The Perfect Girl (30 page)

It’s late when I finally phone Tessa back. I try her mobile but it goes straight to voicemail again, and I’m loath to phone the landline in case her husband answers.

Outside the windows of my flat, I can see that the evening crowd has turned out. They’re on their way to the pubs on the riverside, or wandering home from work.

I sit on a chair on my balcony with a beer in my hand, but back from the edge, in the shade, where I can feel concealed but also watch the people below.

I’m in that frame of mind where your own life feels as if it has been sucked so hollow that every detail of the lives of others seems designed to wound you. I resent the pair who wander, holding hands, beside the water. I resent the young office worker who walks jauntily along, phone to his ear, chatting to somebody he’s going to meet later.

I even resent the old woman who walks along with a small dog trotting in her wake. I’ve seen them before. They take the same route every day. The dog is never on a lead. It knows where they’re going and they’re happy to be in each other’s company.

I’m shy. I’ll never be the rowdy guy having beers in a big crowd at the riverside pub, like the one I can see across the water. I’ll be the man in the corner meeting a carefully chosen friend, or my lover.

But will my lover want me now?

I was her refuge, but now I’ll be a drag. There will be attacks of my disease where I may not be able to move, where my pain might be excruciating. They’ll probably worsen over time, so what use will I be to her then? I’ll be more like her husband, with his alcoholism, which drains her. My state of mind and physical capabilities will be no better than his in time, and will inevitably become worse.

I poke at the palm of my left hand, willing the numbness to be gone, desperate to be able to feel more sensation there, but of course nothing has changed.

I pick up the bag of medication that I brought back from the hospital, which has been sitting at my feet, and I peel away the sticker that’s sealing it and peer into it.

It contains three different boxes of pills.

‘Diagnosis is often the trickiest time for our patients,’ said the MS nurse who I went to see after the consultant. She was heartbreakingly lovely. ‘Do you have somebody at home with you tonight?’

‘Yes,’ I lied. I didn’t want her pity.

She gave me leaflets with titles like ‘Coping with MS’ and ‘Information for Patients’. Leaflets that I still believe are for other people, not me.

I drink my beer slowly and think about the frailty of life. I think of Zoe Maisey and her poor mother.

I must begin to take these tablets tonight. I must take careful note of dosages.

I must try not to wallow too much in how little I appreciated my life before the passage of time was marked by the popping open of pill packets, the rattle of a bottle full of tablets being picked up, and the tearing sound as a nurse liberates a new syringe from its packet, just for you.

I can’t face taking the tablets yet. I will, but not just yet.

My parents will take this hard. They’ll phone soon, to ask me what happened at the appointment, and I’ll have to tell them.

I think of the other messages that were left on my phone, from both Tess and her husband; the ones they left hours and hours ago.

I wonder if the police have made any progress.

I look online, idly really, to see if anything has happened, because it would be pushing things too far to phone DS George again, and I sit up straighter when I read that an arrest has been made.

‘The suspect has not yet been named, but he’s believed to be a member of the family,’ a news website tells me.

‘He’. So it’s not Zoe. Thank God.

Did I think it was Zoe? No. Do I work in criminal law and see what’s possible, however little you want it to be? Yes. So I would never have ruled it out.

More internet searching turns up a grainy long-lens photo that shows a man in the back of a police car. I’m pretty sure it must be Chris Kennedy, Maria’s husband. No surprises in a way; he would naturally be a prime suspect for the police.

Tess will be absolutely shattered because she thought that marriage was saving her sister.

I try her mobile, which goes to voicemail, so I have no choice but to brave the landline.

I don’t know if I’m going to tell her about my diagnosis, but I want to know how she is, and what’s happening and I want to hear her voice, and tell her how sorry I am and that I’m thinking of her. And, if I’m honest with myself, I also want to know when she’s going to be able to see me again, because I need her.

We sit in the garden after everybody has left. It’s evening, and it’s still hot and we want to escape the confines of the house that’s had us trapped all day, and which feels sullied now, as it’s where we had to learn what Chris did to Maria.

There are some generous patches of shade that have appeared as this awful day day has progressed and the shadows have inevitably lengthened, but the sun still pours across the garden fence in places and heats up our patch of ground.

I sit on the bench with Richard. Around my ankles the parched grass feels prickly and beside me on the bench Richard sweats, and is mostly silent. We are both profoundly shocked.

My sister walked into a new marriage to escape her old life. She was vulnerable and I should have protected her more.

I say this to Richard.

‘She was also ambitious,’ he says. ‘And you weren’t responsible for her happiness.’

