The Rumor, page 18
He opens his arms and I sink onto his lap, rest my head against his neck.
“That’s more or less what Liz said to me yesterday,” I say.
He stiffens slightly and I sit up. The look that passes across his eyes is fleeting and subtle, but there’s no mistaking it. The mere mention of her name has affected him in some way.
“You think it’s her, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what to think at the moment,” he says. “My head feels like a jigsaw that’s missing a key piece.”
He gestures to the papers spread all over the table. Pages and pages of scrawled notes. Hole-punched reports with Post-it markers sticking out at the sides.
“But it’s got to be somewhere. I just need to find it.”
He nods toward his laptop. “I spoke to the Flinstead and Mistden Gazette earlier. Take a look at this and see what you think. It’ll be on their website tomorrow.” He squints at the time display at the bottom of the screen. “Well, later today, actually. It’s a much shorter version of the article I really wanted to write. Maybe I can pitch something about false accusations to one of the bigger papers.”
LOCAL SHOPKEEPER’S VIGILANTE TORMENT
A false rumor is jeopardizing the livelihood of local shopkeeper Sonia Martins.
On Wednesday, October 18, a photo was stuck to the window of her popular New Age gift shop, Stones and Crones, falsely implying that she was child killer Sally McGowan.
Her shop was targeted again when a brick was thrown through the window. The incident happened sometime between 12:30 A.M. and 6:30 A.M. on Tuesday, October 31. Police are appealing for witnesses.
Flinstead police chief Bob Sanderson said: “All necessary background checks have been completed and I can confirm that this rumor is completely untrue. Sonia Martins is a respectable member of our community. She was born in Flinstead and her mother has lived here all her life.
“We are a small town,” he said, “and rumors like this spread quickly. I would urge whoever is doing this to think very carefully about their actions, as the consequences can be serious.”
Sonia Martins is so distressed by recent events she has even considered leaving Flinstead.
“I know most people don’t believe it, but some very clearly do, and I no longer feel safe, either in my home or my place of work. I just want whoever is doing this to stop.”
There have been four previous cases of women falsely accused of being McGowan, one of which ended tragically in suicide.
Anyone with information on the incident in Flinstead should call the Flinstead Police Department.
“So you’ve spoken to Sonia already? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugs. “It slipped my mind. Sorry. She had second thoughts after the brick was thrown.”
“I’m not surprised, poor woman! Let’s hope that’s an end to it now.”
“Come on,” Michael says, gathering up his papers and stuffing them into his briefcase. “Let’s try and get some sleep.”
* * *
—
IN THE MORNING, I feel awful. It’s a good thing it’s my day off and that Dave point-blank refused my offer to go in and make up for Tuesday. But there are tons of things I need to do today. I’ve got to pick up some things for Mom, who’s still under the weather, and I want to get a card and a thank-you present for Kay. And then I need to catch up on some laundry and ironing and change the sheets. All I really want to do is go back to bed and sleep for a week.
“Tell you what,” Michael says. “You go have a nice bath while I take Alfie to school.”
I give him a hug. “I knew there was a reason I let you move in.”
“What, apart from the great sex and my superior cooking skills?”
“Hmm, that might have had something to do with it. How do you feel about coming to Mom’s with me later?”
He laughs. “Now you’re pushing your luck.”
“Sol will be pleased to see you,” I say. “I thought we could take him out for a walk.”
He kisses me on the nose, then the forehead, and, finally, the mouth. He tastes of toothpaste.
“Maybe your mom’ll be pleased to see me, too,” he says.
“Now who’s pushing their luck?”
* * *
—
MOM’S WATCHING HOUSE Hunters when we arrive with her groceries. She’s all bundled up in sweaters and wearing a woolen hat.
“The heat’s not working,” she says, taking the bag from Michael. “None of the radiators are getting hot enough.”
Michael touches the one in the hall. “They probably just need bleeding.”
“Yes, I realize that,” she says. “Except I can’t find the little key.”
I follow her into the kitchen while Michael makes a fuss over Sol in the front room.
“Do you have to be quite so terse with him?” I say when we’re out of earshot. “I thought, after our conversation the other day, you’d start cutting him some slack.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know I was being terse,” she says. Tersely.
Michael appears in the doorway. “I could do it with a screwdriver if you’ve got one,” he says.
Mom looks at him in surprise. “Oh, I didn’t think of that.”
She rummages in a drawer. “What one would be best?”
Michael selects one and goes back into the hall. Then he comes back for a dishcloth. “Don’t want dirty water dripping on your carpet, do we?”
I help Mom put her groceries away, while Michael goes around the house on bleeding duty. We hear him singing while he works.
“Thank you for doing that,” she says, stiffly, when he comes back.
Michael doffs an imaginary cap. “Always at your service, Mrs. C.,” he says, and Mom almost smiles at him. At least she’s trying.
Just before we leave she calls out from the living room: “Michael, I don’t suppose you’d ever consider joining the Flinstead church choir, would you?”
He widens his eyes at me in horror and it’s all I can do not to burst out laughing.
