In Too Deep (14 page)

She hands me a white towelling robe off a stack of fresh laundry. I slip into it gratefully, starting to feel a little better now that the water is percolating through me, cooling my blood. Susan gathers up all my belongings.

‘I feel like a prize idiot,’ I say, following her out.

‘Nonsense. The main thing is that you’re OK.’ She leads me back through the pool area, stopping to talk to the older couple as we pass.

I glance over at the sauna, silently vowing never to go
in one again. But then I do a double take, frowning and refocusing to make certain I’m not seeing things. Lying on the floor right outside the sauna is a small wooden wedge. Just about the right size to have jammed up the door.

‘You look a bit hot, Mum,’ Hannah says with a chuckle when I go back into our room.

‘Thanks,’ I say, mulling over what Susan just said to me on the landing. Hannah finds it in herself to laugh – something we don’t do nearly often enough. ‘I got stuck in the sauna,’ I tell her, rolling my eyes.

‘God, are you OK?’ She comes over to me, concerned, putting her hands on my shoulders. A simple act, but nevertheless it starts me off. I rest my head against her, trying to stop the tears. ‘Oh Mum, it’s OK. You’re safe now.’

I nod through my sniffs. ‘I feel so stupid,’ I say. ‘Susan found me. I’d passed out. If she hadn’t come, I don’t know what would have happened.’ I know that Hannah is thinking the same as me – that if I’d died, she would be the only one left. An orphan. Mother, father, brother – all gone.

‘You don’t need to feel stupid. It’s not your fault.’

I pause, not knowing who to blame. Did I really get stuck? Or did someone lock me in? For all I know, that
wedge could have been to prop open another door and nothing to do with the sauna.

‘You’re right,’ I say, pulling a tissue from the box on the dressing table. ‘Susan feels really bad about it. So much so, she’s just invited us up to her private flat for supper tonight to make up for it. How nice is that?’

Hannah mulls this over. She flicks the kettle switch and drops two teabags into mugs.

‘She also felt guilty about spoiling Dad’s surprise last week,’ I say. ‘She said she wanted to make it up for that, too.’ What Susan doesn’t realise is that she did me a favour. I wouldn’t have known about Rick’s booking otherwise.

‘Yeah, that’s a nice thing to do, I guess,’ Hannah says, opening two little milk containers.

‘But before that, we should get out and do something,’ I say, trying to sound positive. I’m determined not to waste the rest of the day. ‘We’ll head for Stow-on-the-Wold, if you like. There are some lovely shops there, and we can get lunch.’

‘Sure,’ Hannah says, going back to her iPad. Cooper grumbles and rolls over on the floor.

Half an hour and a cup of tea later, and I’m feeling more myself, so I take a shower and get dressed, deciding on a sweater and jeans, given that the weather hasn’t improved much. Then I remember my watch. I can’t immediately recall what I did with it. After I’ve checked through all my pockets, my handbag and a couple of drawers, it takes another few moments for my foggy brain to realise that it must still be in the changing-room locker.

Hannah helps me scour the corridors as we retrace my steps back to the pool area. There’s no sign of it anywhere, and the locker I used is empty. As we head back out of the pool area to report it missing, I steal a look at the sauna, noticing that the wooden wedge has gone from the floor.

Stow-on-the-Wold is everything I imagined it to be, even in the drizzle. Somehow the rain makes the gingerbread-like buildings seem even more cosy, even more inviting and warm. The weathered stone, the glowing lights within the ancient mullioned windows, the pretty painted shopfronts in muted colours of grey, green and blue are all slicked with mild spring rain as we dash from the car park to the first shop – a little boutique perfect for choosing a small gift for the receptionist at work. She’s not long had a baby.

‘How about this?’ I say to Hannah, holding up a soft pink velour bear with a giant fabric lollipop. The lollipop has tiny beads inside that make a gentle rattling sound.

Hannah turns away, hardly looking at it. She brushes a clump of wet hair off her forehead.

‘Or maybe this? It’s a bit more useful.’ I show her a little outfit – a fleece babygro with hand-stitched embroidery.

‘Sure, if you think Tina wants her kid to look like a beetle.’ Again, Hannah turns away.

‘It’s a ladybird, not a beetle,’ I reply, hanging the garment back on the rail. ‘You’re not much help.’

In the end, I buy a gift basket of herbal baby products, which includes some for Tina. It seems like a safe option, and also one that doesn’t seem to disgust Hannah quite so much.

