‘Leo?’ I say, to nobody. Ruby’s preschool plant, in the corner, is now quite dead. She’s watered it to an early grave.
I hold myself still, trying to think what might have happened to Leo.
John pants. ‘It’s OK,’ I tell him. ‘It’s OK, John.’
Then I spot my phone on the worktop, and hear a small wail come out of my mouth.
It is not OK. My phone was in my bag when I took Ruby up for her bath.
Leo, no.
And there it is, when I pick it up: my half-written message to Jeremy. The cursor blinks benignly at the end, awaiting instruction.
. . . you are the father of my child, for God’s sake . . .
The room falls silent. Soft pink clouds twist over the trees in the garden. A cat is sitting on the back wall, washing its paws.
‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘No.’
I read my draft again, twice, three times, and imagine Leo doing the same, the agony in his body, the disbelief.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ I whisper, before scrabbling to dial his number.
Hello, this is Leo Philber, says his voice. His lovely voice. Sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave a message, and I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.
We laughed about ‘come back to you’。 I said it was American; he said it was what all the cool young journalists said on their voicemails these days, at which I had laughed very hard indeed, and he’d been unable to keep a straight face.
I try to think. Maybe he hasn’t read it? But of course he’s read it. And besides, Leo would never have invaded my privacy in this way if he wasn’t already close to the truth.
The phone screen clears, suddenly, starts ringing. I nearly cry with relief – but it’s not Leo, it’s Jill. I cancel the call.
I try messaging.
Leo, are you there?
Tick: the message leaves my phone.
Two ticks: the message arrives in his.
Two blue ticks: he’s reading it.
Relief breaks over me, although I don’t know why. I have no hope of undoing this.
My darling, please come home. I have to explain this to you
Two blue ticks. I try to picture him, the reading glasses he never cleans, smudged and sad. Maybe he’s out on the Heath as the evening greys. Or on the tube, paused at an underground station before the train swishes onwards to – to where? Oh God, Leo.
Jill calls again. I cancel it. Seconds later, she tries again. I cancel it again; I’ll ring her tomorrow.
I start another message to Leo, trying to explain, but stop. What can I say? The message he’s found goes so much deeper than Ruby’s parentage. There are important reasons why I’ve shielded him from it; these years of collusion and misery between Jeremy and me. How can I tell him now, in a text message?
He goes offline. I send another message, asking if he’s still there, but it doesn’t deliver.
In the middle of this, Jeremy texts. Are you OK? I don’t have any news. Just checking Janice hasn’t been in touch.
I delete it, and sink slowly into a chair. I use my phone to put something on the speaker called ‘Smooth: New Directions in Ambient Jungle’， so John can calm down.
Jill calls yet again, and this time I pick up. ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t talk. Leo’s been reading my phone and he’s disappeared. Can I call you tomorrow? Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. But I have to talk to you, Emma—’