The Rumor, page 7
13
WHENEVER THERE’S A BRIEF LULL at work the next day, my mind inevitably wanders to those pictures stuck on Sonia Martins’s shop. I make a point of updating the Pegton’s window promotions more often than I normally would, and each time I go outside to check what it looks like from the street I glance toward Stones and Crones. There’s no crowd gathered outside today, although Karen from book club and a woman I don’t recognize are peering through the window.
I go back to my desk. Sonia Martins must know what’s happened by now. How could she not? Unless the man from the hardware store decided not to show her the pictures. But if she doesn’t know yet, chances are she’ll find out soon enough. Flinstead is a small town. Something like that will get out. There’s only one strip of stores, after all.
I try to imagine what I would do in her position. I’d have opened up the shop and carried on as usual. The worst thing would be to stay closed and avoid people. They’d be more likely to think it was true if you did that. And it can’t be, can it? I mean, if Sonia Martins is Sally McGowan, would she really have chosen to open a store? All those customers trooping in and out every day, getting a close look at her. It would be far too dangerous.
“Jo,” Dave says. “Someone just waved at you from the window. You look like you’re a million miles away.”
I glance up to see Karen and the woman she’s with turning away, arms linked. It must be her mother. Mom said something about meeting her on the playground the other day. I walk toward the door and, as I do, the older woman looks back at me over her shoulder. I smile and raise my hand in a wave, but she doesn’t smile back. Maybe she can’t see me through the glass. Mom was right. She does look way too thin. Maybe she’s sick.
Just then, my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s probably Teri. I’m supposed to be babysitting for her and her husband, Mark, this evening. She said she’d call me in the morning to confirm times. But it isn’t Teri, it’s Michael, and he’s using his serious voice.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
My stomach tenses. Whenever he starts a sentence like that, I panic that he’s going to tell me he’s met someone else—maybe even the one. Much as I try to kid myself that I’ve got the best of both worlds, this continual worry that I might actually end up with nothing at all never goes away.
“Hold on a sec, the connection’s terrible.”
I take my phone out to the kitchenette at the back of the office, collecting Dave’s empty mug as I go. My throat tightens. Last weekend seemed different somehow. More special. Was it because he’s seeing someone else? Was it guilt that made him so loving?
“I’m thinking of doing a bit more research into the Sally McGowan case.”
I let out a soft, slow exhalation.
“I know it’s a long shot,” he says, “and it’ll probably come to nothing, but I’ve gotten a couple of really interesting leads from a new source, and I mean really interesting. If there’s any way I can track her down, I’d like to try and write a book about her, see if I can gain her trust and get her cooperation. Her identity would be protected, of course. I wouldn’t want to create a shitstorm by disclosing where she is, but if I could tell her story of what actually happened…I’ve sounded my agent out and he’s practically wetting his pants with excitement.
“The thing is…” He pauses. “I don’t want this rumor that’s going around to screw things up.”
I chew the inside of my lip. I haven’t heard Michael this excited about something for ages. How can I tell him the rumor’s just taken on a whole new dimension and that it’s probably all my fault?
“If my latest source is right,” he says, “and there’s a good chance he is, then Sally McGowan really is living in Flinstead. So if there’s any way you could put the word out that it’s all a load of garbage, you’d be doing me an enormous favor. A book like this could generate publicity. It could make us a lot of money, Joey.”
Us. There’s never been an us in relation to money. There’s only ever been his money and my money and what he pays toward Alfie’s care.
“That’s the other thing I wanted to ask you.” He hesitates, hearing my silence on the other end. “I hate not seeing you and Alfie all the time. I miss him. I miss you. What do you say about me moving in with you while I’m researching this book?” He laughs, almost nervously. “We could see what it’s like, living together like a real couple.” I hear him take a breath. “A real family, I mean. For Alfie.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Will you at least think it over?”
I try again to speak, but all I can manage is a small squeak.
“Look, I know you’re probably at work and can’t say much right now, Jo, but call me when you get home. Okay?”
How I manage to make two mugs of drinkable coffee and get through the rest of the day, I don’t know. It’s the first time he’s ever referred to us as a real couple, even in a jokey way. My heart does a stupid little flutter.
“Everything all right?” Dave says.
“Yeah, fine.”
“You just look a little off, if you don’t mind me saying. Why don’t you get yourself home? I’ll finish updating those listings.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Go on.”
