The Bed I Made (37 page)

I stayed out on deck all the way across the Solent, letting the breeze blow my hair round my face and watching the cluster of buildings at Yarmouth grow smaller and smaller until they were indistinguishable from one another and the masts in the harbour became a white thicket.

As we reached the mouth of the Lymington River, I smelled the tang of the mudflats. We came inside the breakwater, the marshes on our left, on our right the marina and the yacht club, the small park beyond it. It was all just as it had been the last time I’d seen it, almost six months ago. I felt a wash of apprehension.

Back in the car ready to disembark, I took my phone out of my bag and checked the screen. Nothing. The ramp came down and the car in front rolled away. I started the engine and followed it, down the dip and then up again on to the tarmac of the mainland. Half an hour’s ferry crossing but a palpable difference: straight away I felt the expansion, the contrast between the small area on the quay where the cars waited at Yarmouth and the broader lanes here, the train at the platform and the brimming car park. Pulling out of the terminal and on to the main road, I felt as though I’d fast-forwarded twenty years: the traffic moved so quickly.

The road to Cadnam and the junction to the M27 took me through the New Forest, where the sunlight dappled through the trees. A pair of ponies grazed on the verge, indifferent to the thickening traffic of the morning rush. At the level crossing at Brockenhurst I had to wait while the fast train thundered through on its way to Southampton and London.

On the motorway the traffic was moving slowly and it gave me time to make up my mind. For Wales, I should have taken the turn off towards Newbury and the West but instead I took the M3, signposted London. My heart was pounding. I put the radio on and drove, not wanting to think about what I was doing. The car began to eat up the miles: over the great chalk downs near Winchester and then on to the long, featureless stretch north past Basingstoke, Fleet.

An hour and a half later, I was coming into London on the M4, the road rising on to the elevated section above Brentford, passing through the canyon of high-rise office buildings, the electronic hoardings with their advertisements for airlines and Armani and iPods. It was like entering a different world. I was breaking the speed limit but the cars in the outside lane streamed past me.

The rush hour was over and the traffic was suddenly comparatively light. It seemed only a matter of minutes before I was on the road where Helen’s office was. I parked the car, turned the radio off and sat in silence for a moment. Then, before I could think about it any more, I got out and went in.

I gave my name at the desk and waited while the receptionist called upstairs. ‘Esther?’ she said. ‘I’ve got a Kate Gibson here for Helen. Shall I ask her to come up?’ She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Just a second.’ She listened again. ‘OK, I’ll let her know. She’s coming down,’ she said to me. ‘She’ll just be a minute or two.’

I was too anxious to sit. Instead I paced the reception area, looking at the glass sculpture suspended from the ceiling, then standing at the door and watching the street, where a white van was making a delivery to the building next door.

Finally I heard the sound of the lift behind me and the doors opened to reveal Helen. She was wearing a dress in amaryllis red with matching suede heels, her Louise Brooks cut newly trimmed. Over her arm was a pale trench coat. Though I’d put on my black jeans and a jacket for my appointments with the estate agents, I recognised immediately how dowdy and provincial I must appear.

‘Kate.’ She ran over, I thought to give me a hug, but she stopped before she reached me. ‘What are you doing here? You’re in London; I didn’t think . . .’

‘I was worried. I’ve left messages for you.’

‘I got it – last night. I was going to call you.’ She couldn’t meet my eyes. Hers were travelling round the room, settling for a second at a time on the flowers on the desk, the van outside, the sculpture.

‘I’ve been trying to get you for weeks.’

‘I’m really sorry. It’s just been so busy.’ She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. ‘It’s mad here.’ She looked back at the receptionist as if for corroboration.

‘Can we have lunch? I’ll come back in a couple of hours.’

‘I’m on my way out – I’ve got a meeting.’

‘Or supper? I’ll stay in town for the day, wait till you finish.’

‘I need to get a cab. I’m running late.’

