Chapter 3

Monday, 4th October

The taxi waits, headlights streaming in the early morning mist. Mark snaps his case shut and picks up his laptop, phone and keys from the glass bowl on the hall table.

‘I’ll try and call tonight once I’ve got myself settled at Charles’s place so that I can speak to the twins before they get to bed.’

His lips brush my cheek, he buttons his coat. ‘Are you going back to bed?’

I nod. What else would I do a 5:45am? I’m silently willing him to go, my feet so cold on the grimy Victorian tiles they hurt. Frigid damp air flows over the threshold, across the floor and encircles my ankles and knees. I tug my robe tighter about my waist and wrap my arms across my chest. I’d been determined to get up and make Mark some tea before he heads off.

‘Re-set the alarm so you don’t sleep in.’

I nod, smile. ‘I’m sure I can manage to get the twins to school. It’s not rocket science.’

We stand close together. He’s taller than me by almost six inches and for a moment I focus on the weave of his white cotton shirt, the stripes in his dark blue tie, breath in the familiar citrus cologne. I don’t know how to say goodbye. It’s not something we’ve really ever had to do. Seeing Mark off to London with no hint he’s planning to move to something more local isn’t something I want. Will he enjoy the freedom of Charles’s flat? No constraints, no twins or wife to make demands on his time, free to come and go as he pleases? Charles is a good person. I’ve known him for more than a decade, but he’s Mark’s old university buddy, not mine.

‘Don’t get stressed about the interview, okay?’ He kisses the top of my head and I look up into tired and strained hazel eyes. ‘And make sure you take the meds, keep things on an even keel, yeah?’

Don’t let everything get a bit crazy’s what he means. Not a great time to mention I’ve dropped the medication. See how you go, our London GP had said. I’ve taken an occasional sleeping tablet lately, only if I really need it, nothing more.

‘I won’t. I need something to do now my brain’s back or I’ll lose it.’

Mark thinks I’ll never be sharp enough for legal work again, always a little slower, duller than before. Months ago I was terrified he might be right, now I’m determined to prove him wrong. I trace my thumb along the dark channel beneath his eye. ‘Get some rest when you can, you look so tired.’

‘That bloody knocking drove me nuts last night. It’s loud at times. I could’ve done with a couple of your sleeping pills to knock me out if I’m honest. We’re full on with this fraud case; Blackstone’s not going to cut me any slack just because I’m knackered.’

I stand on tiptoe, pull on the lapels of his jacket, we kiss briefly as the taxi engine revs. His mobile buzzes, the shrill sound wavers, the signal weak. We move apart as he gropes in his pocket for the phone.

‘Pick up the attic keys, but don’t go up there on your own. We’ll take a look next weekend.’

‘As if I would!’

I laugh and shake my head. I’m shivering, can’t stop. It’s just too cold.

He grabs his case. ‘I have to get this, the signal’s better outside,’ he says, waving the phone between us and heads toward the taxi. Who the hell calls him at this time in the morning?

‘Don’t forget to chase up the position at the local chambers,’ I call at his back.

He raises his hand. ‘I will, Kate, don’t worry.’

He stopped speaking about moving chambers weeks ago. Once we exchanged contracts and were certain of moving here he’s made no effort to get the ball rolling. Why hasn’t he? Am I over analysing everything, in too much of a hurry, too much at once? Probably.

‘Go in, Kate, don’t freeze on the doorstep,’ he calls back over his shoulder as he jogs down the front steps. ‘I’ll see you at the weekend. Good luck with the interview.’ His tone is distracted, his attention no longer here, moved on already, back to the life I understand.

 

I’m somewhere between awake and sleep. That soft, fuzzy phase before life butts in. In the distance, a sharp, persistent sound. I can’t quite grasp it. I slip away. Sink back into the haze.

‘Mummy! Mrs Cooper is here. She wants to know should she do the cleaning.’

Sophie’s voice is loud, close to my ear.

‘Mummy? What should I tell her?’

My daughter’s bony fingers press into my shoulder as she shakes me, her voice ringing with anxiety, thin nails like razors against my skin.

‘Mummy!’

