MONDAY, AUGUST 12, 2013
MORNING
We’re in the car park at Wilton Lake. We used tocome here sometimes, to go swimming on really hotdays. Today we’re just sitting side by side in Tom’scar, windows down, letting the warm breeze in. Iwant to lean my head back against the headrest andclose my eyes and smell the pine and listen to thebirds. I want to hold his hand and stay here all day.
He called me last night and asked if we could meet.
I asked if this was about the thing with Anna, seeingher on Blenheim Road. I said it had nothing to dowith them—I hadn’t been there to bother them. Hebelieved me, or at least he said he did, but he stillsounded wary, a little anxious. He said he needed totalk to me.
“Please, Rach,” he said, and that was it—the way hesaid it, just like the old days, I thought my heartwould burst. “I’ll come and pick you up, OK?”
I woke up before dawn and was in the kitchenmaking coffee at five. I washed my hair and shavedmy legs and put on makeup and changed fourtimes. And I felt guilty. Stupid, I know, but I thoughtabout Scott—about what we did and how it felt—andI wished I hadn’t done it, because it felt like abetrayal. Of Tom. The man who left me for anotherwoman two years ago. I can’t help how I feel.
Tom arrived just before nine. I went downstairs andthere he was, leaning on his car, wearing jeans andan old grey T-shirt—old enough that I can rememberexactly how the fabric felt against my cheek when Ilay across his chest.
“I’ve got the morning off work,” he said when hesaw me. “I thought we could go for a drive.”
We didn’t say much on the drive to the lake. Heasked me how I was and told me I looked well. Hedidn’t mention Anna until we were sitting there inthe car park and I was thinking about holding hishand.
“Yeah, um, Anna said she saw you?.?.?. and shethought you might have been coming from ScottHipwell’s house. Is that right?” He’s turned to faceme, but he isn’t actually looking at me. He seemsalmost embarrassed to be asking me the question.
“You don’t have to worry about it,” I tell him. “I’vebeen seeing Scott?.?.?. I mean, not like that, not seeinghim. We’ve become friendly. That’s all. It’s difficult toexplain. I’ve just been helping him out a bit. Youknow—obviously you know—that he’s been goingthrough a terrible time.”
Tom nods, but he still doesn’t look at me. Insteadhe chews on the nail of his left forefinger, a suresign that he’s worried.
“But Rach?.?.?.”
I wish he’d stop calling me that, because it makesme feel light-headed, it makes me want to smile. It’sbeen so long since I’ve heard him say my name likethat, and it’s making me hope. Maybe things aren’tgoing so well with Anna, maybe he remembers someof the good things about us, maybe there’s a part ofhim that misses me.
“I’m just?.?.?. I’m really concerned about this.”
He looks up at me at last, his big brown eyes lockon mine and he moves his hand a little, as if he’sgoing to take mine, but then he thinks better of itand stops. “I know—well, I don’t really know muchabout it, but Scott?.?.?. I know that he seems like aperfectly decent bloke, but you can’t be sure, canyou?”
“You think he did it?”
He shakes his head, swallows hard. “No, no. I’mnot saying that. I know?.?.?. Well, Anna says that theyargued a lot. That Megan sometimes seemed a littleafraid of him.”
“Anna says?” My instinct is to dismiss anything thatbitch says, but I can’t get away from the feeling Ihad when I was at Scott’s house on Saturday, thatsomething was off, something was wrong.
He nods. “Megan did some babysitting for us whenEvie was tiny. Jesus, I don’t even like to think aboutthat now, after what’s been in the papers lately. Butit goes to show, doesn’t it, that you think you knowsomeone and then?.?.?.” He sighs heavily. “I don’twant anything bad to happen. To you.” He smiles atme then, gives a little shrug. “I still care about you,Rach,” he says, and I have to look away because Idon’t want him to see the tears in my eyes. Heknows, of course, and he puts his hand on myshoulder and says, “I’m so sorry.”
We sit for a while in comfortable silence. I bitedown hard on my lip to stop myself from crying. Idon’t want to make this any harder for him, I reallydon’t.