‘I’ve got the car here; I’ll drive you.’

‘No.’ There was a note of desperation in her voice now and we both heard it.

‘Come outside,’ I said, conscious of the receptionist’s interested attention. She followed me out and we stood on the pavement. I could see she was agitating to get away from me. ‘What’s going on?’ I said.

‘Kate, please. Don’t . . .’ She was biting her lip.

‘Richard,’ I said, and she gave a small but perceptible start. ‘Are you seeing him?’

‘No.’ Her voice was loud enough to make the delivery man look over. ‘No. Look, I’m just in a rush. I’ll ring you later – I promise.’

She turned to go and I reached out and grabbed her arm. I had a momentary mental image of Alice, her cold fingers gripping me. ‘This isn’t about me,’ I said. ‘It isn’t jealousy. He’s dangerous.’

She pulled her arm away. There was a taxi coming down the street, its light on. ‘I’m not seeing him.’ She put up her hand and the cab glided in towards the kerb.

‘Helen – please.’

She cranked up the handle and opened the door, climbing in before I could stop her. ‘You’ve got it wrong,’ she said.

I stood on the pavement and watched as the cab drove off, the lights at the bottom of the street turning green just as it reached them. Through the window at the back I could see the dark shape of her head, the sharpness of the bob above her white neck almost cartoonish, but she didn’t look back.

Panic broke over me. For a moment I thought I might faint. I got back into the car and sat with my forehead on the steering wheel. My legs were trembling. With an adamantine certainty I knew that she had been taken in by him, one way or another. My lovely, kind friend. I thought of how her face had appeared at the cottage’s kitchen window on Christmas Day and slammed my hand against the wheel. How dare he do this to her, use her as a pawn. Perhaps, though, an insidious voice said, it isn’t a game; perhaps it is Helen he wants now.
No; don’t let him get inside your head
.

Richard was so close – so very close. I imagined his breath on the back of my neck, my face, and into my mind came a picture of that last morning at the flat, how he’d thrown me up against the wall and how I’d fallen, jarring my spine, the explosion of pain behind my eye as he’d hit me. Then another set of images, this time of Sarah, her broken ribs. I had to tell Helen now. She had to know the whole story.

I called her mobile but it went straight to voicemail. What could I do? Had she really had a meeting or had she come running out to prevent me from going up, cornering her? Perhaps she’d got the taxi to take her home. I turned the car around and headed for Hammersmith. When I got there, her street was quiet, most of its residents at work, but a couple of mothers with babies in buggies on the opposite pavement looked with exaggerated disapproval and barely disguised curiosity as I banged and banged on her door long after it became clear that she wouldn’t answer.

Finally, I got back in the car and took the road back the way I’d come. Out on the motorway again, I put my foot down and pushed the car hard, watching the needle touch ninety, ninety-five. I opened the window and let the buffeting wind replace the London air trapped inside.

I drove until I reached Lymington again but I wasn’t ready to go back to the Island: too much was unresolved. Instead I found myself following signs to Keyhaven and then to Hurst Castle. There was the promontory I’d seen so many times from the Island, the huge shingle bank stretching out into the Solent as if trying to bridge it, the white castle hunkered down on the point. I got out of the car and walked, the only person there except for an occasional dog-walker. Almost at the end, I slid down the steep side and pressed myself into the shingle out of the breeze. Then I took out my phone, dialled Helen’s home number and left three messages telling her everything that had happened.

‘Please,’ I said at the end of the third, ‘if I’m right and he’s in touch with you, please don’t think this is about jealousy or wanting him back or not wanting you to be happy. I don’t love Richard – that’s gone – completely gone. I met someone else, someone so different from him I just can’t describe it. Believe me, this is about you – about you being safe.’