“Thanks, Dave.”
Outside, the leaves are swirling on the sidewalk and there’s a misty vapor in the air that catches at the back of my throat. I know I should go straight home. Mom picked Alfie up from school today and she’s gone back to my place so she can stay with him while I babysit for Teri this evening. But she’s not expecting me for another half hour, and I need to get some air and clear my head. Think things through.
I walk toward Stones and Crones and the gray wall of sea at the bottom of the road. For a few seconds I allow myself to imagine this wall moving inexorably toward me, obliterating everything and everyone in its wake, like a scene from a disaster movie.
I blink to dispel the image and hurry on toward the shop. How’s Michael going to react if this business with Sonia Martins gets out of hand? And what if the allegation is true? He seems so adamant that Sally McGowan is here, and there is, it has to be said, an uncanny resemblance between her and Sonia. But if it is true, then surely she’d have left by now. Maybe she already has.
The thing is, even if she moved someplace else, her safety would still be compromised, because people will know what she looks like. Some hate-filled headcase will post a photo of her on Twitter and the whole thing will go viral.
But it isn’t her. I feel sure it isn’t.
The closer I get to Stones and Crones, the more I realize I’m pinning all my hopes on it being open as normal, catching a waft of fragrance as I pass the open door, seeing Sonia Martins in her usual position behind the counter, serving a customer while another browses peacefully among the scented candles.
As I get closer to the store, I see that the door is shut. My jaw clenches.
But there she is, huddled in a big woolly sweater behind the counter, arms crossed against her chest. I exhale in relief. The door is shut to keep out the cold, that’s all. And yet, as I pause in front of the window display, pretending to examine the artfully arranged statues and charms and books, I see the expression on her face. That blank, vacant stare into the void.
Someone has told her. She knows. She looks up, and our eyes meet. Now she’s looking right at me, as if she knows I’ve come to gawk. I hear Barbara’s voice in my head from yesterday—Joanna, isn’t this what you were talking about at book club?—and I feel sick. What if one of Sonia’s friends was in that crowd? What if they told her what they heard, described me to her?
Is that why she’s looking at me as if it’s all my fault?
It won’t stop with pictures on a store window. That much I know.
Rumors are like seeds, scattered on the wind. There’s no telling where they’ll land, but land they will. Settling in cracks and crevices, the roots take hold. The seeds sprout. It doesn’t matter if they’re true or false. The more times they’re spoken, the faster and stronger they grow. Like weeds, waving in the air.
Maybe I should break my silence, once and for all. Give myself up to the baying crowd. That’s what they want, the mob. It’s what they’ve always wanted. My suffering writ large for all the world to see.
It’s been happening more and more lately. A yearning for recognition. It’s the strangest of feelings—a yearning mixed with dread. For what if someone did see me? What if they looked into my eyes and knew it was me? What in heaven’s name would happen then?
What in hell’s?
14
WHAT WITH EVERYTHING SPINNING AROUND in my brain, I wanted to phone and cancel tonight’s sit, but in the end I couldn’t bring myself to let Teri down, and I don’t want to screw up with the babysitting circle before I’ve even started. Maybe a change of scene will help me clarify my thoughts, help me work out how to respond to Michael’s suggestion.
The Monktons live on what is arguably the nicest street in Flinstead—Waterfield Grove—and their house is a large villa that must be worth at least a million.
I thought Alfie’s bedroom was untidy, but Ruby Monkton’s is off the scale. Toys and clothes litter the floor like debris from a tide. I can barely see the carpet beneath. And yet the room itself has been exquisitely decorated, like something out of a fairy tale. One entire wall is a mural of unicorns cavorting in a magical garden, and she has a fancy daybed—swirling soft curves of white steel—with a lacy canopy over the top. It’s the sort of bedroom I dreamed of having as a child.
Hamish, who’s in Alfie’s class, has the room next to Ruby’s. It’s smaller, but no less messy, and has a pirate theme. He even has a bed in the shape of a boat. A beautifully crafted wooden boat that must have cost a fortune. I think of Alfie’s tiny little room with its tired off-white walls and old blue carpet, its cheap curtains from Walmart. I’ve tried to make it as nice as I can by hanging a few Star Wars posters on the wall and buying him a Star Wars comforter, and I’ve painted his pine chest of drawers white and let him cover it with stickers. But this…this is something else.
