22
It was amazing how once you decided to act as if something had never happened, you could almost make yourself believe it was true. Apart from still feeling deeply uneasy (not to mention queasy) in Charles’s presence, Jen found she could function in a way that pretty much passed for normal. If enough time went by, she felt as if she might even forget about it altogether. It would become nothing more than a bizarre but vivid dream – or maybe more of a nightmare.
She was hoping it would be like a stain on the carpet, gradually receding as the months went on, just a residual shadow left that she would bury at the back of her mind and forget. It was worth a try. She tried to ignore the fact that there was a mark on their living-room rug from when she had spilled red wine on it about ten years ago. Still as vivid and bloody as the day it had happened.
They were slobbing around at home one Saturday afternoon a couple of weeks later, just the two of them, Jen and Jason, pyjamas still on, knowing they should go out and do something, but unable to face the ice and slush that had overtaken the streets, when Jen’s mobile rang. She picked it up and looked to see who was calling, expecting to see Poppy’s number, or Amelia’s. Neither of them ever called on the house phone, these days. When she saw the name, she almost dropped it again.
She hit decline, switched the phone to silent in case it rang again.
‘Who was that?’ Jason looked up from his paper, only half interested.
‘Jessie. I can’t face another conversation about cracked nipples.’
‘You should have put her on to me. I’m an expert.’
Jessie was proving to be a somewhat neurotic first-time mother, unsurprisingly, and had taken to calling Jen or Poppy at all hours of the day and night and opening the conversation with such gems as, ‘My nipples are literally falling off, I mean, literally. I’m not joking,’ and, ‘Her poop is coming out green. It’s like pond water. Should I call the doctor?’
One time, Jason had answered and, before he could even say hello, Jessie had declared, ‘Martin wants to have sex with me already, but I told him it looks like roadkill down there at the moment. I don’t want him anywhere near it.’
Jason had calmly replied, ‘I agree. I imagine it’s ghastly,’ and handed the phone over to Jen, saying, ‘I think she wants you.’
She tried to imagine why Cass might be phoning. She knew Cass had her number – Jen had called her back about the Roedean Crescent house, after all, and she had given Jen her own mobile number at the same time, just in case either of them was running late.
And, to Jen’s shame, she had drunk texted her, the night after she got back from Brighton. She and Jason had shared a bottle of wine when they got home from work, and Jen had started to feel more and more righteously indignant on Cass’s behalf, despite her promise to herself to bury the news. She had tried to imagine Jason acknowledging Simone as his daughter, but not Emily. Showing one of them off – like Charles had always loved to do with Poppy and Jessie – and refusing the other’s pleas for recognition.
She remembered Jessie’s wedding to Martin and the way Charles had beamed on his walk up the aisle, pride dripping off him like sweat. And that made her think about how, when she had married Jason and had had no male relative to give her away (it had been out of the question that she would tell Rory she was getting married – even if she had known where to send the invitation – let alone invite him to play a part in the ceremony), Charles had stepped in willingly, and Jen had felt so proud on his arm. In his speech he had said that the cliché about gaining a daughter had never been more true. He said it as if he was thrilled to be increasing his flock. No hint that in a field outside, somewhere, a black sheep had been shivering in the cold, waiting hopefully for twenty-five years to be invited in.
When Jason had gone out to the kitchen to pour them both another glass, Jen had grabbed her phone and texted:
Jessie had a baby girl a couple of weeks ago by the way. Violet. Your half niece! I forgot to tell you but I thought you should know. Jen
As soon as she had sent it, she’d known that she shouldn’t have. She had turned her phone off and hidden it under a cushion. In the morning, when she’d switched it on again, having completely forgotten her misdemeanour, there was a terse message from Cass:
Obviously I won’t be sending a card.
Jen had deleted both texts – her own and Cass’s – and tried to forget it had ever happened.
Now she surreptitiously turned her mobile over, in case it lit up to tell her there was a message or, God forbid, a text that Jason might catch sight of.
‘Let’s do something.’ She stood up, purposefully.
‘Too miserable out,’ Jason said.
‘Well, then, let’s watch something. We can’t sit here doing nothing all day.’
‘Casablanca? Now, Voyager? Angels with Dirty Faces?’ Jason rattled off their rainy-afternoon favourites, each of which they had seen at least twenty times before.
‘You choose. I’m going to make some tea.’ She slipped her phone into the pocket of her oversize cardigan. In the kitchen, once she knew Jason was occupied with hunting through the DVD shelves, she dug it out. Two missed calls. Cass must have phoned straight back. No messages.
She thought about sending a text, saying ‘What do you want?’ but she worried it might sound confrontational and, anyway, she couldn’t risk getting into a text exchange – not with Jason around. The only thing to do was to switch her mobile off. There was no way Cass had her home number. She never gave it to anyone these days, and they had always been ex-directory, ever since some of Jason’s students had got hold of it and started calling at two or three in the morning, drunk and thinking they were being hilarious. Actually, Jen had thought she was pretty hilarious herself when she’d taken the phone out of his hand one night and told them to go fuck themselves.
She would have to worry about Cass later.
Two hours on, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, although her mind had only been half on the thwarted romance of Bette Davis and Paul Henreid, she sneaked up to the bathroom, switched on her mobile again and it immediately began to buzz with missed calls and then messages.
She listened to the first one. Cass’s voice, familiar even after such a short acquaintance, sounded strained. The connection was bad and Jen had to struggle to pick up all the words. She played it again.
‘Hi, Jen. I am so, so sorry to be calling you but I don’t know what else to do. My mum’s had a car accident. She’s in hospital. She’s in a bit of a bad way and I need to let Dad know, but he’s not answering his phone because he’s obviously with Amelia. I hate to involve you, but could you just call him? He’ll answer, if it’s you. Just tell him she’s in King’s.’
She left the name of the ward and then said something that sounded like she was there now.
Jen sat on the edge of the bath and tried to think what to do. There was no point even listening to the other messages. She knew exactly what they would be. Cass had sounded desperate. Her mother was hurt, and she needed her father. Fuck. But Jen really didn’t want to be the one to break it to Charles. Telling him this news would let him know that she knew the whole story, that she and Cass had been in contact, that his cover was blown. And she couldn’t risk sending him a text, in case Amelia happened to read it. What kind of a person would she be if she ignored Cass’s plea, though? And what if Cass got so desperate that she stopped being careful, stopped worrying about whether Amelia might see something she shouldn’t.
She had no choice. She sent Cass a message that simply said:
I’ll call Amelia on the landline at 5 and keep her occupied so u can get Charles on his mobile then. OK?
A few seconds later, she got a reply:
OK. Thanks.
Half an hour later, she phoned the Twickenham house. Thankfully, Amelia answered so she didn’t even have to try to make polite conversation with Charles before he handed her over. Her mother-in-law chatted happily about their Christmas shopping plans. Jen assumed that Charles was in the other room, being told the bad news. She had no way of knowing.