He is right about one other thing, my husband: we do need to talk.
I wish my mum were here, and the thought is one that shocks me. It rarely happens.
But my mum, like everyone, is in England, summoned over from Spain after I left hospital in a desperate attempt to prise the baby away from Marc when Loll wasn’t succeeding.
‘This couldn’t be called kidnap, could it, darling?’ Mum asked nervously when she first arrived.
I bit her head off. My child. My right. No it wasn’t bloody kidnap! Loll and my mum exchanged a glance; never said the word again.
I look at Marc now, his hands loose on the wheel.
‘We need to figure stuff out,’ he says, forcing a smile. I picture myself, holding my belly and crying out as I lay at the bottom of the stairs. Opening my eyes at the wheel. As I remember the water – my lifelong love – becoming terrifying to me after Marc shoved my face down into it. The panic attack I had when I first tried to swim after what he did to me; the thing that had always calmed me now a horror. I ball my hand into a fist to stop it from shaking. But this needs doing. There is no running away; him here next to me proves that. ‘Adam will realise that.’
‘But we could have left a note, a—’
‘He’s not stupid. He’ll figure it out. He told me where you were, remember.’
I nod. Reassure him.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. A warning.
I nod again, more convincing.