The Accident (11 page)

‘Brian?’ I carry the parcel into the house and search for my husband. ‘Oh, hi Milly.’

She looks up from her prone position in front of the cold hearth then lowers her head and sighs when she realizes I’m not Brian. He must be in his study. Milly knows she isn’t allowed upstairs.

‘What have we got here then?’ I tear into the plastic packaging and discover a cardboard shoebox. ‘Very brave of Daddy to choose shoes for Mum—’

The opened box tumbles from my hands and a pair of beige suedette slippers tumbles onto the rug.

They’re meant for me. But they’re not from my husband.

‘Brian?’ I push open the door to the study. ‘Brian, we need to talk.’

My husband is sitting in his chair, his head in his hands, his elbows on the desk. He doesn’t look up at the sound of my voice.

‘Brian?’ I fight to keep the quiver out of my voice. ‘Brian, please. I need your help.’

He raises his head from his hands and slowly tilts back his head to look at me. His expression is blank, his eyes as fixed and dark as they were as we careered into oncoming traffic.

‘What do you want, Susan?’

‘I …’ I hold out the slippers but I can’t do it. I can’t tell him that James sent them to me. There’s no note, no purchaser details, no gift card – nothing at all to prove who sent them. And besides, Brian looks like someone just hollowed out his soul.

I perch on the edge of a wooden chair near the door. ‘I’m sorry, Brian.’

My husband doesn’t say anything but I can tell he’s listening, that he wants me to continue.

‘I’m sorry I told you there wasn’t anything to worry about in Charlotte’s diary. There is.’

‘What?’ Brian is no longer slumped back in his chair. He’s sitting up straight, the tips of his fingers splayed on the desk, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘Tell me.’

‘She …’ I can’t do it. I can’t ignore my gut feeling that I shouldn’t. Not with Charlotte’s safety at risk. ‘Why did you lie about going to the pool, Brian?’

‘What?’

‘Last week, when you took the morning off, you told me you went shopping and swimming.’

‘And?’ It’s just one word but I can hear the irritation behind it.

‘The Prince Regent has been shut for renovations for the last two weeks.’

Brian doesn’t so much as blink. ‘I didn’t go to the Prince Regent.’

‘Where then?’

‘Aquarena.’

‘You went all the way to Worthing for a swim?’

‘Something wrong with that?’

‘Brian, you haven’t been for a swim for months.’

‘Which is why I fancied a dip.’

‘Stop lying.’ I stand up. ‘Please, just stop lying.’

My husband sits back in his chair. ‘Lying? I think we’ve established who the liar is here, Sue. Or would you like to take back your apology from five minutes ago?’ When I say nothing a small smile plays on his lips. ‘What did Charlotte write in her diary?’

‘Where have you been going at the crack of dawn every day?’

Brian says nothing.

I say nothing.

We stare at each other, eyes locked, neither of us willing to back down.

Ding-dong.

The sound of the doorbell makes me jump. A split second later I’m out of the study, relieved of the excuse to escape. I think I hear Brian call my name as I hurry down the stairs but I don’t turn back.

‘Coming!’ I call as I cross the hallway, pass through the kitchen and walk into the porch. Milly follows me, nudging her empty food dish with her nose as I open the front door.

I can’t see anyone through the glass pane so I open the door and peer outside, half-expecting to see someone strolling down the driveway, but it’s empty. Whoever rang our doorbell must have sprinted away the second their finger left the buzzer.

‘What’s that Milly Moo?’ I turn back to find the dog gnawing on something in her bed. I take a step closer and crouch down. It’s a brown padded envelope.

‘Where did you get that?’ I distract the dog with a well-chewed tennis ball, slip the parcel away from her and sit down with it at the kitchen table. My name is written on the front in blue biro but there’s no address and no stamp. I turn it over. Nothing on the underside either, just a strip of brown packing tape holding the flap closed. Whoever rang the doorbell must have pushed it through the letter box.

I peel off the tape and slip a finger under the flap to open it. I can barely breathe as I upend the envelope and tip the contents onto the table.

Something pink and glittery lands on the cotton tablecloth with a clunk.

