., claiming a bomb had been left in the grounds. A duffel bag was located by specialist police but we’ve since been informed that it was a hoax, and the bag contained an old transistor radio.’
The presenter moves on to another story and Elliot switches off the TV, placing the remote on the coffee-table. He moves over to the hob and she follows, her mind mulling over the news item.
It’s very familiar.
‘Probably teenagers thinking they’re funny,’ he says, as he dishes out the stir-fry. ‘It’s serious, though. If they got caught …’ He looks up and must see the expression on her face because he asks her what’s wrong.
She shakes her head. ‘Nothing. It’s just … I dunno. A bit weird.’
‘What?’
‘In my first book – you know, The Fire Starter …’
‘How can I forget?’ he says, his eyes softening. They’d met in a café while she was writing it, nearly eleven years ago. She was going through the divorce and renting a little flat with Jasmine after Jonas had bought her out of their marital home in Twickenham. She’d always wanted to write a novel but after university she’d taken a job on a local newspaper. She’d just landed a role as a staff features writer for one of the Sunday supplements when she found out she was pregnant with Jasmine. She’d been twenty-three, broke and living with Jonas, whom she’d met in her first year at university in Brighton, and the pregnancy hadn’t been planned. As soon as she’d broken the news to Jonas he’d proposed and they’d married a few months later: a small, somewhat rushed affair at the local register office.