‘I should have done more, I should have known her better.’

‘She didn’t want you close, I think she knew what she was doing.’

‘But what must she have been going through?’ We’re speaking very quietly because the children are in the garden with us, all three of them. ‘It’s such a high price to pay.’

‘The highest,’ he says.

The kids have spread out a rug in the shade a few metres away from us, and filled the washing-up bowl with water, and they’re playing with Grace. Philip Guerin is sitting with them.

On another day, it would be a perfect scene.

Our apple tree is dying. The trunks splits into two near its base and, while one side has produced a decent crop of apples this year, the other is barren.

Philip Guerin is sitting close to Zoe, but not very close. I know he doesn’t want her to live with him.

She shifts position on the rug and is backlit by the sunshine, her hair a cascade of white, which so reminds me of my sister when she was young. The golden light silhouettes and burnishes Zoe’s delicate arms and slender shoulders, and makes the drops of water sparkle in the air when Grace splashes.

Something is bothering me, a detail.

I look at my lovely niece. I see her point out something to Grace.

It’s a butterfly, the source of Zoe’s nickname.

And, as I watch it, I work out what’s troubling me.

It’s the injury to Zoe’s hip, because I am fairly certain that I remember her hip clashing with the piano as she fled from Tom Barlow in the church. Fairly certain, but not positive. I wonder where the film of the concert is, because that would tell us. I wonder whether I have the stomach to watch it, and whether I even want to know, because Zoe told the police that Chris did it, that he pushed her.

Amongst the evening midges, the butterfly flutters on, looking for somewhere to feed. I recognise it as a fritillary and I think that it’s a beautiful creature. Its wings are patterned in shades of orange and black that look magical in the wash of sunlight and against the intense blue evening sky, which the sunset won’t tint for at least another half-hour. Fluttering amongst the flaxen stalks of our dried-out lawn the butterfly brings to mind more exotic locations than this.

The lavender spikes along our garden path are mostly desiccated by now, but I know where the butterfly will go, and so it does. It continues on its path, crossing the grass. It flutters right up to the children, causing Grace to pump her arms with excitement, and then past them and towards the corner of our garden where a rogue buddleia seed has over the years grown into a huge, magnificent plant. It’s bathed in sunshine. Huge sprays of dark purple flowers arc away from it, and it’s covered with butterflies and insects.

I watch the fritillary approach the buddleia, its path undulating yet somehow preordained, and sure enough it finishes there, alighting weightlessly on one of the generous racemes. It settles there. Its wings close, and it begins to feed.

It will bathe there in the honeyed sunlight and feast on the nectar until dusk begins to nudge away the daylight, and then it will find somewhere to settle in the dark, close by, and it will wait there until the light rises again in the morning, warming its wings and its body, so that it can make a foray out into another day.

This is the way of the world, I think. It’s the natural order of things that so fascinated me as a child, and still does. But there will be only so many new daybreaks for this butterfly. It has a short lifespan. Some species can hibernate through the winter, but not this one.

Richard puts his arm around me, and I let him.

And I think, if Sam told me he wanted me, would I ever be able to leave now?

I say to Richard, ‘Philip won’t have Zoe, you know.’

‘I know,’ he replies. ‘I know he won’t.’

Richard is crying; he does that a lot. His depression is severe.

Our telephone rings.

There’s an image that feels as if it’s just within my grasp; it’s an idea that’s forming and then wavering, threatening to disappear, as if it’s a mirage floating in the hot evening air.

I have not had a drink today, and this means that the idea is real, even if I can’t quite make it solidify.

The idea is this: that Tessa and I will take on these children. I’ve spoken to Philip Guerin and he wants to go back to Devon without his daughter. He’s met a new partner and she’s from the local village, close to the families who lost children because of Zoe. Their relationship will not work with Zoe in their midst, and Philip will not consider moving away and starting again.

I expect we could try to persuade him, but why would we, when an alternative might be available?

Mentally, I remove him from the scene in front of me and I reimagine it.

There is Tess, and I, on the bench. I have my arm around her and she has remained in her seat, and not squirmed out from under my touch, as usual. In front of us there are three children on a rug: two blonde princesses and a dark, clever boy.

They are two damaged teenagers and a perfect baby girl who will never remember her mother, and we are looking after them. They will fill our days and nights and we will fill theirs. I will cook for them and organise them, and drive the older kids to music lessons, while Tess works as normal. We’ll give them patient care and love and help, and their lives will be as good as they can be. We’ll give them ordinary, we won’t be seduced by their talent or upset by their histories.

