In Too Deep (2 page)

This unending spiral in which I’m caught – fixating on one thing then another, churning my thoughts round and round – somehow keeps me going. Eking out meaning from the void of what had begun as such a normal Saturday morning is the mainstay of my life.

And as far as I can see, it’s the backbone of my future.

I can’t think about anything else.

Still, it doesn’t prevent me from collapsing in tears several times a day. I’m just better at hiding it now. That Saturday was the second-worst day of my life.

‘Hannah?’ I call out when the phone hits the fourth ring. I always count. ‘Hannah, will you get that?’ My hands are covered in raw chicken.

There is no reply from my daughter. The phone keeps ringing. I am standing helpless, slimy palms upturned.

‘Hannah, please, answer the phone.’

My voice cracks over into a shriek, but still she doesn’t reply. We haven’t been home long; holdalls and bags of books are dumped in the hallway.

Seven rings. It’ll stop soon. No one rings past ten.

I swipe the tea towel from the back of the chair, wiping my hands as I dash into the hall. I step over a sack of laundry and reach for the phone just as it falls silent.

As I knew it would.

Ten.

Ten shots of hope.

Ten bursts of not knowing. It’s better that way, I tell myself, heading back to the kitchen, relieved I’m still feeling numb. I shall get on with an afternoon of cooking, tackling Hannah’s laundry (has she brought every student’s washing home?) and walking the dog. The evening will be filled with eating, catching up with my daughter, drinking and watching television. It’s a plan.

And I need simple plans to fill the void. A structure to keep me going in this new, unfamiliar and desolate life.

My once-busy household of four – the place that Rick and I scraped to afford, the shabby old house we fell in love with on first viewing – has always been crammed full of chatter, noise, dirty football kits, other people’s kids, someone being late, someone laughing, shouting, singing or needing nursing through chickenpox, the flu, a failed exam.

Now it is a dismal, grey waiting room. A space filled with too many empty wine bottles and microwave meals for one. No one actually wants to come here, even though they sometimes do. Mercy visits, I call them.

No one knows what to say, either, apart from the obvious.
How are you doing? Any news? How’s work?
Empty questions.

They observe and pity me, touching my shoulder, looking at me until my cheeks burn. Then they leave, thankful it hasn’t happened to them, as they step back into their proper lives.

The phone rings again.

I dash straight to it, answering it immediately. My heart drags between beats as I say a silent prayer.

Gina, darling. It’s me. I’ve missed you so much. May I come home?

‘Hello?’ I’m breathless.

‘Hello, is that Mrs Forrester speaking?’

‘Yes, yes, it is.’

She said
Mrs
as if she knew there was a Mr. As if she were already familiar with Rick. I don’t recognise her voice. It’s not PC Lane, and she doesn’t sound as though
she’s selling anything – no call-centre noises in the background or slick patter to win me over. My heart starts up again, thumping out a stronger pace. I lean against the wall.

‘Who’s calling, please?’

‘My name is Susan Fox from Fox Court Hotel in the Cotswolds. I’m calling about your five-night booking at the end of next week. I need to check if—’

‘Booking?’ My head swims from the let-down. It’s just a wrong number.

But she knows my name.

‘Yes, the booking made by Mr Forrester last November. He was going to let me know if you needed an animal-friendly room or not. He wasn’t sure if you’d be bringing your dog.’

Our dog
. . .

The sound of Rick’s name cuts a path to the core of my chest, yet hearing it feels as sweet as if she’s found him.

You’ll never guess what – he’s been staying with us all this time . . .

‘Mrs Forrester?’ The woman – Susan whatever-she’s-called – sounds slightly impatient, yet still pleasant. ‘Will you be bringing your dog?’

She knows I have a dog. Rick’s Lab, Cooper.

‘There’s been a mistake,’ I say quietly. ‘There is no booking.’ My mind is racing as the silence down the line fills eternity. ‘We didn’t make any hotel reservations.’

More silence.

‘Oh God, I’m such an
idiot
,’ she says after a pause,
sounding as if she has her hand over her mouth. ‘I think I’ve just done something really stupid.’ There’s a deep gasp followed by profuse apologies tumbling over one another.

 . . . I’ll make it up to you during your stay . . . complimentary dinner . . . champagne on arrival . . .