“I couldn’t help noticing you’re a rather good baritone and we only have three men and one of them can’t even sing.”
Michael winks at me. “Not sure a church choir’s really my thing, Mrs. C. But I’ll give it some thought.”
By the time we get to the end of the driveway, Sol plodding ahead of us on his leash, we can’t hold the laughter in anymore.
“It’s progress, though, you have to admit.”
“Hmm,” Michael says. “That kind of progress, I can do without, thank you very much.”
38
KAY ANSWERS HER DOOR AFTER the second ring of the doorbell. She looks slightly flustered, but she quickly recovers.
“Hello, dear,” she says. “Sorry about that, I was just saying good night to Marcus and Callie on Skype. It’s nine o’clock at night where they live.”
“I hope I didn’t interrupt you.”
“Not at all. We’ve been chatting for ages and those kids need to get to bed. Gillian lets them stay up far too late, in my opinion. Come in and have a cup of tea with me. I’ve got some delicious carrot cake that needs eating.”
“That’s very kind of you, Kay, but I really just wanted to bring you this.”
She takes the gift bag and peers inside. “Chocolates. How lovely. You shouldn’t have,” she says, wagging her finger at me, but I can tell she’s pleased.
“Sorry I missed you when you stopped in to Pegton’s. I’ve been meaning to thank you properly ever since the party. Alfie looked amazing as Darth Vader.”
“It was my pleasure, sweetheart. Now, are you sure you won’t have some tea?”
I’m not really in the mood for one of Kay’s watery teas, but she’s already standing aside for me to go in and I don’t like to say no. Not after she’s been so kind.
“Okay, then. But I can’t stay long.”
Kay’s living room looks exactly as it did the last time I was here. Every surface gleams. It smells the same, too—lemon-scented furniture polish.
I’m watching the tropical fish when she returns a few minutes later with a tray. “Here, you slice the cake, and I’ll bring the teapot in.”
As I’m pushing the knife through the icing on top of the carrot cake, I catch sight of my reflection in the screen of Kay’s laptop, which she’s left open on the coffee table. It’s a really old model, but then I don’t suppose she can afford to buy a new one. Not if she’s struggling to find another job.
My hair’s sticking up at a weird angle and I rake my fingers through it. Then I notice something odd. There’s no built-in webcam in this laptop, yet she just said she was finishing a Skype call with her grandchildren. I look around to see if there’s a portable one she might have unplugged just now, but I can’t see one anywhere.
How odd. Perhaps she just uses Skype as a free telephone, without the video function.
Kay comes back in with another tray. “It’s such a joy, seeing their little faces,” she says. “Marcus has just learned his three times table. He’s so smart for his age. And Callie can count to twenty. Well, almost.”
“Do you have one of those portable webcams?”
A strange expression flickers over her eyes. Her neck reddens. She lifts the lid of the teapot and gives it a stir.
“Yes, that’s right, dear.” She smiles. “All high technology here, you know.”
A pulse pounds in the side of her neck. She’s lying. There’s no portable webcam. She can’t possibly have been Skyping Marcus and Callie just now. And didn’t she tell me a while back that they live in Melbourne? I’m no expert on time zones, but I’m pretty sure it’s the middle of the night over there.
Why would she lie about something like that?
“Guess what?” she says. “I’ve found a job. In the garden center in Mistden. I’m starting next week.”
Why do I get the feeling she’s deliberately changing the subject?
“That’s great. Well done.”
She pours the tea. I notice her hand is trembling.
“Are you all right, Kay?”
“I’m fine, honey,” she says, but she isn’t. I can tell.
“I saw Alfie’s dad this morning,” she says brightly. Too brightly. “He’s very handsome, isn’t he? He looks like that British actor everyone says should be James Bond.”
“Idris Elba?” I laugh. “I’m not going to tell him that. It’ll make him even more bigheaded than he already is.”
“What does he do for a living?” she says.
“He’s a freelance journalist.”
Kay puts her cup down. It rattles against the saucer. “Is he staying with you at the moment, then?”
“Yes. Actually, he’s moved in.”
“I thought you said you liked living apart.” She sounds almost annoyed, as if I’ve let her down in some way.
“We did. But, well, things have changed. He wants us to give it a real shot.”
“That’s fantastic, honey.” She smiles, but it doesn’t quite work. There’s a strange look in her eyes, as if she’s someplace else in her head. That same masklike expression I saw on her face yesterday, when she was staring across the road at the police car.
“Yes, yes, it is.” I take a few bites of my carrot cake and realize I haven’t eaten any breakfast. No wonder I’m so hungry.
“More tea, dear?”
“No, I need to get going. Lots to do today.”
“Of course. Me too.”
As I reach the end of her path, the mailman is just about to turn in and deliver her mail. He looks in a bit of a hurry so I offer to take the letters from him and go back to hand them to Kay, but she’s already gone inside and shut her front door. That’s odd. Before, she’s stood on the step and waved goodbye.