Charlotte’s phone.

Saturday 21st October 1990

I didn’t hear from James for three days after the incident with his mum.

He finally rang yesterday. I’d expected him to be contrite but he acted like nothing had happened and asked what my plans were for the weekend. I said I’d been invited to have dinner with some mates and he was welcome to join us if he liked. I said how much I’d like him to meet my friends. It was, after all, nearly two months since we’d met and he still hadn’t met anyone I was close to.

‘Helen and Rupert?’ he repeated down the phone, after I told him whose house we were going to. ‘The same Rupert you fucked at uni?’

I hated that, the way he said ‘fucked’ like it was something dirty that I should be ashamed of.

‘No. Rupert my very good friend who I happened to have sex with a very,
very
long time ago. Not that that matters.’

‘It matters to me.’

‘Well, it shouldn’t. It didn’t mean anything then and it certainly doesn’t mean anything now. Helen’s not bothered so why should you be?’

‘Helen’s not in love with you.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t come then.’

‘And leave you alone with some guy who fucked you once and would probably love to fuck you again? No chance.’

‘James!’

‘What?’

‘I’m going to put the phone down now.’

‘Don’t. Suzy, I’m sorry. That all came out wrong. I’m still smarting from what happened on Tuesday. Forgive me darling, please. I’ll be very well behaved at the dinner party.’

‘You promise?’

‘Of course.’

James was drunk when I met him at Willesden tube. So drunk he could barely stand, never mind speak. I took one look at him and told him he should go home. He refused.

‘I’ll be the entertainment,’ he said. ‘I tell really good jokes. What’s brown and sticky?’

I couldn’t help but laugh and he was being very good natured and affectionate. Maybe it’ll be fun, I told myself. At least he won’t be uptight about meeting Rupert.

I knew the night was going to turn into a nightmare when thirty seconds after we’d walked into Hel & Ru’s flat James pointed at a Formula One framed print on the sideboard and said, ‘Only twats are into Formula One. Only a dull mind could watch a car go round and round a track ad infinitum.’

‘I think you’ll find,’ Rupert said, turning back, ‘that the number of laps depends on the track and that the sport demands a finite number of laps otherwise there’d be no winner.’

‘A blah blah blah blah blah.’ James waved a hand in his direction then, just as Rupert disappeared into the living room. ‘Posh twat.’

I angled him into the bathroom and closed the door. He stumbled backwards and collapsed onto the (lid closed, thankfully) toilet. ‘If you keep this up we’re leaving.’

He grinned. ‘So we don’t have to have dinner with Twattle Dum and Twattle Dumber and two other Mad Twatters? Excellent.’ He tried to stand. ‘Let’s go!’

‘Not me.’ I pushed him back down again. ‘You.’

‘No Suzy,’ he pulled a face, ‘please let me spend the evening with Fat Arse and Dull Face.’

‘That’s it.’ I yanked on his hand so he was upright. ‘You’re going home. I’m calling you a cab.’

‘Noooo!’ He wrapped his arms around me and, using his weight advantage, pinned me against the tiled wall. He pressed his lips to my neck. ‘Don’t leave me. Don’t make me go. I promise to be a good boy. Suzy, I want to wake up with you tomorrow morning. Don’t send me home to my bitch of a mother. I’m only being silly because it winds you up. I know how much you love Gingerpubes and her Fat Bear.’

‘James!’

‘See!’ He mimed someone pushing a button. ‘It’s too easy. Please, Suzy. I promise to be good. I’ll make polite conversation over dinner and everything. I just need something to eat. I’ve only had a bowl of cereal all day.’

‘James! That’s not good for you.’

‘See,’ he nestled his head into the crook of my neck, ‘I knew you still loved me. You care that I’m starving to death.’

‘Of course I love you, you idiot.’ I stroked the back of his head, relishing the feeling of his hair under my fingers. ‘Even when you do behave like this.’

True to his word he did behave, even if his contribution to the conversation around the dinner table was more sarcastic than enthusiastic, but he barely said a word on the tube on the way home. I was grateful for the silence. James didn’t have to spell it out but I could tell from his behaviour over dinner that he didn’t like my friends, and not just because I’d slept with one of them.