Michael’s words come back to me: A book like this could generate publicity. It could make us a lot of money. He’s always wanted to write a book, and he’s right: If he could pull this off and get Sally McGowan’s cooperation, the papers would be full of it. It could mean a whole new life for us all. We could sell his apartment and my cottage and buy a place together. A home for the three of us. It won’t be as upmarket as this place. I doubt we’ll ever be able to afford something like this, but even so, the more I think about us living together, the more appealing it becomes. And I can’t pretend I haven’t fantasized about it.
But is it really the right thing to do? What if the reason we’re so good with each other is precisely because we don’t live together? And how do I know for sure it’s what he really wants? What if he has the scent of a story and suddenly it’s more convenient for him to live here? If that’s the case, then what’s going to happen if his sources are wrong and McGowan isn’t here after all?
And even if she is here, and he gets to write this book, how long will it be before he gets fed up with country life and moves back downtown? Flinstead is the very last place he’d want to live. He jeers at it at every opportunity. He’s a city boy through and through. Always has been. Always will be.
And yet, if it was just about investigating the Sally McGowan case, he wouldn’t have to move all the way to Flinstead to do it, would he? We’re only an hour and change away from each other and he knows he’s welcome to stay whenever he likes. It might have sounded like an afterthought, the way he tacked it onto the end of the conversation, but I know Michael. That’s how he always broaches subjects he wants to talk about. As if he has to work his way up to it, approach it indirectly. Maybe this has been weighing on his mind for ages. Ever since I moved here. Maybe even before.
I’ve always loved him. Ever since that time at college, when some idiot set off a smoke bomb in the common room and I had a panic attack. I honestly think I might have died of a heart attack if he hadn’t been there. His calm voice talking me through it, him staying by my side the whole time, telling me I was safe. He understood what I was going through.
I told him everything that night. About the fire when I was a little girl, only a couple of years younger than Alfie is now. The smoke in my nostrils. The terror until the firefighters arrived to rescue us. Some men might have taken advantage of my vulnerability, but not Michael. There’d been a party and I’d been drinking all night. Far more than I’d ever drunk before. It was my very first semester and I was trying to keep up with everyone else. How stupid was that? Michael stayed with me for ages, and he didn’t try anything. Not once. He just rubbed my back and talked to me till I fell asleep.
When I woke up he’d gone, but there was a bucket by the side of my bed and a glass of water on my bedside table with a bottle of Advil next to it and a note.
Joanna the Brave and Beautiful. That’s all it said.
* * *
—
“ARE YOU GOING to put your toys away before getting into bed?” I ask Ruby and Hamish, before the three of us settle down on Ruby’s bed to read some stories.
The two of them exchange a secretive look. “No,” Ruby says. “They like being on the floor.”
“Lisa’s coming tomorrow,” Hamish says. “She usually tidies our toys.”
“Who’s Lisa?” I ask.
“Our housekeeper.”
“Oh.”
Later, when Ruby’s fallen asleep and Hamish is tucked up in his boat bed, listening to James and the Giant Peach, I tiptoe downstairs and put the kettle on in Teri’s gleaming white kitchen. I open the obscenely huge side-by-side fridge and reach in for the milk. Before he got into bed, Hamish showed me the Dracula cloak and vest he’s wearing to Liam’s Halloween party. It looked like something you’d pay a lot of money for in one of those costume stores.
“Mommy made it for me,” he said. “And Jake’s mommy’s making him a werewolf costume. What’s Alfie going as?”
Good question, Hamish. Good question. I smiled. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Last night, I had a look at various costume sites online. Some of them seemed reasonable enough in the photos, but I know they’ll look flimsy and cheap once they arrive and I open up the package.
It’s all right for Teri and Cathy. They’ve both got big houses and plenty of money, husbands who work in finance. Above all, they don’t have jobs, which means they’ve got time to do all those things good moms are supposed to do. Like baking cakes and organizing birthday parties and making fantastic outfits at the drop of a hat. Like choosing themes for their children’s bedrooms.
It’s not that I’m envious of their lives. I’m not. I’d hate it if Alfie refused to clean his bedroom because that’s what the housekeeper does. And it’s not about trying to compete. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’ve always been a disaster when it comes to making things. But still, if all the other boys are going to turn up in amazing costumes, Alfie will be the odd one out.
