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It’s quiet in the car on the drive back. Her phone pings with updates on their sick patient, and I put the reason for her silence down to that. When we get to the practice, she says nothing as I unload the box of things she collected from her ex yesterday and put them in the boot of her Land Rover, nor when I say I’ll see her Friday, if not before. She only wears that tight smile she forces when she doesn’t mean it. And once she’s hurried away into the building, I sit a few minutes looking at the closed door, willing her to reappear, maybe even just wave to suggest that last night and earlier wasn’t a mistake she was already regretting.
Driving home, I try to think about what happens next, but I’m too close to focus and nothing is clear. It’s less clear when I pull up outside the house and the Tiguan is parked on the driveway.
I check the clock on the dash in case I’ve misjudged the time, but it’s not even half one yet. It’s Monday and she should be in work until five. I unmute my phone and three messages and a missed call light up the screen, all from Ange. With a glance at my reflection in the rear-view mirror, I push my hand through my hair, but there’s little I can do about the grey patches under my eyes, and the rough stubble that a few hours ago I thought made me seem gruff, but now just makes me look like I haven’t slept. Squinting eyes have got guilt stamped through them deeper than a stick of rock.
I turn the key in the door thinking I’ll stay long enough to make my excuses, then take myself off somewhere, come back later when I have this all worked out in my head. Because whatever I am, I’m not a coward, and I won’t be a cheat. I won’t lie to her, not over something like this. Things haven’t been right for a while. If we’re both honest with ourselves, we can’t deny that.
The house is quiet as I go through to the kitchen, fill the kettle and take the Thermos from my work bag to rinse it out.
‘I’ve been trying to call you.’
I half turn, catching her outline in the doorway out of the corner of my eye. Dragging the coffee jar over the counter, I flip up the lid, drop two spoons of it into the flask.
‘I told you I was on my way back.’
The soles of her slippers scrape over the floor as she comes into the kitchen.
‘Day off?’ I ask, glancing back to see leaning against the cabinets on the other side of the room, arms crossed.
‘How was the work thing?’
The water is close enough to boiling and I hit the switch, fill the flask. ‘Same shit, different venue. Just a training exercise. We had a few beers after. It was easier to stop over.’
‘So you said in your text.’
I screw on the top of the flask and give it a shake.
‘So where are you going now?’
‘They’re holding a memorial for an RTC victim in a couple of weeks. At the college where she studied. Told them I’d help the family with some of the arrangements.’
‘Very good of you. Is that a work thing too?’
‘Some of us go beyond what’s asked of us,’ I say, tipping the flask over the sink to check for leaks, and hoping she’ll leave it there.
‘So they’re paying you overtime? The Force for yesterday, the Johnson family for today? I’m assuming it’s the Johnson girl you’re talking about.’
Anna. Her name’s Anna.
I turn from the sink, eyes stinging and a headache threatening. ‘When did you get so bloody heartless, Ange?’
She returns the stare, hard and cruel. This isn’t the way I wanted to do it. But at least it’s progress. Now we’re getting somewhere. Except when she speaks, her voice is empty of anger, empty of everything.
‘Steve, do you not notice anything?’
My head’s so fuzzy, and her words so unexpected, I have to replay her question in my head first. But while I do, I look at her properly. Her face is free of make up and she’s dressed casually in jeans and a white cotton blouse that hangs loosely over her hips. Her thick, chestnut hair is hooked back behind her ears with nothing of the care she usually takes over it.
‘Are you alright, Ange? Are you ill?’
‘Do you not notice something missing?’ she prompts, trying to be firm, but tears welling up against her better intentions.
‘Ange, please. What is it, love?’
I put the flask on the counter, tightness gripping my chest. But she looks from me to the corner of the room. I follow her line of vision to the plastic bed on the floor, the worn brown cushion that fills it, the half-chewed duck and the blanket Ange crocheted, Dan’s before he gave it to his new pup Rumpole.
My gaze goes around the kitchen and out to the hall, replaying the last five, ten minutes. How I’d come in through the door and Rumpole hadn’t greeted me. But that wasn’t unusual; he didn’t do that so much any more. He’s always in his bed though, or else will come out from the sitting room to find me once I’m home, pre-warn me of trouble with his weary eyes. But not now. Not today. No tapping of his paws over the tiles, or grunt as he gets himself down or back up again, no pant of his breath as he tries to run. Another glance at Ange tells me the rest.
‘Where is he?’
‘I had to take him to the vet. I’m so sorry.’
I cross the room while she’s still talking, and crouch to the empty bed.
‘I couldn’t leave him there like that, Steve. Not with Dan... And I didn’t know when you’d get back. I’ve been calling—’
‘When did it happen?’ I touch the bed. It’s cool on the surface, but the blanket is warmer when I reach beneath.
She doesn’t answer. I turn and see it’s because she can’t. Her hand is curled into a fist at her chin, mouth crumpled, tears dripping from her face to her shirt.
‘He was already gone when I got up this morning,’ she says, still looking at the dog’s bed when I get up from the floor and go to her – still seeing him there maybe, how he would have looked when she found him. I put my arms around her, swallowing over the lump that catches in my throat.
‘I left him in the sitting room while Dan had breakfast,’ she explains, the words warm on my skin through my shirt. ‘I haven’t told him yet. I couldn’t.’
‘It’s okay. I’ll tell him later.’
‘The vet says we can pick up the ashes tomorrow. They’ll call. I think that’s what they said. I think they said they’ll call.’
‘Alright, Ange.’ My hand brushes over her hair. ‘I’ll sort it. Okay? Don’t worry. I’m here now. I’ll sort it.’
She nods against my chest and we stay that way for a while. Her taking comfort that she’s no longer having to do this alone; me feeling like a hole’s growing so large inside of me I might any second choke on it.
