The Waiting Game (2 page)

Ellen stood at her bedroom window, watching the line of trees fade to black as night moved across the Greenwich skyline. It made her sad, this gradual descent into darkness. Perverse, she knew, to want to prolong each shortening stretch of day. It was the trees, she decided. In the burning glow of autumn glory, they were at their very best at this time of the year. It seemed unfair not to be allowed to gaze at them a while longer.

‘M-uuu-m.’

The voice drew her attention from the beauty of nature to another endless fascination. Eilish stood in the doorway, waiting until she knew she had her mother’s complete attention.

‘Yes, sweetheart,’ Ellen said. ‘What is it?’

Eilish walked across the room and settled herself on the end of
Ellen’s bed. The expression on her little face was perplexed. It was a look Ellen recognised. A frown forming, brown eyes half-closed in concentration as she tried to work out the exact way to phrase whatever question she was about to ask. Decision made, a flash of clarity behind those eyes and she was off.

‘Pat says babies come out of your bottom. But that can’t be right, can it? A baby’s way too big to fit through your bumhole.’

She cocked her head to one side and waited. The look on her face challenged Ellen to come up with a satisfactory answer. When she did that, she looked so like Vinny it hurt. The pain was physical; an ache across the chest that spread down into her stomach and still had the power to consume her even now, almost five years after his death.

‘It’s not your bumhole,’ she said. ‘There’s a special baby hole that women have. You know that already, Eilish.’

‘But that doesn’t make any sense,’ Eilish said. ‘I mean, how would I get a baby out
down there
? And anyway, you still won’t tell me how the baby gets into the tummy in the first place.’

Surely, at eight, Eilish was too young to be told the facts of life?

‘It’s the special baby kiss,’ Ellen said. ‘Just like I told you. The mummy and daddy decide to have a baby and they have a special kiss and then the baby starts growing in the mummy’s tummy.’

‘Are you going out tonight?’

The sudden switch in subject would have been a relief if Ellen didn’t know what was coming next.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But just for a little bit. I won’t be late.’

‘With Jim?’

Ellen nodded. ‘I sort of need to get ready, actually. Will you help me choose a top?’

She turned from her daughter’s inquisitive stare and went over to the built-in wardrobe.

‘This one?’ she asked. ‘Or this shirt? Which do you prefer?’

‘Is he, like, your boyfriend then?’

Ellen carried the blue linen shirt across to the bed and sat down beside Eilish.

‘He’s a friend, Eilish. That’s all.’

‘Pat says he’s your boyfriend and you’re probably going to marry him and he’ll move in here or we’ll have to move to his house. Which we’d hate because Jim’s house is way smaller than ours and this is our home and we don’t want to move. We really don’t, Mum. It’s not fair.’

Dear God, Ellen thought, give me strength.

‘Eilish, listen to me.’ She took her daughter’s little hand in hers and squeezed it. ‘Jim’s a friend. Nothing more than that.’ Liar, liar. ‘And even if he did become my boyfriend – which may never happen.’ Pants on fire. ‘Then there’s no way in the world I’d ask you and Pat to move out of this house. This is your home. And it will stay your home. Do you understand?’

Eilish smiled and some of the tension across Ellen’s shoulders disappeared.

‘Will you have a baby with him?’

‘No.’

‘But it’d be so cute,’ Eilish said. ‘And you could do it tonight. You know, one of those special baby kisses?’

Ellen wasn’t sure if her daughter was taking the mick or not.

‘Anyway,’ Eilish continued, ‘it’s not a kiss, Mummy. Maria told me what really happens.’

‘Oh yeah?’

Eilish nodded, face full of confidence. ‘Yeah. The daddy and the mummy have to take their clothes off and lie beside each other and make noises. That’s how babies are really made, isn’t it?’

Sometimes, what she missed most was having someone to share these conversations with. She pictured telling Jim later that evening, but it didn’t feel right. She wasn’t sure why. He was great with the kids and seemed genuinely interested in them. But he wasn’t their father.

After Eilish wandered off, Ellen got ready for her night out. Blue shirt over a new pair of jeans, make-up, including a new lipstick she’d bought earlier that day. It was a rich red colour and she hesitated, wondering if it was a little OTT for a casual drink.