‘I’m sorry, I . . . I don’t know . . .’ I can’t take it in.

‘Perhaps it would help if I spoke to Mr Forrester directly?’ she suggests. ‘Before I do any more damage.’ She laughs nervously.

‘You can’t,’ I say. ‘He’s not here.’ I take a breath. It’s not the first time I’ve had to deal with situations like this. ‘And we won’t be needing the room.’ I think ahead to next week, the date I’ve been dreading. ‘But thank you for calling.’

‘Wait,’ she says. ‘In that case, I’d better come clean. Whether you decide to keep up the surprise or tell your husband is up to you.’

My shoulders draw up to my ears. My mouth is moving, trying to stop her, but nothing comes out.

‘Mr Forrester booked a surprise break in our hotel as an anniversary gift. He made the booking a little while ago to take advantage of our online offers, and—’

‘Like I said, we won’t be needing it. Please cancel the room.’

Another pause.

‘Just so you know, the room is all paid for, as well as several treatments in our spa. I’m afraid that because of the special internet rate, we can’t give a refund. I’m sure Mr Forrester will—’

‘Fine, thank you. I will speak to him and call you back.’
I reach for a pen and take down her number even though I have no intention of calling her back.

I hang up, sliding down to the floor, knees drawn up under my chin. I sob silently. There are no tears but plenty of self-pity. Hannah is in the house and I have to stay strong for her.

Cooper bounds on ahead, even though he shouldn’t be off his lead here. Besides, the vet told us his hips only have so many long walks left in them, that we should keep him to heel. But Rick always liked to give him a good run, figured it was better for him to have fun while he still could.

I wonder if that’s what Rick has done: escaped the shackles of family life to have fun while he still can.

It’s the first time I’ve dared to come down to the reservoir since last November. With Hannah back home for Easter and the phone call from the hotel, Rick somehow feels closer today. Almost as if he’s trying to get a message through. It goes like that – some days it’s as though he never even existed, while other days I’m convinced he’s watching over my shoulder, guiding me through a life he’s no longer a part of.

The last time Rick and I walked Cooper together was down here, all gloved and scarfed up, giggling like a pair of high school kids, discussing Christmas, who we should invite, me clinging on to him for warmth as we trudged the muddy path around the man-made expanse of water.

‘Can’t it just be the four of us this year?’ Rick said in all seriousness. It took a few moments until either of us
realised. We stopped, turned to face one another before falling into the obligatory embrace with my forehead resting on his chest. However hard we tried, however much counselling we attended or bereavement groups we joined, we would never get used to our son not being with us. Four years ago, our family became three.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Rick said, dropping a kiss on to my nose.

It wasn’t usually him who slipped up. That role was mostly filled by me, followed by an emotional meltdown that Rick would mop up. That’s how we worked – him plate-spinning, trying to hold together the remains of his family after tragedy had bitten us so hard that some days we could hardly get up. Dressing, eating, driving, going to work all now took ten times as much effort, as if we were wading through life with liquid lead flowing through our veins.

And now I can hardly believe that I’m going through it all again, bearing twice the loss. If I’m honest, I’m fuming mad with Rick for making me suffer a second time, for forcing me to face it alone.

Where . . . have . . . you . . . gone?

‘Cooper,’ I call out, following it with a shrill whistle.

He ignores me.

‘Hey, Coop, come here, boy!’ I pat my thighs. The Lab slows to a trot, craning his neck round. His black coat shines in the spring sunshine, and his doleful eyes stare at me. I swear he understands. Reluctantly he lifts his head and trots to my side.

‘Good boy,’ I say, ruffling his fur. ‘No more running.’ I
stroke his hips and clip the lead back into his collar. ‘Walk with me now.’

We set a brisk pace around Farmoor Reservoir. The last of the colourful Laser dinghies flap their way to the other side of the water as the amateur sailors head back to the clubhouse smelling of wetsuits and slightly stagnant water. Pints of beer and hot chips will carry them through tales of the afternoon’s racing, until they drift away back home to their families. I know this because once upon a time it was Rick.

Even though it’s March and the sun has shone today, the late afternoon brings a chill, so I pull up my collar and drag my beanie down over my ears, hoping that the exercise will bring me some peace tonight. Sleeping for more than three hours at a time is rare.