I carry my tea into the dining room extension with its massive skylights and sit down at the table. Alfie’s already having to contend with being the new boy and, apart from Ketifa, he’s the only non-white face in his class. The last thing he needs is something else to make him feel like an outsider.
I take a sip of tea and gaze up at the night sky. It must be romantic sitting here of an evening, under the stars. My mind drifts into a daydream: Michael is sitting opposite me and we’re drinking champagne, toasting the success of his book. This is our new house and Alfie is sleeping peacefully upstairs in his beautiful new bedroom.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and check it for messages. Michael’s sent me two since our phone call and I haven’t answered either of them yet. It’s about time I did.
I tap out a response. Okay. You’re on. Let’s give it a whirl! Xxxxx
I press SEND before I mean to. Fuck! Let’s give it a whirl! Why the hell did I say that? It sounds so silly. So glib.
He replies at once. I love you, Joey. Lots to talk about. I’ll come tomorrow. M xxxx
I love you, Joey. He’s actually said it, after all these years. Well, texted it. I get up and pace around the room, read his message again. And again for good measure. I float around the house in a dream. All those niggling worries about that horrible business with Sonia Martins are starting to ease off. I didn’t start that rumor, and lots of people have been talking about it, not just me. It’ll die down soon enough.
People will recognize those pictures for what they are: a malicious prank. This is Flinstead, after all. It’s a nice town. A real community. And people like Stones and Crones. It’s popular with locals and tourists alike. Nobody’s going to want to see another independent business close down.
But if it does all go south and Michael’s search for Sally McGowan goes cold because of it, well, so be it. He’ll have to find another book to write. Another story. Stories are everywhere. You just have to find them. Isn’t that what he told me once?
I sink into the Monktons’ gorgeous cream sofa. Teri’s left a couple of DVD box sets out, but I doubt I’ll be able to concentrate on much this evening and there’s nothing on TV. I pull out my phone again and press the Twitter app. I’ll see what’s trending, maybe check out the latest nonsense Trump’s been coming out with, or what people think of that new drama I watched the other night. Anything to while away the hours till Teri and Mark get back.
I’ve got six notifications. Most of them are just telling me who liked this and who retweeted that, but there are a couple of new followers, so I check out their profiles to see if they’re worth following back. One is a well-endowed spambot that I immediately block. The other is…
WHENEVER THERE’S A BRIEF LULL at work the next day, my mind inevitably wanders to those pictures stuck on Sonia Martins’s shop. I make a point of updating the Pegton’s window promotions more often than I normally would, and each time I go outside to check what it looks like from the street I glance toward Stones and Crones. There’s no crowd gathered outside today, although Karen from book club and a woman I don’t recognize are peering through the window.
I go back to my desk. Sonia Martins must know what’s happened by now. How could she not? Unless the man from the hardware store decided not to show her the pictures. But if she doesn’t know yet, chances are she’ll find out soon enough. Flinstead is a small town. Something like that will get out. There’s only one strip of stores, after all.
I try to imagine what I would do in her position. I’d have opened up the shop and carried on as usual. The worst thing would be to stay closed and avoid people. They’d be more likely to think it was true if you did that. And it can’t be, can it? I mean, if Sonia Martins is Sally McGowan, would she really have chosen to open a store? All those customers trooping in and out every day, getting a close look at her. It would be far too dangerous.
“Jo,” Dave says. “Someone just waved at you from the window. You look like you’re a million miles away.”
I glance up to see Karen and the woman she’s with turning away, arms linked. It must be her mother. Mom said something about meeting her on the playground the other day. I walk toward the door and, as I do, the older woman looks back at me over her shoulder. I smile and raise my hand in a wave, but she doesn’t smile back. Maybe she can’t see me through the glass. Mom was right. She does look way too thin. Maybe she’s sick.
Just then, my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s probably Teri. I’m supposed to be babysitting for her and her husband, Mark, this evening. She said she’d call me in the morning to confirm times. But it isn’t Teri, it’s Michael, and he’s using his serious voice.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
My stomach tenses. Whenever he starts a sentence like that, I panic that he’s going to tell me he’s met someone else—maybe even the one. Much as I try to kid myself that I’ve got the best of both worlds, this continual worry that I might actually end up with nothing at all never goes away.
“Hold on a sec, the connection’s terrible.”
I take my phone out to the kitchenette at the back of the office, collecting Dave’s empty mug as I go. My throat tightens. Last weekend seemed different somehow. More special. Was it because he’s seeing someone else? Was it guilt that made him so loving?