Except it was more than a casual drink. She was starting to really like this guy. And all the signs were that he felt the same way about her. In as much as she was capable of reading the signs. She’d been with Vinny since she was twenty-two. Which made her as out of practice with the whole dating business as it was possible to be.

Make-up applied, she gave her face a final once-over in the mirror. The make-up did little to hide the tiny pattern of lines at the corner of each eye, but apart from that she didn’t look too bad.

Blue eyes, clear and bright. Dark, bobbed hair framed a face that was, possibly, a shade too pale. More blusher, perhaps? No, best not. She’d end up looking like a clown.

Enough. Time to go. She pushed her chair away from the dressing table and stood up. As she left the bedroom, her eyes drifted, like they always did, to the family photo on the small bedside table. Her, Vinny and the children. Vinny’s arm draped over her shoulders, smiling out from the photo, like the happiest man in the world.

She smiled back, briefly, and her eyes slid to the sheet of white paper lying beside the photo. It was folded over but she knew, by heart, what was written on it. She’d only folded it to stop herself from looking at the words over and over.

She looked back at Vinny’s smiling face. ‘What do you think I should do?’ she asked.

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer from her dead husband. Letting her eyes linger on his face a moment longer, she
eventually
turned away and left the room, closing the door behind her. As she approached the stairs, the doorbell rang. Pat ran to answer it. Goosebumps skittered across Ellen’s skin when she heard Jim O’Dwyer’s voice.

She stood for a moment, looking down at him. He looked
up, smiling when his eyes locked with hers. She walked down to meet him, giddy at the prospect of an evening with him.

Her whole body tingled as he walked forward to greet her. She was grinning like a fool, but she didn’t care. He was grinning, too. Like a pair of besotted teenagers, instead of two middle-aged people about to head out for a quiet drink.

He held her shoulders, leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

‘You look gorgeous,’ he said.

She felt suddenly shy. As she searched her brain for something to say, something low-key but vaguely amusing, her phone, in the pocket of her jeans, started buzzing.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, stepping back from him. ‘I’ll just get this.’

It was a number she didn’t recognise. Frowning slightly, she pressed the Answer button and held the phone to her ear.

‘DI Kelly? Martine Reynolds here.
Evening Star
. I’d like your reaction to a story we’re running later this week. A local woman is being terrorised by her violent ex-partner. She claims the police – your team, in particular – are doing nothing to protect her. Would you like to comment?’

Martine Reynolds. Muck-raking local hack with about as much integrity as your average psychopath. Ellen hung up and turned to Jim.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have to deal with this.’

The meeting took place in a hotel room. The Novotel in Greenwich. They’d arranged to meet at five pm. Nathan closed the office early and drove her to Greenwich, making slow progress through the thick rush-hour traffic.

The journey from Lewisham took half an hour. Plenty of time for her to think about what she was doing and to wish she’d never agreed to it. She tried to tell Nathan how she felt but he wouldn’t listen, kept telling her she had no choice. It was the only way to stop things getting any worse.

The journalist was waiting for them in the hotel foyer. Tall, thin and blonde with over-tanned skin and a hard face. Chloe didn’t like her. If she’d been alone, she didn’t think she’d have stayed, but Nathan was beside her, shaking hands with the
journalist and saying how good it was that she was doing this for them.

Before Chloe knew it, they were in a lift, travelling up the hotel to a beige room.

‘You ready to begin?’ Martine asked, pulling a small digital recorder from her bag.

Chloe glanced at Nathan, who nodded. She swallowed. ‘You really think this will work?’

‘It’s the only way,’ Martine said. She spoke gently and slowly, like she was conversing with a stupid child. Chloe wasn’t fooled for a second. The journalist was a cow, the sort of cold, opinionated woman that Chloe did her best to avoid most of the time.

‘It’s just …’ Chloe could hear the wobble in her own voice and hated herself for it. Knew the other woman would hear it too, and use Chloe’s weakness against her.

‘I can’t help thinking,’ she continued. ‘What if it’s not Ricky?’

