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32. SUMMER 2013

Catherine sits at work, her eyes fixed on her computer screen but seeing nothing. Her head is in revolt, unable to hold a coherent thought; each one old and new carries its own pain. The newest, freshest memories hurt the most. Robert has moved out. She thinks he has checked into a hotel, but she is not sure. He won’t speak to her. The last thing he told her was that he couldn’t bear the sight of her. The words had left her gasping. What had she expected? Not that. She knew she had concealed parts of herself from Robert, but she had not realised, until now, how much of him she didn’t know. When she had tried to imagine his response to the book, she had failed to conjure up this bitterness. His anger shocked her; he has allowed it to fill every space, making him deaf to anything she might say. She sleeps in the spare room now, hiding from the emptiness of their bed.

She clicks on her screen, pretending to work, but the shock she’d felt when he had confronted her with the photographs slices through her again. He wants her to be punished. He thinks she deserves it. She had tried not to look at the pictures — tried to flick them away — blinking them into fragments, but they had broken through into her head and it is a one-way street. Those images will never leave now. The photographs were used as the source material for the book, crude and base, wriggling themselves into a false projection of the real story, but it is a story which Robert has chosen to believe. And her years of secrecy have helped him reach his verdict of guilty; her misguided belief that she had a right to silence has condemned her.

“You know the headmaster who left Rathbone College just after Brigstocke was ‘retired’? Well, I’ve found out they were friends at Cambridge. I’ve got a number for him — shall I give him a call?”

“Back off, Kim. There’s no story. Just leave it,” she snaps before she can stop herself. Fuck. She’s losing control here too. She doesn’t want to alienate Kim.

“Sorry, but there’s nothing there. Forget it. Forget Stephen Brigstocke.” She puts a hand on her arm but Kim shakes it off and limps away like an injured puppy. Catherine shouldn’t have spoken to her like that. She must hold it together. Work is her only refuge. She fingers the piece of paper Kim gave her a few days ago, with Stephen Brigstocke’s telephone number and address, and puts it in her pocket.

“Tea?” she calls across, but Kim ignores her. Simon looks over and gives Catherine a smile.

“Yes, please,” he says.

He follows her into the kitchen, cup held out, whitened teeth gleaming.

“Everything all right, Cath?” A whine of concern in his voice. Oh, fuck off. Her hate for this man is unreasonable she knows.

“Yes, fine thanks.”

“Moving house is one of those things, isn’t it — right up there with divorce — enough to make anyone stressed.” She keeps her back to him, hiding her fury. He must have witnessed her snap at Kim. She puts three bags in the pot, fills it with water then pours his tea without giving it time to brew, ignoring his gesture to wait, and enjoying the insipid grey she slops into his mug. Her phone beeps as she hands him the tea.

A text from Robert? She tries to hide her shaking hands: “Your recent accident could make you eligible…” It’s an advertisement. Shit.

“You all right?”

She nods yes, but she feels trapped, stifled by Simon’s presence, unable to think. She stalks out, taking her phone to the ladies’. She needs privacy, some fucking privacy, just to be able to think. Robert is not going to call her. She had hoped that, once the first shock had settled, he would be able to listen to her, that she could tell him everything in her own words. But instead he has amputated her like a gangrenous limb. She tries to suppress her own anger, but it is becoming harder. Doesn’t she deserve a hearing? Instead he is making her feel like a stalker, her endless texts and voice mails ignored. She calls his secretary.

“Hi, Katy. I just wondered if Robert was in at the moment. I don’t need to talk to him, I just wanted to drop something by…” She sounds like a woman who suspects her husband of having an affair. If he is in his office she will go there and confront him; he won’t be able to run away; he won’t want a scene, he will have to listen.

“No, he left early,” she is told. “He said he was going to work from home this afternoon.”

“Of course. Stupid me. I forgot.” Every day a new lie.

When she walks through the front door, she trips over a holdall and her heart races. He’s come home. Thank God, he’s moved back in. But it is Nicholas’s bag, not Robert’s. It is Nicholas who is moving in. There’s already a heap of dirty washing outside the kitchen. Robert is at the house though, sitting at the kitchen table with Nick. A beer each. A smile on Robert’s face, the sports pages open in front of Nicholas. Neither looks up as she walks in. There is a brief moment, a flash, when she thinks: Nicholas spare room, her back in bed with Robert? But when Robert looks at her, she knows this is fantasy and his words confirm it.

“Nick’s come to keep me company while you’re away.”

What the…? Nicholas looks at her and she is struck by how pale and tired he looks. Does he know? But then he smiles and returns to the newspaper. She opens her mouth to speak but Robert beats her to it. Robert is in charge.

“Sounds like a big story, so I guess you’ll be gone for a few weeks. I packed you a bag — I thought you’d be in a hurry to get off.”

Every sentence feels like a slap across her face. He has told Nick she is going away for work. She approaches him, takes his hand: “Robert…” She wants him to go upstairs with her, to listen to her, but he pulls his hand away and picks up the phone. She hears him call a cab.

“What’s the story, Mum?” Nicholas asks, but Robert answers for her.

“Oh, your mother won’t even tell me.” He sounds so glib, and Nicholas isn’t that interested anyway and returns to the football gossip.

“The cab’s on its way. You better go and check I’ve packed what you want.” She stays where she is for a moment, wanting to scream at him how dare he but she doesn’t, she can’t — not in front of Nicholas.

She goes upstairs and sits on the bed. He has packed a small case, enough for a week. She looks at the folded clothes, the knickers stuffed down the side, the washbag zipped up and placed on top. She feels around in the case, hoping that maybe he will have slipped in a note to say he just needs time to think. A little space and then they can talk. But there is no note. He doesn’t need to explain. She does.

“Your cab’s here,” he yells up and she closes the case and carries it downstairs. She wants Robert to look at her, to meet her eye, but he won’t. He is all brisk and bright. There’s supper to get ready. They can manage very well without her, thank you, she hears in her head. Nicholas gets up and shambles towards her, kicking a sock which has strayed from the pile of dirty clothes.

“See you, Mum,” he says and she gives him a hug. No words. She looks over his shoulder at Robert, but still he refuses to look at her. Coward, she thinks and feels Nicholas slither from her embrace. The cab is waiting.

She closes the front door and walks to the car with its engine running. The driver watches her put her case on the backseat and get in next to it.

“Where to?” he asks. Robert hasn’t decided her destination then. Where to? She gives the driver an address.