“I’m all right, Tom. I’m getting better. I am.”
“I’m really glad to hear that. You’re not—”
“Drinking? Less. It’s getting better.”
“That’s good. You look well. You look?.?.?. pretty.” Hesmiles at me and I can feel myself blush. He looksaway quickly. “Are you?.?.?. um?.?.?. are you all right,you know, financially?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really? Are you really, Rachel, because I don’t wantyou to—”
“I’m OK.”
“Will you take a little? Fuck, I don’t want to soundlike an idiot, but will you just take a little? To tideyou over?”
“Honestly, I’m OK.”
He leans across then, and I can hardly breathe, Iwant to touch him so badly. I want to smell hisneck, bury my face in that broad, muscular gapbetween his shoulder blades. He opens the glove box.
“Let me just write you a cheque, just in case, youknow? You don’t even have to cash it.”
I start laughing. “You still keep a chequebook in theglove box?”
He starts laughing, too. “You never know,” he says.
“You never know when you’re going to have to bailout your insane ex-wife?”
He rubs his thumb over my cheekbone. I raise myhand and take his in mine and kiss his palm.
“Promise me,” he says gruffly, “you’ll stay awayfrom Scott Hipwell. Promise me, Rach.”
“I promise,” I say, and I mean it, and I can hardlysee for joy, because I realize that he’s not justworried about me, he’s jealous.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 13, 2013
EARLY MORNING
I’m on the train, looking out at a pile of clothes onthe side of the tracks. Dark-blue cloth. A dress, Ithink, with a black belt. I can’t imagine how it endedup down there. That certainly wasn’t left behind bythe engineers. We’re moving, glacially though, so Ihave plenty of time to look, and it seems to me thatI’ve seen that dress before, I’ve seen someonewearing it. I can’t remember when. It’s very cold.
Too cold for a dress like that. I think it might snowsoon.
I’m looking forward to seeing Tom’s house—myhouse. I know that he’ll be there, sitting outside. Iknow he’ll be alone, waiting for me. He’ll stand upwhen we go past, he’ll wave and smile. I know allthis.
First, though, we stop in front of number fifteen.
Jason and Jess are there, drinking wine on theterrace, which is odd, because it isn’t yet eight thirtyin the morning. Jess is wearing a dress with redflowers on it, she’s wearing little silver earrings withbirds on them—I can see them moving back andforth as she talks. Jason is standing behind her, hishands on her shoulders. I smile at them. I want towave, but I don’t want people to think I’m weird. Ijust watch, and I wish that I had a glass of wine,too.
We’ve been here for ages and the train still isn’tmoving. I wish we’d get going, because if we don’tTom won’t be there and I’ll miss him. I can seeJess’s face now, more clearly than usual—it’ssomething to do with the light, which is very bright,shining directly on her like a spotlight. Jason is stillbehind her, but his hands aren’t on her shouldersnow, they’re on her neck, and she looksuncomfortable, distressed. He’s choking her. I can seeher face turning red. She’s crying. I get to my feet,I’m banging on the window and I’m screaming athim to stop, but he can’t hear me. Someone grabsmy arm—the guy with the red hair. He tells me tosit down, says that we’re not far from the next stop.
“It’ll be too late by then,” I tell him, and he says,“It’s already too late, Rachel,” and when I look backat the terrace, Jess is on her feet and Jason has afistful of her blond hair and he’s going to smash herskull against the wall.
MORNING
It’s hours since I woke, but I’m still shaky, my legstrembling as I sit down in my seat. I woke from thedream with a sense of dread, a feeling thateverything I thought I knew was wrong, thateverything I’d seen—of Scott, of Megan—I’d made upin my head, that none of it was real. But if my mindis playing tricks, isn’t it more likely to be the dreamthat’s illusory? Those things Tom said to me in thecar, all mixed up with guilt over what happened withScott the other night: the dream was just my brainpicking all that apart.
Still, that familiar sense of dread grows when thetrain stops at the signal, and I’m almost t............