We should go to a cathedral for all our special anniversaries. Ten years. Twenty years and so on. It would be romantic. To remember how we met.
Sorry, honey. Now he was running a tap to fill the water tank. I can’t really hear you . . .
CHAPTER 48
Blue
It’s 5 a.m. and I’m sitting in the new chair in the nursery. I still don’t sleep – not properly – so it’s become a habit to move in here to wait for the light. Though it’s very hard, actually, sitting here and not knowing how things are going to map out.
It’s cold, which always makes me feel more afraid and unsure, but that’s probably natural. The tiredness. The quiet. The cold. I am tapping my right foot up and down, up and down, and try to still it. But it’s so difficult to be still.
I just have to stay positive. Determined. For me. And especially for the baby. Everything will be different when there are two of us in here. Our little bubble away from them all.
If I’m perfectly honest, the chair is not as comfortable as I’d hoped. Another of my impulse buys. I fell in love with the design and the colour – sea blue – and I let that sway me. I’ve tried different cushions but I just can’t get comfy. Oh well. I suppose I could get another one delivered.
Some people say it’s bad luck to get everything ready too early but I find it exciting. It makes me feel in control and some days it’s the only thing that keeps me going; to come in here and wind forward to the days when we will be here together. Just the two of us. All the stress and the hurt behind me.
There are a few things still to put together but it won’t take long, so I’m going to wait until all the fuss dies down.
I’ve kept the blind down because I don’t want anyone looking in. Watching me, I mean. They might get the wrong idea and meddle. People do that way too much. Meddle. Ask questions. Drives me mad.
Are you sure you’re OK?
Of course I’m OK. Leave me alone.
And that’s the beauty of this plan and the thing I hold on to when I can’t sleep. The thought of being alone in the best possible way. In here. With the baby. Just me but not truly alone any more.
No one to misunderstand.
No one to let me down.
CHAPTER 49
THE MOTHER
‘That’s enough for today. I’m getting a bit hoarse, darling.’ I close the book, marking the place with a postcard. This one’s a much better choice. An old favourite of Gemma’s – The Mill on the Floss. I put the book down on the bedside locker and glance at the laptop.
I am trying to resist prying. I am trying to concentrate on Gemma and to respect her privacy but I can feel my heart quickening every time the light catches the shiny surface of the laptop lid. The truth is I’m burning to know if there’s any more diary stuff by Gemma hidden in those files. I’ve looked. Of course I’ve looked; the problem is there are a lot of real essays. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack. Lots of work on poetry and Shakespeare. Also some creative writing – very good, I thought.
I suppose it’s possible there was only that one day that Gemma jotted personal stuff instead of writing her essay. I’ve no idea. The dates are all over the place and there are quite a lot of module headings as well as essay headings. But it’s like a haunting, wondering if there’s something in that laptop that might help us.
I reach over and put it on the end of the bed again, waiting for it to load. I suppose I should talk to Ed about that one piece I found. Maybe the police too? But DI Sanders said they’d checked for anything important. And I don’t want them to take the laptop away again, not unless it’s genuinely helpful. It makes me feel closer to Gemma. It makes me feel useful, and hand on heart I still want to know if she wrote anything else about me . . .
I click on a few files in turn. More creative writing. The beginnings of a short story. Unfinished. An essay about Virginia Woolf’s work. Pages and pages on that one. I should have been more methodical. Made a note of which files I’ve checked already.
But hang on. What’s this?
Discuss the theme of isolation as portrayed in Jane Eyre.
I open the document and can see immediately that it’s not an essay at all. It’s Gemma’s voice again. Right in my head. It’s like the other diary entry but she’s sounding very different here. More positive . . .
I honestly can’t believe how much has changed since I last wrote in this file. Seriously. A whole new avenue has opened up for me. Something completely unexpected.
I’m desperate to know how long this was after the panic of the last entry I found. I read as fast as I can, devouring the words. And then it is like the air is being sucked from my lungs . . .