‘I just thought it might be easier, perhaps, on neutral territory . . .’
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Imogen crouched down slowly, as though her knees were acclimatising to the movement, and stared at Leo as if she had been cast under an ancient spell.
Something clicked inside Livvy, a need to protect her child from this woman who had already wrought such emotional havoc for Dominic. She pulled the buggy away, pushed it behind her, one hand glued to the handlebar even as she turned back to Imogen.
‘Can you give Leo some space, please.’ Her voice was firm, unequivocal, her hand tightening on the buggy.
‘Leo? That’s such a beautiful name. Was that your choice or Dominic’s?’
Livvy silently cursed herself for having let the name slip. ‘It’s really not appropriate for you to be here. You must be able to see that.’ A voice inside Livvy’s head shouted at her for sounding so calm when the truth was that this woman was stalking her – stalking her and Leo – and she needed to get away. She needed to speak to Dominic, decide how best to handle it.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just didn’t know what else to do.’ In spite of the apology, Imogen’s tone was defiant, self-righteous. ‘It was one thing, Dominic not coming to see his father in the hospital, but to ignore all my messages about the funeral . . .’
For a second Livvy faltered, the words shaping themselves into meaning inside her head. ‘Dominic’s father died?’
Imogen eyed her quizzically, and Livvy felt like a creature being scrutinised under the lens of a microscope. ‘On Saturday. Didn’t he tell you?’ She paused, as though to emphasise the obvious answer to her question. ‘I left him two voicemails and sent him a text message.’
The words darted in Livvy’s ears and she tried to catch them, make sense of them, but it was as if Imogen had spoken in a foreign language.
Her mind rewound to the events of the weekend. The three of them had been to the park, to the swimming pool, to Bristol Museum to see the Egyptian mummies. It had been a perfect weekend. At no point had Dominic said or done anything to indicate he’d just received the news that his father had died.
Imogen continued to talk, as if determined to fill the widening chasm of Livvy’s silence. ‘I’m sorry, it just didn’t occur to me that Dominic wouldn’t have told you. Maybe he was in shock?’
‘He must not have known.’
‘But that’s impossible. Unless he’s lost his phone, or had it stolen, perhaps?’
Livvy bristled at Imogen’s disingenuity. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. But I don’t see how that justifies you following me.’
A group of children on a school trip came running towards the goat pen, and Livvy steered the buggy out of their way, moved to the opposite side of the path. When she turned around, Imogen was standing beside her, too close, and Livvy instinctively took a step back.
‘The funeral’s next Friday. Will you talk to him? Persuade him to come?’
‘No, I won’t.’
Imogen eyed her, almost pityingly, and Livvy’s skin prickled with irritation.
‘It was one thing not to tell John and I that he’d got married, or that we have a grandchild. It was another thing not to come and see John in the hospital when he was dying. But to refuse to attend his own father’s funeral? Surely even you must see how wrong that is?’
Surely even you . . . ? Livvy gripped the handlebar of the buggy, fingers aching with the pressure. ‘I think we’re probably done here. Please don’t follow us again.’ Spinning the buggy around, her pulse raced.
‘Wait, please. I know Dominic’s got a lot of complicated feelings about his father, and about me, but do you honestly think he should abstain from John’s funeral?’
Blood throbbed in Livvy’s ears. ‘Complicated feelings? Do you really need to ask why Dominic won’t come to his father’s funeral? Do you really have no idea how deeply damaged he is by the way you and his father treated him?’
Imogen shook her head with apparent impatience. ‘I know Dominic’s angry about a lot of things. But John and I were only ever trying to do the right thing, give him some boundaries—’
‘I can’t listen to any more of this.’ Livvy hauled the change bag over her shoulder. ‘If Dominic chooses not to reply to your messages, that’s his prerogative. You have to stop following us. I don’t want you around me or my son.’ Flipping the brake on Leo’s buggy, she walked away as quickly as she could, only turning to check over her shoulder once she’d exited the farm and left Imogen far behind.
ANNA
LONDON
I sit on the sofa in the living room, hear Stephen’s muted voice from behind the closed door into the hallway, apologising for the umpteenth time to the two police officers, reassuring them that it won’t happen again. There is something purposefully restrained in his voice, as though he is having to contain his impatience for them to leave.
Eventually I hear the click of the front door, and Stephen re-enters the sitting room, sits down on the sofa beside me, takes hold of my hand. ‘What were you thinking, my love? Anything could have happened. Just imagine if that police car hadn’t come along when it did.’
His voice is gentle, soothing, and it exacerbates my sense of self-reproach. ‘I’m sorry. I just felt so cooped up and I thought if I kept the journey simple, I’d be okay . . .’ My explanation tapers off, humiliation burning in my cheeks that I’ve been brought home by two police officers like a wayward schoolgirl.
Stephen pulls his lips into a strained smile. ‘I understand. But your memory’s still so fragile. I was frantic when I got home and you weren’t here. Please promise me you won’t go out on your own again until you’re better.’
Guilt claws at my throat. I cannot imagine what this is like for Stephen, finding himself in the role of my carer. ‘I promise.’ It is not a difficult pledge to make, given my mortification at this afternoon’s events.
I glance at the digital display on the DVD player, see that it is not yet five o’clock. ‘You’re home much earlier than you said.’
Stephen nods. ‘I hated the thought of you here all day by yourself. I was concerned about you.’ The rest of his sentence hangs in the air, no need to be spoken: Stephen’s legitimacy in fretting about me is all too clear.
He leans forward, kisses the top of my head with paternalistic affection, and I wonder whether this is how we always interact or whether he would normally kiss me fully on the lips.
‘So what else did you get up to today?’ Stephen heads back into the hallway, hangs up the coat he was wearing when I got home, returns to the sofa. The sequence feels both entirely familiar and yet disquietingly foreign, as though we are characters in a play acting out a well-worn scene, but it is our first day of rehearsals and we haven’t quite found our rhythm yet.
I think back through the hours since Stephen left, and it feels both unimaginably prosaic and yet eventful at the same time. ‘I tried to get into the loft, but it’s got a padlock on it.’
Stephen looks at me with alarm. ‘What were you doing, trying to get up there? I told you – that ladder’s treacherous.’