People start groaning and cursing. The man in front stuffs the remnants of his pasty back into its paper bag. The woman beside her tuts loudly and mutters about the inconvenience. At least Rigsby can pee now, Emilia thinks, as she watches her place the dog on the floor of the bus, as though he’s made of glass. Emilia can’t wait to get off, but she sits patiently as everyone else gets up and shuffles towards the front. Her phone rings as she’s stepping onto the pavement.
‘Hey, Jas.’ The wind picks up and she has to pull her leather jacket around herself, wishing she’d worn a warmer coat. A crowd from the bus has congregated in front of her and she can’t get past. Rigsby has cocked his leg against the nearest lamp post.
‘Where are you? Wilf’s being, like, a brat and Elliot isn’t doing anything to stop him, and Dad is supposed to be picking me up, but he’s late and I can’t find my high-waisted jeans.’
She takes a deep breath and moves her phone to the other ear. ‘They should be in the tumble-drier … I’m on my way home. I think there’s been some kind of accident.’
‘Accident?’ Emilia can hear the fear in her daughter’s voice. Despite being stroppy and hormonal, underneath it all she’s sensitive and a worrier.
‘It’s okay,’ Emilia reassures her. ‘It’s not involving me. But I’ve had to get off the bus.’
‘Can’t Elliot pick you up?’
Emilia glances at the road. Vehicles are lined up almost bonnet to boot in both directions. Someone is tooting their horn, which instantly sets her teeth on edge. Why do people do that? It’s not going to make the traffic move any quicker. She manoeuvres around the hovering group and begins to walk quickly, her heels clipping the pavement. ‘No, it’s not far and the roads are jammed. It’s quicker for me to walk.’ She hesitates. ‘I thought your dad was collecting you from school.’
Jasmine huffs down the phone. ‘Something came up apparently so I caught the school coach. He said he’ll pick me up at six instead.’
Emilia imagines her daughter rolling her eyes as she speaks. She knows Jasmine has a complicated relationship with Jonas. ‘Okay, I’ll be as quick as I can. And your jeans –’
‘I know, I know. Tumble-drier you said.’ There’s lightness in her voice now, which lifts Emilia. She worries about Jasmine. The lockdowns have had a negative impact on her mental health, although Elliot has been great with her, giving her advice after suffering with anxiety himself as a teenager. Jasmine always was a little socially awkward but returning to school for year ten had been particularly challenging for her and she’d struggled initially to settle back in.
‘If you’re gone before I’m back, have a lovely time at your dad’s and see you Sunday. Love you.’
‘You too,’ Jasmine says, and hangs up.
Emilia slides the phone into her pocket and picks up her pace. She’d like to be home before Jasmine leaves. She thinks of her ex-husband, Jonas, and his wife, Kristin – her one-time friend – playing happy families with her daughter. Somehow she’s managed to stay close with Jonas for the sake of Jasmine, but it hasn’t always been easy. She finds it harder to forgive Kristin.
Emilia hoists her handbag over her shoulder, wishing she’d worn her flat boots. As she’s about to turn down a side-street she notices a police officer in a fluorescent yellow coat directing traffic, two fire engines and a number of police cars blocking the road. She wonders what’s happened.
2
‘I don’t know what was going on but there were police everywhere,’ Emilia says to Elliot later, as they make dinner in their large open-plan kitchen. It’s her favourite room in the house, with its pale wood parquet floor, marble work surfaces and navy blue cabinets. It’s the hub of their family, a place they all congregate. It was a pipe dream when they moved in four years ago, but after five months of building work to extend and refurbish, it was ready last year in time for Christmas.
‘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.