‘Only a few glasses. I’m working. I’m not on a jolly.’
There’s an awkward pause. Then he says, ‘We do need to chat. You’re right. Maybe when you get back we should talk. Are you back Friday?’
‘I hope so, yes.’
‘You hope so?’ He has that same irritability in his voice, like every word I utter annoys him. Now I think about it that’s the way he’s been with me for a while – months before he announced he needed a break.
I swallow. ‘Well, it’s a bit complicated, really. The story I’m covering has taken a bit of a turn. A man has been murdered.’
‘What?’
‘A local man. I don’t know if it’s linked but he was involved in the case I’m working on so it could be important. Anyway, Friday should still be fine. I’m just thinking out loud.’ I miss talking to him, about work, about our ambitions and dreams. He doesn’t even know much about the podcast, how big a deal it is for me to be allowed to do it, to go from writing press releases part-time to undertaking something like this, being taken seriously for probably the first time since I went on maternity leave back in 2008.
But then my job always did take a back seat to his. It was understandable, him being the bigger earner, but he never knew how small it made me feel at times, how unimportant. He never appreciated how much I had to juggle, and when I complained he’d throw in a comment like ‘Well, you wanted to go back to work.’ As if our son was my responsibility, not his, and that it was down to me and me alone to make a success of working and raising a child.
‘Right. Well, I hope you’re being careful,’ he says curtly, and I wonder how it got to this. How we’d got to this. What had happened to us, to the fun, young, free-and-easy couple we once were before resentment started to set in, the bickering about who did the most around the house, who was busier, more stressed, like it was a competition? Where were the couple who laughed at the same jokes, who snuggled in front of the TV to watch reruns of Frasier, who went to gigs together? Where was the man who used to love me so much that when I was pregnant he treated me like a princess and wouldn’t let me lift a finger, as if I was made of precious stone? Where had the warm, loving, kind, fun Gavin gone? The man talking to me now is like a stranger. Had the cracks started to show after we had Finn? Had I transferred all the love I’d bestowed on Gavin to my son instead? Had our love been slowly draining away, like a leaky tap, for the last ten years?
A tear seeps down my cheek and the heaviness on my chest intensifies so much that I can’t speak for a few seconds. I move the phone away from my ear and suppress a sob. I don’t want him to know I’m crying.
‘… can discuss all this when we see each other face to face,’ he’s saying, when I return the phone to my ear.
‘Yep,’ I say, trying to sound brisk.
‘And if you’re delayed on Friday I need to know. I’m …’ He sounds uncomfortable. ‘Well, I’ve made plans on Saturday.’ I think about the woman’s laugh I heard. But I can’t bring myself to ask him because I’m too scared of the answer.
‘Mum can look after Finn for the weekend if I’m stuck here, don’t worry, but I think I’ll be home on Friday.’
‘Right, well, Gloria’s done a lot for us.’
More than your own mother, I want to say, but don’t. The subject of his parents and the fact I’ve always felt they looked down on me has been a contentious issue over the years so I’ve avoided it. And the truth is, I don’t care if Sidney and Cassandra like me or not. I just wish they were better grandparents to Finn. As it is they spend all their time with Gavin’s sister, Marcie, and her three kids, only seeing Finn on special occasions and for the odd Sunday lunch at their big, pristine house where Finn and I feel too scared to touch anything. Saying that, though, I do like Marcie and her adorable children, and if we end up splitting I hope she’ll still want to be my friend.
‘Are you still there?’
Gavin’s been talking and I’ve zoned out. I blink, trying to gather my thoughts. ‘I’m still here,’ I say quietly.
He sighs. And then he says softly, ‘I’m sorry, Jen.’
‘For what?’
‘For all of this. For the disruption. For splitting our family up.’
The tears are back. The end of a marriage – because that is what it is, I can’t delude myself any more – feels like a death. ‘I’m sorry too.’
‘People change,’ he says. ‘I’ve changed.’
‘I know. Me too.’ And perhaps that’s the problem: we don’t much like the person the other has changed into.
He clears his throat. ‘Anyway. We can talk properly when you get back. And, Jenna …’
I nod even though he can’t see me.
‘Look after yourself, won’t you? Don’t do anything stupid. If there is a murderer on the loose …’
‘I’m fine. Don’t worry.’
‘Well, bye, then.’
‘Bye.’
I hear him breathing for a few seconds at the other end of the line, both of us connected, each not wanting to be the first to put the phone down, just like it used to be at the beginning.
I end the call first and then I burst into tears.
I go and wash my face, splashing away the tears. I have to pull myself together and put thoughts of Gavin to the side for now and concentrate on why I’m here. I get undressed, go back into the living room and make myself a hot chocolate. The fire is almost dying now. I’ll sit until it’s burnt itself out. I’m in no hurry to go to bed. For some reason I feel safer sitting here, with all the lights on and my phone within reach.
I glance towards the fireplace, deep in thought, and then my eye lands on a piece of paper resting near the grate, not yet burnt but curling at the edges. I get up, then kneel down at the hearth. The flames have engulfed most of the writing but I can just make out the last two words BE NEXT. It was the note from my car. I’d left it on the counter, by the laptop, under the book I was reading. How did it get into the fireplace?
It must have been Dale or Olivia. But which one? And why?
36
Olivia
When Olivia wakes up she notices that Wesley isn’t in bed with her although the room is dark. She leans over for her phone to check the time. It’s just gone midnight. She’s been asleep for less than two hours.
The euphoria she’d initially felt after arriving at Wesley’s flat, knowing she was safe, has dissipated and now she just feels flat. She has a banging headache too. She’s never been a big drinker but she had a few glasses of wine. Not enough to induce this strange sensation inside her, surely. Her leg also aches, more than usual. She reaches down and touches it. She’s still wearing her jodhpurs but she can feel a bump. She peels back the duvet and shines the light from her mobile onto it. There is a hole in her jodhpurs and when she pulls them down she can see a bruise on her thigh. It looks almost like an injection site: a spot of red in the middle and a faint bruise fanning out around it. Was she drugged? It would explain how she’d blacked out, the wooziness. She’s never taken drugs in her life so doesn’t know how she’d feel but she imagines it’s how she feels now. She swings her legs out of bed and stands up, groping around her for the light switch, her panic increasing. What the hell happened to her? And where is Wesley? She presses the switch and the room is flooded with light. She wonders if he’s in the bathroom but a quick check shows he’s not there either. He’s gone out. She can’t believe it. After everything she’s been through tonight he’s just left her in the flat by herself.