“I’m thinking of doing a bit more research into the Sally McGowan case.”
I let out a soft, slow exhalation.
“I know it’s a long shot,” he says, “and it’ll probably come to nothing, but I’ve gotten a couple of really interesting leads from a new source, and I mean really interesting. If there’s any way I can track her down, I’d like to try and write a book about her, see if I can gain her trust and get her cooperation. Her identity would be protected, of course. I wouldn’t want to create a shitstorm by disclosing where she is, but if I could tell her story of what actually happened…I’ve sounded my agent out and he’s practically wetting his pants with excitement.
“The thing is…” He pauses. “I don’t want this rumor that’s going around to screw things up.”
I chew the inside of my lip. I haven’t heard Michael this excited about something for ages. How can I tell him the rumor’s just taken on a whole new dimension and that it’s probably all my fault?
“If my latest source is right,” he says, “and there’s a good chance he is, then Sally McGowan really is living in Flinstead. So if there’s any way you could put the word out that it’s all a load of garbage, you’d be doing me an enormous favor. A book like this could generate publicity. It could make us a lot of money, Joey.”
Us. There’s never been an us in relation to money. There’s only ever been his money and my money and what he pays toward Alfie’s care.
“That’s the other thing I wanted to ask you.” He hesitates, hearing my silence on the other end. “I hate not seeing you and Alfie all the time. I miss him. I miss you. What do you say about me moving in with you while I’m researching this book?” He laughs, almost nervously. “We could see what it’s like, living together like a real couple.” I hear him take a breath. “A real family, I mean. For Alfie.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Will you at least think it over?”
I try again to speak, but all I can manage is a small squeak.
“Look, I know you’re probably at work and can’t say much right now, Jo, but call me when you get home. Okay?”
How I manage to make two mugs of drinkable coffee and get through the rest of the day, I don’t know. It’s the first time he’s ever referred to us as a real couple, even in a jokey way. My heart does a stupid little flutter.
“Everything all right?” Dave says.
“Yeah, fine.”
“You just look a little off, if you don’t mind me saying. Why don’t you get yourself home? I’ll finish updating those listings.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Go on.”
“Thanks, Dave.”
Outside, the leaves are swirling on the sidewalk and there’s a misty vapor in the air that catches at the back of my throat. I know I should go straight home. Mom picked Alfie up from school today and she’s gone back to my place so she can stay with him while I babysit for Teri this evening. But she’s not expecting me for another half hour, and I need to get some air and clear my head. Think things through.
I walk toward Stones and Crones and the gray wall of sea at the bottom of the road. For a few seconds I allow myself to imagine this wall moving inexorably toward me, obliterating everything and everyone in its wake, like a scene from a disaster movie.
I blink to dispel the image and hurry on toward the shop. How’s Michael going to react if this business with Sonia Martins gets out of hand? And what if the allegation is true? He seems so adamant that Sally McGowan is here, and there is, it has to be said, an uncanny resemblance between her and Sonia. But if it is true, then surely she’d have left by now. Maybe she already has.
The thing is, even if she moved someplace else, her safety would still be compromised, because people will know what she looks like. Some hate-filled headcase will post a photo of her on Twitter and the whole thing will go viral.
But it isn’t her. I feel sure it isn’t.
The closer I get to Stones and Crones, the more I realize I’m pinning all my hopes on it being open as normal, catching a waft of fragrance as I pass the open door, seeing Sonia Martins in her usual position behind the counter, serving a customer while another browses peacefully among the scented candles.
As I get closer to the store, I see that the door is shut. My jaw clenches.
But there she is, huddled in a big woolly sweater behind the counter, arms crossed against her chest. I exhale in relief. The door is shut to keep out the cold, that’s all. And yet, as I pause in front of the window display, pretending to examine the artfully arranged statues and charms and books, I see the expression on her face. That blank, vacant stare into the void.
Someone has told her. She knows. She looks up, and our eyes meet. Now she’s looking right at me, as if she knows I’ve come to gawk. I hear Barbara’s voice in my head from yesterday—Joanna, isn’t this what you were talking about at book club?—and I feel sick. What if one of Sonia’s friends was in that crowd? What if they told her what they heard, described me to her?
Is that why she’s looking at me as if it’s all my fault?
It won’t stop with pictures on a store window. That much I know.