‘What’s with the surly attitude?’ I ask as we walk down the street. Thankfully the rain has stopped. The air smells flowery, but is also heavy with the earthy scent of wet stone.

Hannah doesn’t reply, though once we’ve left the shop her mood improves slightly. She even buys herself a pair of pink spotty headphones from a novelty gift shop, and helps me choose a new teapot from the pottery. I’ve been meaning to get one for ages after the special one my grandmother gave me years ago got broken.

I discovered it at the bottom of the rubbish bin, only realising it was there after I cut my hand on a shard of pottery when I was stuffing the bag into the dustbin. Rick apologised when I mentioned it, said that he’d knocked it off the table by accident. He promised to buy me a new one, though he never got round to it.

As I carry the new teapot back to the car, placing it carefully on the back seat, I imagine pouring Rick a cup of tea from it when he comes home. But then I recall how I stood alone in the kitchen later that same night, my bandaged hand clutched to my chest, wondering whether to ask Rick about the tea stains splattered halfway up the kitchen wall.

‘Let’s not be late,’ I say as Hannah goes into the bathroom to switch back to the clothes she had on originally. It’s
the third time she’s changed. ‘That dress looked lovely. Why did you take it off?’ I glance at my wrist, but of course my watch isn’t there. The bedside clock says it’s just gone seven thirty.

Hannah emerges again, scowling. ‘I look dumpy,’ she says, hidden away in her tunic and leggings once more.

‘We’re only going upstairs. You look fine in that.’

Hannah fluffs up her hair in the mirror and rubs under her eyes with a wet finger. She scowls. Not long ago, she’d have taken an hour or more to get ready for anything, even just a trip to the shops. But lately she’s not bothered as much. I can’t say I blame her.

‘We won’t be long,’ I tell Cooper, knowing he understands. He had a good run around the hotel grounds earlier, following his rather lazy walk around the town. He thumps his tail, happily exhausted, as we leave.

We head up the flight of stairs marked
Private
, passing the old couple I saw at the pool. They nod at me and give me a half-pitiful, half-puzzled look as I unhook the rope barrier across the stairs. I smile back, wondering why they didn’t hear me when I yelled from the sauna.

Stop being paranoid . . . Why would a sweet old couple want to harm you?

‘Mum,’ Hannah says, just before I knock on the old oak door at the top of the stairs. ‘Does Susan know everything about . . . ?’

‘No, love. No, she doesn’t.’ I touch her arm. ‘Let’s play it by ear, shall we?’

Hannah gives a little nod of agreement. I don’t make
a habit of broadcasting our situation, but occasionally there are circumstances where it’s awkward not to mention that my husband is missing.

‘How are you feeling now?’ Susan asks amiably, handing me a glass of Prosecco almost as soon as we step inside. Her head is tilted slightly. ‘I felt so awful that you thought the door had jammed.’

I open my mouth, about to tell her that I didn’t
think
the door jammed, rather I was
certain
of it. But then I remember how hot and dizzy I felt, all the stress I’ve been under, and what she’ll think of me if I have to reveal why, so I decide to keep quiet. All things considered, she’s probably right: I was mistaken. For some reason it matters to me what she believes. I don’t want her to think I’m a fool.

‘You must have been petrified, you poor thing. I had my handyman take a look at the sauna this afternoon and he couldn’t find anything wrong.’

‘No, really, forget about it. It was my fault entirely.’ I feel the colour pool in my cheeks as Susan sips her drink, staring at me.

‘I’ve only ever had one other lady pass out in there,’ she goes on. ‘And she was pregnant, although she didn’t know it at the time.’ She glances between Hannah and me. ‘Now, where’s that handsome dog of yours?’ she asks. ‘And how’s your room? Is everything comfortable?’

‘Cooper’s sleeping off his run,’ I say, thankful for the subject change. ‘And the room is superb. I slept like a baby,’ I add, even though I didn’t. But it’s no fault of the
room. The only thing that would keep me knocked out all night these days is a general anaesthetic.
Or a bottle of wine
, I think just as Susan tops up my glass. She’s barely touched hers.

‘Come through,’ she says, leading us across the creaky floorboards. I duck my head as we go through the beamy doorway into her spacious living room. There are three paned windows along one wall, giving a panoramic view of the gardens and the countryside beyond.