Sunlight illuminates the still-closed curtains surrounding my daughter in a halo of soft blue light. I screw my eyes to look into her face. She kneels beside the bed, her face so close to mine I smell chocolate breath, another pre-breakfast raid on the kitchen cupboard top shelf.

‘She made me come up here to ask you.’

‘Mrs Cooper?’

‘She’s that cleaning lady.’

We’d met Mrs Cooper when we looked around the house during the summer. I’d forgotten we’d agreed she would do a Monday morning for us. She came in three days a week she’d said for Mrs Havers.

‘She wouldn’t come with me, neither would Tom. He’s too chicken, but I don’t like the scary noises either. It’s not fair.’

The room begins to come into focus: the hulking dark wardrobe, packing boxes, my clothes heaped over the back of one of the chairs we brought here from London.

‘What have you heard this time?’ I say.

‘The knocking noises, just now, when I came upstairs. She’s in the kitchen and wants to know about the cleaning. Her fifteen pounds isn’t under the kettle she says, so do you want her?’

I prop myself up on an elbow. Had I heard the sounds when I was dozing? I run a hand through my hair and remember . . .

The interview.

‘Bugger!’

I throw back the duvet and sit up on the edge of the bed.

‘Mummy!’

‘Sorry, Sophie, but what’s the time?’

‘I don’t know. Late, cos I’m starving.’

I fumble for my mobile on the bedside table as Sophie opens the curtains.

9:25am.

‘You should’ve been at school half an hour ago! Quickly, go and get dressed. Tell Tom as well and we do need Mrs Cooper to clean.’

‘Tom’s watching telly. So was I until Mrs Cooper turned up.’

‘Both of you get dressed, now! I’ll phone the school and say you’ll be late.’

‘I don’t want to go downstairs on my own!’

“It’s fine, Sophie. I don’t hear anything, do you?’ I put an arm around my daughter’s shoulders. We walk to the bedroom door.

‘It’s going to take us a little while to get used to living here. Once we know the house it won’t seem so strange.’

Sophie and I peep around my bedroom door jamb like a couple of thieves. The doors at either end of the landing, to the office and spare room, are shut.

‘There, all quiet, no weird sounds. I’ll watch you run down the downstairs,’ I say, hugging my daughter close.

Sophie dashes off along the landing, glancing back at me as she grabs the mahogany handrail at the top of the flight. The ends of her long brown hair fly as she hurtles down to the hall. I head for the bathroom. The twins’ rooms are a mess already. The tiny door to the attic, locked. The bathroom door stands open, nothing lurks in the bath or hides in the shower.

I look in the heavy-framed mirror and wonder for the umpteenth time: who is this woman? On the outside she looks pretty normal, someone to pass on the street without a second glance. My light brown bed-head hair is a tousled mess, a disturbed night despite the sleeping pill, and I’m giving Mark a run for his money as far as eye bags are concerned. The haunted look, the blank stare that clouded my blue eyes for weeks is gone, much more my normal self. On the inside though, someone different, different from before. China clatters downstairs and I remember the half-loaded dishwasher, the kitchen table covered in silver foil food cartons and plates of half-eaten Chinese.

‘Shit!’ Not a great first impression.

I wash and apply make-up for the first time since the Chambers summer drinks do back in July. Socialising isn’t something I’ve done much lately. I straighten my hair into the shiny jaw-length bob I’ve always worn to the office. The transformation is startling. I instantly look like a woman worth listening to. How looks can be deceiving.

My navy suit hangs next to two of Mark’s on the picture rail in our bedroom. I dig in my underwear drawer until I find a snag-free pair of tights. I’ve worn casual stuff, jeans, tee-shirts and sweatpants since the breakdown. The suit feels alien, the skirt, boxy jacket and heels, as though I’m wearing someone else’s clothes. Mark’s stuck a forest of Post-it notes on the mirrors of the old dressing table. He left fewer messages through August and September due to his confidence in my ability to cope with the day-to-day again. I hope we’re not going backwards.

I snatch one up. Cleaner coming 9am.

Then another: DON’T go in the attic alone. Weekend is soon enough.

The rest are about minor things: what’s in the freezer, where my car keys are, one about the torch needing batteries is handy. Anger and frustration mingle as I stare into the foxed mirror. Why is he doing this again now, after weeks of trusting me with routine stuff? Panic starts to curl in my stomach, a fist slowly tightening. Stop it.