Chapter Thirty-two

On the ferry back, I stood outside again. The wind had a sharper edge now and in the darkness the water was black, illuminated only where light fell on it from the windows of the boat and the open decks. I was alone, the few other passengers keeping warm inside. Holding on to the railing, I trained my eyes on the lights of the harbour at Yarmouth as though, if I concentrated hard enough, we would get there more quickly. Down the Solent, the Needles lighthouse blinked its all-seeing eye in the dark.

I was in my car ready to disembark before the announcement came, the engine running while the ramp was still being lowered. There was a rising feeling in my chest as the car came up on to the Island again. I drove the few hundred yards to the cottage and parked but I didn’t go inside. Instead, I took my bag and ran, along Bridge Road, across the Square and up the High Street. My heart was racing but it wasn’t just exertion. For hours, walking miles and miles along the shore of the mainland, I had thought about two things: Helen and this.

When I reached the row of houses, I hesitated. Which was it? Not the clapboard house on the end but one of the three down from it. In one, no lights showed. In the next, a double-fronted cottage, the pale glow of a table lamp shone through the fabric of a blind in one window; the window on the other side of the front door was dark, light only visible where an internal door was open. I walked along, as if casual, and let my eyes wander towards the window of the third house. Golden light spilled out on to the street and I said a silent prayer but inside there was an elderly couple, the tops of their grey heads visible over the backs of armchairs, the news showing on the television in front of them.

I felt a moment’s despair and turned round. What if the dark cottage was his? What if he’d gone away somewhere? He’d said in the car that time, hadn’t he, that he hadn’t been able to go away when Alice was missing. What if he’d decided to go now? Maybe I wouldn’t even see him again.

Just then, however, my eye was caught by a movement in the second house. The light falling into the dark room was interrupted by someone moving in front of the door; for an instant it vanished almost completely.

I walked the few steps to the door, lifted the brass dolphin knocker and, before I could hesitate any more, let it drop back. The sharp rap sounded loud in the quiet street. Long seconds passed.
What if it wasn’t him? What if it was, and he didn’t understand why I’d come?

There were footsteps on a wooden floor inside and a carriage lamp came on above my head. The door cracked open and he was standing there. In a second’s upward twitch of his eyebrows I registered his surprise. ‘Hello,’ he said, and stepped aside to let me in.

The door closed behind me and we were standing in the hall, maybe a foot apart. The house was warm; I had brought the cold in on my coat but he was wearing a faded indigo T-shirt that was torn slightly at the neck. We looked at each other and, without saying anything, he reached out and put his hand against the side of my face.

He leaned in and kissed me, his mouth soft. As he pulled away again to gauge my reaction, I swallowed, the sound embarrassingly loud. He smiled, the lines deepening at the corner of his eyes, and kissed me again, this time manoeuvring me a step backwards so that I was against the wall. As he leaned his weight against me, my whole body responded. I put my hands on his back, felt the heat of his skin through the T-shirt, pulled him harder against me. His hands pushed my jacket off my shoulders and then his fingers moved to the neck of my jumper, undoing the little buttons, touching the skin he’d exposed, brushing his lips over it, letting me feel his breath. He moved his hands lightly down over my breasts, the backs of his fingers lingering for a moment on my nipples which I knew he would feel even through my bra and the thick wool. My fingers slipped underneath his T-shirt and found the groove of his spine.

Abruptly he stepped away. I looked up, alarmed, but there was a question in his eyes. He took my hand and led me down the hall and then upstairs. I didn’t think about it for a second. I saw a wide landing, sisal mats, a wicker chair, and then we were in another room, dark apart from the light from the hall. My jumper was off in one neat movement. He pulled me against him again and I felt his hardness against my hip. I yanked his T-shirt over his head and saw the shape of his shoulders, the thick dark hair on his chest.

He reached behind me to unhook my bra and seconds later I was on the bed, the feather duvet rising around me like cloud as he pressed me down in to it. My jeans were gone, then both our hands fumbled at his belt buckle. For a few seconds we were naked in front of each other, shy, then he lowered his weight gently on to me and I wrapped my legs around him.