By the time we finally walked into James’ living room I couldn’t bear the silence a second longer and asked if he was okay.

He ignored me and crossed the room to pull the heavy velvet curtains closed, taking the time to arrange the folds of material so they hung evenly spaced. When he was satisfied they were straight he strode over to the mantelpiece and wound the brass carriage clock. His face was expressionless, his mouth a thin line, his pale grey eyes dull. Only the tension in his jaw gave his mood away. I stayed by the door, shuffling my weight from foot to foot. The air was electrified, like a dark cloud was hovering overhead, threatening a storm.

‘James?’ I said again.

‘Would you keep your fucking voice down?’ He spun around to face me. ‘Mother’s asleep upstairs or have you forgotten?’

‘Sorry.’ I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘I just wanted to check that you’re okay. You’ve seemed a bit …’ I chose my words carefully, ‘… unhappy ever since we left Hels’ house.’

‘Unhappy?’ James stepped closer, towering over me. ‘Why would I be unhappy, Suzy-Sue?’

I wracked my brain, analyzing the conversations we’d had over dinner. Nothing controversial, nothing that referenced my ex-boyfriends (Hels knows not to mention them in front of James) and nothing about my past that he might have found objectionable.

‘Nothing?’ James took another step closer and tapped me on the forehead with his index finger. ‘Really? You can’t think of a single thing you might have done to upset me?’

I shook my head. ‘No. I can’t. I thought we had a lovely even
—
’

‘Liar!’ His face was inches from mine, his breath hot and scented with the spices Hels used in the curry we ate.

‘I’m not
—
’

‘You are a lying bitch.’

‘I’m not, James. I didn’t say
—
’

‘Want a cig, Suz?’ He said it in a high sing-song voice and I immediately knew what he was getting at. He was imitating Helen, post-dinner, as she leaned across the table and offered me a Marlboro Light before sparking one up herself. My face suddenly felt hot as the blood rushed to my cheeks.

‘Hels!’ James continued in the same voice, his face bobbing from side to side in front of mine. ‘You know I don’t smoke anymore. I gave up weeks ago. Remember?’

‘She just forgot, James. We used to share cigs all the time at work and it’s a habit. She forgot that I gave
—
’

‘FILTHY FUCKING HABIT!’

I took a step back and wiped the spit from my eye.

‘My father died from smoking, Suzy. He DIED. A long, painful death. I held him in my arms when he rasped and rattled his way into the next world, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come.’

‘But your mum said that
—
’

James crouched down so his face was just millimetres from mine. ‘What did my “mum” say?’

‘She said …’ I rubbed my palms against my skirt, ‘… that your dad killed himself. You were in the kitchen, talking, and I heard her say that. I wasn’t snooping, I promise. But you’d been gone so long that I just wanted to check that
—
’

‘Bullshit!’ His breath is hot in my face. ‘You were sneaking around, listening at keyholes, looking for secrets.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No.’ I wanted to take a step back, to widen the space between us and diffuse the tension but I couldn’t. James was calling me a liar and yet he’s been lying about the death of his father. ‘I don’t understand. Why would your mum say your dad killed himself if he died of a smoking-related illness?’

‘He killed himself alright – with too much booze and too many fags – but she was the one that drove him to it. Always going on and on, nagging and bitching and lying and manipulating.’

‘But …’ I didn’t finish my sentence. His mother said ‘the
day
he killed himself’ like it was suicide, not respiratory disease. Or had I heard that wrong? Now I was doubting myself.

‘So tell me,’ he prodded me in the chest, again. ‘Are you still smoking?’

‘No! I haven’t started again, James. I prom
—
’

‘LIAR!’

He was right. I was lying. I haven’t started smoking again, not regularly but I did have a quick cig with Hels two weeks ago. We met for lunch, had a couple of G and Ts and I just couldn’t resist when she offered me a fag. It was just one cigarette but James wouldn’t understand that. He’d think I didn’t love him enough to keep my promise to quit.