Breathe.

I can do this now.

Breathe.

Even if Mark can’t see it.

Breathe.

Keep breathing, take my time.

I count shuddering, deep breaths; count silently in my head, one, two, three . . .

Not bad. Eight is a massive improvement, it took over thirty to escape the ladies’ loo in Tesco three weeks ago. I could take a diazepam with me just in case. What was worse? A brain numbed by pills, or running out of the interview sweating like a pig and jabbering nonsense as panic engulfs me? I don’t want to go backwards. I won’t go back to them now.

The landing is gloomy, the house silent as if it also holds its breath. The icy draught whips along the corridor, even with the doors closed. It sneaks under floorboards, between the gap under doors making showering a total misery, duvets freezing and clothes damp and heavy. Tom’s asthma cough returned over the weekend, a result of the damp chill and constantly invading dust.

Our torch, Mark’s box of essentials, an empty light bulb box and several blackened spent ones lie on the grimy green runner at the top of the stairs. The last one from the box hangs black from the ceiling. I’d washed the fluted shade when Mark changed a blown bulb, it glistened briefly before the replacement bulb burnt out.

I head downstairs, an enticing smell of buttered toast drifts toward me. Book bags, black school shoes and Sophie’s violin case line up beside the front door. A taster day went well at the end of last term. I was supposed to drop them off this morning just after nine when the other pupils had settled. Now we’re late. Another not-so-good first impression. I reach the hall and glance back up the stairs. A movement, so fleeting, in the corner of my eye, sunlight and shadows. How long before this old house begins to feel familiar?

The kitchen is already under Mrs Cooper’s control. All signs of Chinese swept away, children dressed and eating scrambled eggs on toast to the churn of the dishwasher.

‘Morning! Cuppa in the pot if you fancy one, dear.’

Mrs Cooper has what Mum called a comfortable figure. Her large and rather angular backside being its most notable feature, although her bosom is hard to ignore. Her brown hair is threaded with grey and looped in a scrunchy at the back of her head. It must be quite long when loose; I can’t imagine her with her hair down. Her yellow sweater has a long thin paisley-patterned scarf in various shades of blue tied at the neck. She smiles, waves a J-cloth towards the teapot, jangling a mass of thin silver bangles on her wrist.

‘I called the school and spoke with the secretary. I said the children would be along as soon as they’d eaten. Full stomachs are better than grumbling ones, especially on a first day.’ Her eyes flick over my attire, she looks surprised. She’d not expected the suit. ‘I can walk them over to the school when they’re done if you like?’

The twins look up from their eggs, Sophie pulls a face which I ignore. How dare she phone the school!

‘I’ll take them,’ I say.

A bunch of my drawings are scattered on the table top along with Mark’s file for his father’s estate. I scoop them into a pile. The rough sketch for a new kitchen has a Post-it stuck to it: Looks good, discuss at w/end. I drop the pile of papers onto the sofa, head toward the teapot and put milk into a mug. The tea is dark, almost orange, as I pour it.

‘I brought some tea leaves with me, dear. Hope you don’t mind none. I can’t abide that wishy-washy stuff.’ She means the breakfast blend. ‘I need a gallon of tea when I’m cleaning. Gives me a right old thirst, and I like to look at my leaves and see what’s in store. This morning they reckoned a storm’s brewing.’

The liquid is thick, coating my tongue as I sip it. Mrs Cooper wipes the counter with a vigour I have to admire and I wonder from her tone if she means well. I’m just edgy, the twins’ first day at school, the interview less than an hour away. I’m not sure I’ll get myself to it. My leaves, perhaps, would tell our cleaner if I’ll make it.

‘You alright, love?’

Mrs Cooper holds the J-cloth in one hand as she peers at me. I stare at her for a second. I’ve missed a bit. The zoning out hasn’t happened in a while. Stress of the interview. Mustn’t let it get to me.

‘That tea,’ the J-cloth waves, bangles rattle, ‘will be stone cold if you don’t drink it now.’

I glance at the kitchen wall clock. ‘Actually, we’d better go, kids,’ I say, standing the mug on the kitchen worktop.