I push the letters through her mail slot and can’t help noticing that they’re all marked RETURN TO SENDER and that the addresses have been slashed through with a thick black line. They are all the same. An address in Melbourne, Australia.
39
WHEN I GET HOME, EXPECTING to see Michael where I left him, hunched over the dining room table surrounded by his papers, the house is empty and the table has been cleared. There’s a note propped against the kettle in his large, confident handwriting.
Something’s come up. Got to go back to the city. Will call you. Michael xx
I read it again, as if it might somehow have changed from these three curt sentences into a message that tells me something useful. Like what exactly has “come up” and why has he had to go back to the city and for how long? Surely he could have given me a little more information. Like when he’s planning on coming back. Will it be later today? Tonight? Tomorrow? I don’t need every detail of his itinerary, but does he have to be so infuriatingly cryptic?
I dial his cellphone but it goes straight to voicemail. Of course it does. He’ll be driving. I don’t leave a message. I’m sure he’ll text me when he arrives, although why didn’t he call before he left? He knows I always have my phone on me. What was the great rush? Surely a couple of minutes wouldn’t have made much difference.
I wander into the living room and flop down on the sofa. He’s left his sweatshirt screwed up on the back of the armchair and a dirty mug and plate on the coffee table. There are toast crumbs on the rug, where he’s been eating in front of the TV. Not a lot of crumbs, admittedly, but enough to piss me off.
The trouble is, I’ve spent so many years living on my own that I’m not used to sharing my space with a man. I’ve got Alfie, of course, but that’s different. Alfie’s a child. I’m being unreasonable, I know I am. It’s been wonderful having Michael here all the time. Cuddling up to him in bed. Going for walks with Sol. And that curry last night was delicious. I just wish he’d spoken to me before leaving.
Two hours later and he still hasn’t been in touch. I’ve tried calling him at least seven times and sent him I don’t know how many text messages. Earlier today I heard him promise Alfie he’d pick him up from school, but there’s no way he’ll be back in time. What am I going to tell Alfie when he asks where his dad is, or if he’ll be home for dinner? Is this what it’s going to be like from now on? Michael getting so engrossed in his work, he forgets about everything else, Alfie and me included?
Maybe he thinks he can just carry on like he always has, answerable to no one but himself, squeezing Alfie and me into whatever time he has left on the margins of his real world. The world that matters to him most: his work. The irony is that he really does have another woman on his mind now: Sally McGowan.
The phone rings. This had better be him.
“Hi, hon. I thought it was time for one of our heart-to-hearts. I’m in Panera in between showings.”
Tash’s voice is like a blast of normality. A welcome respite from the worries churning in my head.
“Which one?”
“Church Street.”
I can just picture her sitting on one of the brown leather chairs with a large latte and a blueberry muffin, watching the hustle and bustle pass by the window, and I wish, more than anything, that I was there, too, enjoying a break in the middle of the day, complaining about work and planning our next night out.
“How’s life in Pleasantville?” she says.
“Not so pleasant. Although Michael’s moved in with me, so it’s not all bad.”
“Whaaat? When? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it only just happened. Except now he’s gone off to the city and hasn’t told me when he’s coming back.”
“Whoa. Back up a bit. Tell me everything.”
So I try to summarize what’s been going on in the last few weeks, rumor and all (although I don’t mention the Liz thing, just in case it really is her), right up to finding Michael’s note.
“Wow!” Tash says. “And here I was thinking the most exciting thing to happen in Flinstead was your mother’s neighbor winning Biggest Zucchini at last year’s state fair.”
“Very funny.”
“Seriously, though, let’s tackle the easiest issue first. If Michael says he’ll call you, then he will. Men are hopeless when it comes to sharing their plans. Tommo’s exactly the same. It’s like getting blood out of a stone sometimes. To be honest, hon, it’s going to take you both time to adjust. I mean, I know you’ve known each other for ages, but this is different. You’re living together now. It’s more like a brand-new relationship in that respect.”
“Well, that’s just it,” I say. “For me, that’s exactly what it feels like. But what if he’s just taking it for granted that I’ll be here with Alfie, picking up the pieces? Because that’s how it’s always been.”
“So it’s up to you to set some new ground rules. Talk to him, Jo. Men aren’t like us. They don’t pick up on things, and if they do, nine times out of ten they pick the wrong thing. You have to spell it out for them.” She laughs. “Preferably in words of one syllable. And if you’ve got one of those neon lights, make damn sure you flash it a few times to ram the point home.”
Good old Tash. She always manages to say the right thing. Michael’s obviously just tied up in something. He will phone me eventually, and then we’ll talk. And if we can’t talk then, if he’s chasing another one of his leads or doing whatever it is freelance journalists have to do these days to keep their heads above water, we’ll make a time to talk soon. I’m overreacting. Dashing off at a minute’s notice is all part of his job. I should know that by now.
“As for this other business,” Tash says, “I don’t know what to think. If sending ominous tweets threatening a child is someone’s idea of a Halloween prank, they sound like a really nasty piece of work. Maybe your friend Kay’s right and it’s the woman from the babysitting circle. What’s her name?”