Nathan sat beside her. The bed sagged under his weight, the movement making her feel sick.

‘We’ve already spoken about this,’ Nathan said. ‘Who else could it be? You need to show him you’re not scared of him. You can do that, Chloe. I know you can.’

‘We can use a false name, if you want,’ Martine said. ‘The focus of this piece is solely on the failings of the police. No need at all for me to mention you by name.’

Chloe wondered why she hadn’t thought of that herself. She tried to remember if Nathan had already suggested it, but so
much was a fog these days. Remembering anything at all was difficult. It was the stress. She knew that. Whenever she got stressed out, her mind started to misbehave. Like it was running on a low battery.

‘What name would you like me to use instead?’ the journalist asked.

Ivy. The name popped into her head. As a little girl, she’d always wished she was called Ivy. There was a time she’d tried to convince her parents and everyone else to use that name instead of Chloe. Funny how she’d forgotten about that.

Except that was a long time ago. She didn’t want to be Ivy anymore.

‘Let’s use my real name,’ she said. ‘If I really want to send a message to Ricky, that’s the best way to do it, isn’t it?’

The way the journalist and Nathan smiled at her told her she’d made the right decision.

‘Steve, the photographer, will be here soon,’ Martine said. ‘We’ll get some really good shots of you to go with the piece. Make sure the police know they’re dealing with someone who won’t be messed around.’

‘And Ricky,’ Chloe said.

‘Of course.’ Martine nodded, but Chloe could see she wasn’t paying attention. She was fiddling with the recorder, testing it worked before placing it on the table in front of Chloe. A red light on the machine flashed on and off.

Recording in progress, Chloe thought. Made her feel like she
was someone special. Maybe they were both right. Maybe she had no choice.

Martine sat back in her chair and smiled at Chloe.

‘Ready to begin? Let’s see if we can persuade the police to do their job properly and catch this fucker before he can do any real harm.’

Chloe hated swearing, particularly in women, but she did her best to smile and not show her true feelings. Three years with Ricky had made her something of an expert at hiding how she really felt.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘What do you need to know?’

Afterwards, Nathan drove her home. They were nearly at Hither Green when he suggested they stop off for something to eat.

‘We could go to the Italian place in Lee,’ he said. ‘My treat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

Starving was stretching it, she thought. He had enough fat across his middle to last several weeks without food. She didn’t feel like going to a restaurant. The whole encounter with the journalist had left her feeling dirty. Like she’d done something she shouldn’t have. Sharing such personal information with a complete stranger, it was horrible. She wanted to be at home, soaking in a deep, warm bath and pretending this evening had never happened.

Except going home meant being alone and she didn’t think
she could bear that either. Briefly, she wondered about asking Nathan if she could sleep at his. Just for one night. But she was afraid he’d read it the wrong way, think she was implying something different. And if he thought that, then things would get awkward between them.

He wasn’t interested. She knew that because she knew men. Knew how they acted when they liked a woman. Nathan never acted that way. Never showed the slightest bit of interest in being anything except a friend. She knew why, of course. Nathan had principles. A man like Nathan, a good and moral man, what on earth would he ever want with someone like her? Because Nathan knew the truth. Knew what sort of a woman she really was.

She’d told him the first time they’d ever met. At the little house on Nightingale Grove where she now lived. It had all come out. He’d asked about references from her previous landlord and when she started to explain, she’d found herself telling him the whole story. Words tumbling over each other as she raced through every last, sordid detail. And afterwards, when she’d finally stopped speaking and crying, he’d pulled a blue silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her.

‘Sounds like you could use a friend.’ That was all he said. Never mentioned a word of what she’d told him then or any time after that.

Which was why now, when he asked if she’d like to go for a meal, she smiled and said what a good idea it was.

‘But only if you let me pay,’ she said. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

At the restaurant, she ate little and drank more wine than she would normally. They talked about everything and nothing. By the end of it she was exhausted, but also relaxed. It was a long time since she’d felt like this.

Fifteen minutes later, when Nathan pulled up outside her house and asked if she’d like him to sleep on the couch, she was able to smile and tell him truthfully, yes, that would be great.