Halfway round the five-mile walk, I meet the sailing club secretary coming the other way. Molly, I think she’s called. She’s strolling with a couple of female friends, and stops when she sees me – but she carries on again, then stops again. She looks sheepishly at me, as if she doesn’t know what to say. I haven’t seen many of Rick’s friends since he disappeared.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Hasn’t it been a lovely day?’

Her face relaxes when she sees that I can still be normal. ‘Beautiful. Quite springlike.’

She’s about to walk on, but she hesitates, drawing a breath.

‘I’m really sorry about what happened. I read it in the paper. How are you doing?’ The two friends turn away.

‘Thank you,’ I say easily. I have that bit off pat. ‘I’m doing OK. You know.’ I squint into the setting sun, raising my hand to my brow. ‘The police are doing all they can.’

I’m about to walk on but she reaches out and touches my arm. The hand of pity. The hand that says:
Thank
God it wasn’t me
.

‘If there’s anything I can do, Jean, please let me know.’ She gives an honest smile and the three of them walk on again, resuming their conversation.

I haven’t got the heart to tell her my name is Gina.

I come in through the back door, rubbing Cooper down in the utility room with an old towel. He stands there resignedly, his flesh lolling beneath my hands. I always used to tell Rick off for feeding him too much, but he seems to be overweight whatever I give him.

‘Cup of tea, Mum?’ Hannah asks.

I slip off my coat, draping it over the banister rail in the hall. She’s taken all her stuff upstairs. She’s also changed out of the pretty tunic and leggings she was wearing earlier, and put on baggy navy tracksuit bottoms slung low on her hips, and a maroon oversized varsity-logo sweat top with the sleeves pushed up. Thick knitted socks trail off the ends of her feet as she sloshes boiling water into two mugs.

We sit at the table, staring at each other – me wondering what to say that won’t sound contrived, and her probably wishing she’d stayed at university for the Easter break.

‘So you survived the term?’ It’s all I can think of to say
to cover everything Hannah must have gone through in the last few months. Although not being here was probably a blessing for her, got her away from the slick of grief that ebbs and flows around me.

‘I did,’ she says with a little smile. Her eyes dip down, letting me know she doesn’t really want to talk about anything to do with survival; that she’s fed up of going over and over old ground.

‘And you’ve been eating OK?’

‘Yes, Mum,’ she says with a laugh. ‘I actually ate green vegetables once or twice.’ Her face peels into a Rick-like expression – her full lips bending coyly, her head tilted slightly back and to the side, and her dark eyes narrowed so they look as if they’re smiling.

‘Green veggies with all the pre-drinking, right?’ I’m pushing it, but I need to know she’s OK. My subconscious says she won’t be, that something will happen, and then I’ll be alone.

My punishment – but for what?

‘Vodka with a broccoli chaser. All the students are doing it.’ She laughs, her big white teeth exposed. She plays with her thick blonde ponytail as it falls loose from its band. ‘Seriously, Mum, you don’t need to worry. I can take care of myself. I’m eighteen.’

I give a small smile back, punctuating the conversation with a nod. That’s exactly what I’m worried about.

‘And boys? What about boys?’

‘God, Mum.
No
.’

Rick and I were convinced there was someone last
autumn, during her first term, but she’s never been one to talk about that sort of thing. We didn’t push her, but she came home for Christmas early, perhaps because of boy troubles. With hindsight, it was a blessing in disguise that she was home. It was shortly after this that Rick went.

Vanished.

Disappeared.

Left me. Left
us
.

Died. Was killed. Killed himself.

Was murdered. Had an accident. Had enough.

‘Mum?’

I look up, startled and wide-eyed. I grab the biscuit tin off the side and open it, but neither of us takes one.

‘There are no boys,’ she repeats more kindly, slipping her hand on top of my fist, covering my white knuckles. ‘And more to the point, how are
you
?’

We didn’t speak much on the journey home from the campus, which is thankfully only an hour’s drive away. A year ago, Rick was trying to persuade Hannah to spread her wings, head up to Edinburgh, Durham, or even study abroad. He felt quite strongly about it, which surprised me. But in the end, Hannah’s stubbornness won over, and she accepted an offer much closer to home.