‘How lovely,’ I say, looking out. ‘Is Stow over that way?’

She confirms it is, and I go on to tell her about our shopping trip, about the baby shop and the local honey and jam I bought at the deli, and I describe the pottery shop and the teapot I found to replace my broken one. I tell her how we got soaked, and about my terrible sense of direction and how we got lost on the way back.

Susan seems fascinated, almost too fascinated, and I can’t tell if she’s just being polite or if the minutiae of my day really is as riveting as her expression suggests.

‘I’m so pleased you had a better afternoon than you had morning,’ she says. ‘And I know the pottery shop you mean. A friend of mine runs it. She’s very clever. In fact, I need to get a few things from her myself. I buy the hotel crockery from trade suppliers, but I love to have something a bit different for up here. It’s good to support local artists.’ She taps the side of the wine glass. ‘These were hand-blown by a man two villages away.’

‘They’re lovely,’ I say, feeling the Prosecco taking its
first hold of my thoughts – the start of that beautiful place between sobriety and oblivion. It never lasts long enough.

‘Though Phil is so clumsy, it’s a wonder I have any left.’ Susan laughs, shaking her head.

I take a long, slow breath, a technique Paula taught me. As I let it out steadily, I notice Hannah crossing and uncrossing her legs, folding her arms, and the tightening of her expression as she turns away from the conversation. I try not to show my discomfort, but hearing about other people’s families is still so hard. The urge to tell Susan that she’s lucky to have him around to actually break things is strong.

‘My husband, Rick, is clumsy too,’ I say quietly.

For some reason I’m reminded of the first newspaper headline, and the way Susan’s looking at me, it almost feels as if I have it written across my face.

Five Days Missing: Wife Fears for Husband’s Safety
.

It was only a small piece in the local paper, along with a photograph that Rick had sent to me when he was on his last work trip.
I miss you xx
was the accompanying text message. He’d only gone away for four days. Now, it’s as many months.

It was the most recent shot I had, so I gave it to the police. His face filled the image clearly, his dark eyes looking out at me, imploring me, when I saw it in the paper.

‘Here,’ Susan says, offering around some canapés. ‘I made them myself.’ She holds out a couple of plates. One has little lopsided vol-au-vents, irregular in size and brimming with something creamy-looking, while the other one
is loaded with bite-sized tomato, olive and basil bruschetta.

‘Crab with a hint of chilli,’ she says as I take a pastry.

I finally feel myself relaxing, sinking back into the huge floral sofa that looks as though it’s seen hundreds of kids and dogs on it over the years, as well as plenty of family gatherings and cosy nights in for her and Phil, though I try not to think about that.

‘So you mentioned your husband is busy with work?’ Susan says, unwittingly tensing me up all over again. ‘Such a shame over your anniversary.’

It’s like a brick to the face, but thankfully Hannah is there again to catch me.

‘Yeah, Dad reckoned he was really going to get it in the neck when he told Mum,’ she says with a laugh. ‘But he couldn’t turn the job down. I convinced him that Mum would understand, as she always does.’ Hannah gives me a loving smile. I want to hug her.

‘Of course, you had a vested interest in your dad
not
coming,’ Susan says with a wink. She sweeps her hair back off her face, exposing her jaw, her white teeth, her big smile.

Hannah laughs. I can tell it’s forced. ‘Yeah, ’spose I did. I’ll show Dad some photos when he’s . . . when he’s back.’

‘Where’s he gone?’ Susan asks, looking between each of us. It’s almost more than I’m able to stand.

‘Ireland,’ Hannah chips in. ‘He makes promotional videos for tourist boards and holiday companies, that
kind of thing. They’re usually only short, a couple of minutes, but it takes him for ever to do them.’

‘How very interesting,’ Susan says. Her eyes narrow and her eyebrows pull together in an absorbed frown. She tops up my glass.

‘It helps keep the wolf from the door,’ I hear myself saying, though as Susan goes on to tell Hannah all about her son, offering us more canapés, I realise that it didn’t keep it away at all. I realise that the wolf came knocking. Twice.

I see her mouth moving, but I can’t take it in. Something about her son, about his course, how he’s away on a ski trip but the snow’s been bad this year. In my head I lash out a bitter retort, but outwardly I smile.

‘It’s strange having an empty nest,’ Susan says. ‘Though he wanted to study somewhere close to home, to be able to help out here when needed.’