I don’t know how long I stay there in his arms, but when I come back to myself, my phone is ringing. I don’t answer it, but a moment later it beeps to alert me that there’s a text. It’s from Scott. Where are you? And seconds after that, the phone starts ringing again. This time it’s Tara. Disentangling myself from Kamal’s embrace, I answer.
‘Megan, I don’t know what you’re up to, but you need to call Scott. He’s rung here four times. I told him you’d nipped out to the offie to get some wine, but I don’t think he believed me. He says you’re not picking up your phone.’ She sounds pissed off, and I know I should appease her, but I don’t have the energy.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Thanks. I’ll ring him now.’
‘Megan—’ she says, but I end the call before I can hear another word.
It’s after ten. I’ve been here for more than two hours. I turn off my phone and turn to face Kamal.
‘I don’t want to go home,’ I say.
He nods, but he doesn’t invite me to stay. Instead he says, ‘You can come back, if you like. Another time.’
I step forward, closing the gap between our bodies, stand on tiptoe and kiss his lips. He doesn’t pull away from me.
RACHEL
Saturday, 3 August 2013
Morning
I DREAMED LAST night that I was in the woods, walking by myself. It was dusk, or dawn, I’m not quite sure, but there was someone else there with me. I couldn’t see them, I just knew they were there, gaining on me. I didn’t want to be seen, I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t, my limbs were too heavy, and when I tried to cry out I made no sound at all.
When I wake, white light slips through the slats on the blind. The rain is finally gone, its work done. The room is warm; it smells terrible, rank and sour – I’ve barely left it since Thursday. Outside, I can hear the vacuum purr and whine. Cathy is cleaning. She’ll be going out later; when she does I can venture out. I’m not sure what I will do, I can’t seem to right myself. One more day of drinking, perhaps, and then I’ll get myself straight tomorrow.
My phone buzzes briefly, telling me its battery is dying. I pick it up to plug it into the charger and I notice that I have two missed calls from last night. I dial into voicemail. I have one message.
‘Rachel, hi. It’s Mum. Listen, I’m coming down to London tomorrow. Saturday. I’ve got a spot of shopping to do. Could we meet up for a coffee or something? Darling, it’s not a good time for you to come and stay now. There’s … well, I’ve got a new friend, and you know how it is in the early stages.’ She titters. ‘Anyway, I’m very happy to give you a loan to tide you over for a couple of weeks. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. OK, darling. Bye.’
I’m going to have to be straight with her, tell her exactly how bad things are. That is not a conversation I want to have stone-cold sober. I haul myself out of bed: I can go down to the shops now and just have a couple of glasses before I go out. Take the edge off. I look at my phone again, check the missed calls. Only one is from my mother – the other is from Scott. At quarter to one in the morning. I sit there, with the phone in my hand, debating whether to call him back. Not now, too early. Perhaps later? After one glass, though, not two.
I plug the phone in to charge, pull the blind up and open the window, then go to the bathroom and run a cold shower. I scrub my skin and wash my hair and try to quieten the voice in my head which tells me it’s an odd thing to do, less than forty-eight hours after your wife’s body has been discovered, to ring another woman in the middle of the night.
Evening
The earth is still drying out, but the sun is almost breaking through thick white cloud. I bought myself one of those little bottles of wine – just one. I shouldn’t, but lunch with my mother would test the willpower of a lifelong teetotaller. Still, she’s promised to transfer £300 into my bank account, so it wasn’t a complete waste of time.
I didn’t admit how bad things were. I didn’t tell her I’ve been out of work for months, or that I was fired (she thinks her money is tiding me over until my redundancy payment arrives). I didn’t tell her how bad things had got on the drinking front, and she didn’t notice. Cathy did. When I saw her on my way out this morning, she gave me a look and said, ‘Oh for God’s sake. Already?’ I have no idea how she does that, but she always knows. Even if I’ve only had half a glass, she takes one look at me and she knows.
‘I can tell from your eyes,’ she says, but when I check myself in the mirror I look exactly the same. Her patience is running out, her sympathy too. I have to stop. Only not today. I can’t today. It’s too hard today.
I should have been prepared for it, should have expected it, but somehow I didn’t. I got on to the train and she was everywhere, her face beaming from every newspaper: beautiful, blonde, happy Megan, looking right into the camera, right at me.
Someone has left behind their copy of The Times, so I read their report. The formal identification came last night, the post-mortem is today. A police spokesman is quoted saying that ‘Mrs Hipwell’s cause of death may be difficult to establish because her body has been outside for some time, and has been submerged for several days, at least.’ It’s horrible to think about, with her picture right in front of me. What she looked like then, what she looks like now.
There’s a brief mention of Kamal, his arrest and release, and a statement from DI Gaskill, saying that they are ‘pursuing a number of leads’, which I imagine means they are clueless. I close the newspaper and put it on the floor at my feet. I can’t bear to look at her any longer. I don’t want to read those hopeless, empty words.
I lean my head against the window. Soon we’ll pass number twenty-three. I glance over, just for a moment, but we’re too far away on this side of the track to really see anything. I keep thinking about the day I saw Kamal, about the way he kissed her, about how angry I was and how I wanted to confront her. What would have happened if I had done? What would have happened if I’d gone round then, banged on the door and asked her what the hell she thought she was up to? Would she still be out there, on her terrace?
I close my eyes. At Northcote, someone gets on and sits down in the seat next to me. I don’t open my eyes to look, but it strikes me as odd, because the train is half empty. The hairs are standing up on the back of my neck. I can smell aftershave under cigarette smoke and I know that I’ve smelled that scent before.