Rumors are like seeds, scattered on the wind. There’s no telling where they’ll land, but land they will. Settling in cracks and crevices, the roots take hold. The seeds sprout. It doesn’t matter if they’re true or false. The more times they’re spoken, the faster and stronger they grow. Like weeds, waving in the air.
Maybe I should break my silence, once and for all. Give myself up to the baying crowd. That’s what they want, the mob. It’s what they’ve always wanted. My suffering writ large for all the world to see.
It’s been happening more and more lately. A yearning for recognition. It’s the strangest of feelings—a yearning mixed with dread. For what if someone did see me? What if they looked into my eyes and knew it was me? What in heaven’s name would happen then?
What in hell’s?
14
WHAT WITH EVERYTHING SPINNING AROUND in my brain, I wanted to phone and cancel tonight’s sit, but in the end I couldn’t bring myself to let Teri down, and I don’t want to screw up with the babysitting circle before I’ve even started. Maybe a change of scene will help me clarify my thoughts, help me work out how to respond to Michael’s suggestion.
The Monktons live on what is arguably the nicest street in Flinstead—Waterfield Grove—and their house is a large villa that must be worth at least a million.
I thought Alfie’s bedroom was untidy, but Ruby Monkton’s is off the scale. Toys and clothes litter the floor like debris from a tide. I can barely see the carpet beneath. And yet the room itself has been exquisitely decorated, like something out of a fairy tale. One entire wall is a mural of unicorns cavorting in a magical garden, and she has a fancy daybed—swirling soft curves of white steel—with a lacy canopy over the top. It’s the sort of bedroom I dreamed of having as a child.
Hamish, who’s in Alfie’s class, has the room next to Ruby’s. It’s smaller, but no less messy, and has a pirate theme. He even has a bed in the shape of a boat. A beautifully crafted wooden boat that must have cost a fortune. I think of Alfie’s tiny little room with its tired off-white walls and old blue carpet, its cheap curtains from Walmart. I’ve tried to make it as nice as I can by hanging a few Star Wars posters on the wall and buying him a Star Wars comforter, and I’ve painted his pine chest of drawers white and let him cover it with stickers. But this…this is something else.
Michael’s words come back to me: A book like this could generate publicity. It could make us a lot of money. He’s always wanted to write a book, and he’s right: If he could pull this off and get Sally McGowan’s cooperation, the papers would be full of it. It could mean a whole new life for us all. We could sell his apartment and my cottage and buy a place together. A home for the three of us. It won’t be as upmarket as this place. I doubt we’ll ever be able to afford something like this, but even so, the more I think about us living together, the more appealing it becomes. And I can’t pretend I haven’t fantasized about it.
But is it really the right thing to do? What if the reason we’re so good with each other is precisely because we don’t live together? And how do I know for sure it’s what he really wants? What if he has the scent of a story and suddenly it’s more convenient for him to live here? If that’s the case, then what’s going to happen if his sources are wrong and McGowan isn’t here after all?
And even if she is here, and he gets to write this book, how long will it be before he gets fed up with country life and moves back downtown? Flinstead is the very last place he’d want to live. He jeers at it at every opportunity. He’s a city boy through and through. Always has been. Always will be.
And yet, if it was just about investigating the Sally McGowan case, he wouldn’t have to move all the way to Flinstead to do it, would he? We’re only an hour and change away from each other and he knows he’s welcome to stay whenever he likes. It might have sounded like an afterthought, the way he tacked it onto the end of the conversation, but I know Michael. That’s how he always broaches subjects he wants to talk about. As if he has to work his way up to it, approach it indirectly. Maybe this has been weighing on his mind for ages. Ever since I moved here. Maybe even before.
I’ve always loved him. Ever since that time at college, when some idiot set off a smoke bomb in the common room and I had a panic attack. I honestly think I might have died of a heart attack if he hadn’t been there. His calm voice talking me through it, him staying by my side the whole time, telling me I was safe. He understood what I was going through.
I told him everything that night. About the fire when I was a little girl, only a couple of years younger than Alfie is now. The smoke in my nostrils. The terror until the firefighters arrived to rescue us. Some men might have taken advantage of my vulnerability, but not Michael. There’d been a party and I’d been drinking all night. Far more than I’d ever drunk before. It was my very first semester and I was trying to keep up with everyone else. How stupid was that? Michael stayed with me for ages, and he didn’t try anything. Not once. He just rubbed my back and talked to me till I fell asleep.