There’s only one thing that makes this mirage shimmer, and threaten to dissolve into the air.

It’s what I thought I overheard while Zoe was bathing Grace earlier.

It was Lucas saying, ‘It was an accident,’ and ‘I’m going to tell them everything.’ It sounded like a confession, but maybe he was just talking about what they witnessed. It must have been.

I won’t mention this to Tessa, but I expect that if I did she would say, ‘Well what does that mean? Are you sure you heard it right? Had you had a drink?’ So I won’t.

I’ve already cleared up the broken model that I found in my shed. If one of them smashed it they would be doing nothing worse than I’ve done in the past, when all the sadness I’ve felt has occasionally driven me to an act of destruction like that.

To make sure I’m fit to take on these children, I’ll go around the house and take every bottle and tip it down the sink. I’ll never buy alcohol again. I’ll go to AA. I’ll be a perfect father to them. Even if Lucas doesn’t want to stay with us, he’ll always be welcome here to see his sister Grace.

Today is not the day to say this to the children. Nor will tomorrow be, and perhaps not even next week, but it’s the offer I want to make them as and when they’re ready to hear it.

If Tessa will agree.

I’m willing to bargain.

If she’ll agree to this, I’ll not ask questions about how she knew, off by heart, the personal mobile phone number of Zoe’s solicitor. I’ll not phone her friends to ask if she stayed with them last night, because I think I know where she was. I think she was with him. It was her that told me, her defensiveness when I phoned him. I’m not one hundred per cent sure, I have no idea how it might have happened, but I can live with a little uncertainty. It’s a lesser demon than the ones I’ve been cohabiting with for the last few years. Tess’s infidelity is probably as much as I deserved, and it’s certainly no worse a thing than what I’ve put her through.

This is what I want to say to the children, this is what makes me feel invigorated, strong, hopeful:
Stay with us. We’ll look after you. We’ll make sure no more harm comes to you. We can be your family.

From inside the house, our landline rings and I feel Tess tense up beside me.

‘I’ll get that,’ I say.

I try Tess’s landline because I feel I have to. I don’t want her to feel abandoned.

It rings and rings, and I’m about to give up when Richard answers.

I’m tempted to hang up, but that would be childish, and this is not a day for infantile behaviour.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘It’s Sam Locke, Zoe’s solicitor, returning your call.’

I say that because I suspect he doesn’t know that Tess and I have spoken since he left his message.

He says, ‘Thank you, Sam, but we don’t need you any longer, the police have made an arrest.’

‘Yes, I saw that on the news. I’m so sorry. Is everybody all right? It must have been a terrible shock.’

‘It is a great shock, yes.’

He draws out his words as if there’s something else he’s thinking of saying and I’m suddenly alert to the fact that he might know about Tess and I.

‘Well, I won’t keep bothering you any longer, but if there’s anything I can do please just phone me.’

‘I think you’ve done enough, don’t you?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Don’t contact my family again. Don’t contact Zoe and, most importantly, don’t contact my wife.’

‘What?’

‘I think you understand me very well.’

‘I…’

‘Leave us alone.’

‘Sorry, I…’ But my words fall into the ether because he’s hung up.

I sit with my phone in my hand and wonder if Tessa has told him about us, if she had to tell him. I’m still sitting there many minutes later, speculating, and shocked at the ferocity of his tone, when my phone rings.

Tess
, I think at first, but it’s not. It’s my parents, and I can’t ignore them. Not today. My mother cries when I tell her that my diagnosis is one step nearer to being confirmed.

‘How will you manage, love?’ she asks. ‘Will you move back home?’

‘I don’t know, Mum, we’ll have to see.’

I’ve had no intention of doing that, but after I hang up I drink another beer and watch the river some more and feel the beginnings of what feels like mourning for Tessa, and then I’m tempted by my mother’s suggestion. I’m tempted to walk away from this city and this life and this relationship that’s brought me the greatest feelings of joy but also the most profound feelings of guilt. I’m tempted to nurse my sorrows elsewhere, to rethink my life.

If I take myself back to Devon where I’ll still be in pain, and my condition will inevitably degenerate, and I’ll miss Tess every day, there will at least be sea air, and beautiful countryside and people who know me and love me. It’ll be a return, sure, but also another chance.

Because what is there for me here, now?

And these thoughts circulate as I watch the reflection of the setting sun burning brightly in the windows of the boat-yard opposite my flat, until it sinks down far enough that it disappears.

After that, the city lights, and their reflections on the water, have to work hard to pierce the darkness.