When I woke up he’d gone, but there was a bucket by the side of my bed and a glass of water on my bedside table with a bottle of Advil next to it and a note.
Joanna the Brave and Beautiful. That’s all it said.
* * *
—
“ARE YOU GOING to put your toys away before getting into bed?” I ask Ruby and Hamish, before the three of us settle down on Ruby’s bed to read some stories.
The two of them exchange a secretive look. “No,” Ruby says. “They like being on the floor.”
“Lisa’s coming tomorrow,” Hamish says. “She usually tidies our toys.”
“Who’s Lisa?” I ask.
“Our housekeeper.”
“Oh.”
Later, when Ruby’s fallen asleep and Hamish is tucked up in his boat bed, listening to James and the Giant Peach, I tiptoe downstairs and put the kettle on in Teri’s gleaming white kitchen. I open the obscenely huge side-by-side fridge and reach in for the milk. Before he got into bed, Hamish showed me the Dracula cloak and vest he’s wearing to Liam’s Halloween party. It looked like something you’d pay a lot of money for in one of those costume stores.
“Mommy made it for me,” he said. “And Jake’s mommy’s making him a werewolf costume. What’s Alfie going as?”
Good question, Hamish. Good question. I smiled. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Last night, I had a look at various costume sites online. Some of them seemed reasonable enough in the photos, but I know they’ll look flimsy and cheap once they arrive and I open up the package.
It’s all right for Teri and Cathy. They’ve both got big houses and plenty of money, husbands who work in finance. Above all, they don’t have jobs, which means they’ve got time to do all those things good moms are supposed to do. Like baking cakes and organizing birthday parties and making fantastic outfits at the drop of a hat. Like choosing themes for their children’s bedrooms.
It’s not that I’m envious of their lives. I’m not. I’d hate it if Alfie refused to clean his bedroom because that’s what the housekeeper does. And it’s not about trying to compete. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’ve always been a disaster when it comes to making things. But still, if all the other boys are going to turn up in amazing costumes, Alfie will be the odd one out.
I carry my tea into the dining room extension with its massive skylights and sit down at the table. Alfie’s already having to contend with being the new boy and, apart from Ketifa, he’s the only non-white face in his class. The last thing he needs is something else to make him feel like an outsider.
I take a sip of tea and gaze up at the night sky. It must be romantic sitting here of an evening, under the stars. My mind drifts into a daydream: Michael is sitting opposite me and we’re drinking champagne, toasting the success of his book. This is our new house and Alfie is sleeping peacefully upstairs in his beautiful new bedroom.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and check it for messages. Michael’s sent me two since our phone call and I haven’t answered either of them yet. It’s about time I did.
I tap out a response. Okay. You’re on. Let’s give it a whirl! Xxxxx
I press SEND before I mean to. Fuck! Let’s give it a whirl! Why the hell did I say that? It sounds so silly. So glib.
He replies at once. I love you, Joey. Lots to talk about. I’ll come tomorrow. M xxxx
I love you, Joey. He’s actually said it, after all these years. Well, texted it. I get up and pace around the room, read his message again. And again for good measure. I float around the house in a dream. All those niggling worries about that horrible business with Sonia Martins are starting to ease off. I didn’t start that rumor, and lots of people have been talking about it, not just me. It’ll die down soon enough.
People will recognize those pictures for what they are: a malicious prank. This is Flinstead, after all. It’s a nice town. A real community. And people like Stones and Crones. It’s popular with locals and tourists alike. Nobody’s going to want to see another independent business close down.
But if it does all go south and Michael’s search for Sally McGowan goes cold because of it, well, so be it. He’ll have to find another book to write. Another story. Stories are everywhere. You just have to find them. Isn’t that what he told me once?
I sink into the Monktons’ gorgeous cream sofa. Teri’s left a couple of DVD box sets out, but I doubt I’ll be able to concentrate on much this evening and there’s nothing on TV. I pull out my phone again and press the Twitter app. I’ll see what’s trending, maybe check out the latest nonsense Trump’s been coming out with, or what people think of that new drama I watched the other night. Anything to while away the hours till Teri and Mark get back.
I’ve got six notifications. Most of them are just telling me who liked this and who retweeted that, but there are a couple of new followers, so I check out their profiles to see if they’re worth following back. One is a well-endowed spambot that I immediately block. The other is…
