To my surprise, as we drive into Rusperford, Guy doesn’t turn left past the church, the road that would take us to my parents’ house. Instead he turns right into the Old Ghyll hotel, a sprawling outcrop of Tudor elegance nestled on the edge of the village, where, according to Jess, we sometimes used to eat at Christmas.
He pulls open the weathered wooden door and I listen as it grates against the uneven slate floor of the porch. I know instantly that I have heard this noise before. We sit at a table next to a roaring log fire, the smell of burning wood strong and heady. A Christmas tree twinkles behind me, decorated with rich gold ribbons and clusters of fir cones decked with bells. Underneath there are presents without names, and all around me I hear the gentle hum of contentment: the clatter of plates, the chink of glasses, the crackle of wood as the fire burns and the wind lures the flames up the chimney. But disappointingly, despite my certainty that I’ve been here before, no specific memory comes to mind.
‘I know you want to speak to your father, Chloe, but let’s take a break here first, OK?’ Guy sets down two glasses of red wine. ‘I didn’t know what you would want.’
I sip the wine, feel the rush of alcohol, the warmth as it hits my throat. The tingle of the flames is sharp against my skin, and I’m grateful for the comfort after spending hours in the cold. Guy takes my coat and loops it over a hook on the wall behind him so that it will dry in the glare of the fire. He pulls his chair close. ‘Now, what the hell happened today? You weren’t making any sense earlier, and your father sounded frantic.’
‘I’m not sure where to start.’ I can feel myself getting upset again. He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his own. His skin feels warm, his touch heavy. Protective almost.
‘Just start with what happened today.’
At first I hesitate. But then, as I begin by telling him how I sneaked from the house, about Ben and the possibility we shared something, all the details come streaming out. I tell him everything my father has told me: that my husband died, that I had left him and that it was my fault he was dead. I tell him how my father withheld the fact I have been called as a witness. I tell him what DS Gray told me regarding the inconsistencies at the crash site, the police’s doubts, and how Andrew is still alive. About Joshua’s blood being found on my clothes. That my father led me to believe it might be my fault that my son is dead. That I killed him.
Guy picks up his red wine and knocks it back. I fiddle at my hair, try to cover up my dressing with my woolly hat. I feel like I have just confessed, that feeling of immense relief. It’s surpassed only by the worry concerning how my confession will be received.
He rubs his chin, then sits back in his chair, his fingers woven together like a basket. ‘That’s quite a lot of information. Why would he lie about something so massive? It’s not like he could keep it up. You’ve been called to court, for goodness’ sake.’
I nod to agree. ‘Why would he even say it in the first place? He told me they had scattered Andrew’s ashes. That there had been a funeral.’
He pulls at his hair, runs his hands through it. He looks as confused as I feel. ‘I’m not sure, but you yourself told me that your husband was perhaps a difficult man. That you had problems and that he was a drinker. Perhaps he was trying to protect you. If it was your husband in the other car, he might have a point.’
Is it possible that Andrew is a threat I need protection from, and that my father’s lies are designed to stop me looking for him? I haven’t experienced any flashbacks to give me cause to fear my husband. But then again, I remember almost nothing from that time.
‘But it’s not just what my father said, is it? It’s what the police said. That the accident doesn’t make sense.’
‘Tell me again what you mean by that. What did DS Gray say exactly?’
‘That my injuries weren’t consistent with me wearing a seatbelt, but that I was wearing one when they found me. That I had Joshua’s blood on my clothes. It doesn’t make any sense to me. But the scary thing is, I know he’s right. I know that I got out of the car that night. I can remember walking through the trees, the rain. I can remember Joshua on the ground…’
I break off, and he waits patiently while I blow my nose and wipe my eyes.
‘The most likely explanation is that this Treadstone character is clutching at straws,’ he says. ‘His car was there. It had the keys in it. Let him call you as a witness. Let them throw anything and everything they like at you. I don’t think it matters, because all you have to do is tell them what you know. There is more than enough evidence to place him at the scene of the accident.’
‘Do you think I should have kept quiet about what I remembered?’
‘I didn’t say that. But your memory isn’t clear, and if he is guilty then he deserves to pay for what he did. It’s not fair that he might go free on the basis that you can’t remember what happened. From what you’ve told me, I’d say the evidence is stacked against him. Plus it most likely was him in the graveyard the other night. Either that or this other guy who works for your father. I think it best you try and steer clear of him based on what the police said.’
And whilst what he says makes sense, and up until a few hours ago I would have agreed, now I can’t help but wonder if it could have been Andrew calling my name that evening.
‘I guess you’re right,’ I say. I glance down at myself, at my hand-me-down clothes and wet shoes. In contrast he looks so well put together, a nice shirt with a pullover on top. People must be wondering what the hell he is doing with me. I look as if I have just been saved from drowning, pulled to the shore and gasping for desperate breaths. ‘I feel so stupid, you having to bring me home like this.’
He is shaking his head. ‘I don’t see it like that. I was happy to help. I understand what it means to lose somebody you love. I know how important it is to take time to grieve for something you can’t have any more. Something you can’t change.’ His eyes glaze over, and I reach across and touch his hand. It’s instinctive, a need to comfort. It draws him back, his eyes meeting mine. ‘My brother died when I was young. It’s hard to get over something like that. Still hurts now, even years later.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I like the contact, the connection, no matter how small, to another living person. But at the same time it makes me aware of the people around us. The hotel is full. Are they watching us? Am I doing something wrong, here with a man who isn’t my husband, now that I know my husband is alive?
‘Look, I’m so grateful for today, for your help and kindness. But I really need to speak with my father,’ I say. ‘I have to face him.’
‘Sure.’ He nods, finishes his wine, stands up. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you there. But if there is anything else you need, just call me, OK?’ He searches in his pocket, finds a pen, scribbles on the back of a cardboard coaster. ‘Don’t hesitate. Even if all you need is a friend. You seem like maybe you could do with one.’
He grabs my coat, holds it up as I slip my arms through the sleeves. I feel his hands run across my shoulders, smoothing the material into place. And to my surprise, I feel a pang of desire wash over me. It has been so long since I’ve been touched by anybody other than my family, felt the pressure of a man’s hands against my skin. I can barely even remember what it feels like. I think of that sensation I got when I saw my mother so close to Peter, the way his hand reached to her face. I remember Ben’s words, his implication that there is something between us that he wishes I could remember. Who was the last man who kissed me? Can I really be sure it was my husband? When I get back to the house I need to ask Ben what he meant, and just what exactly he wished I could remember.
I take a step away, embarrassed by my feelings, and slip the coaster into my pocket. A minute or two later we are back in his car and on the way to the house.
When we arrive, the gate is open, a police car on the driveway. The blue flashing lights remind me of the accident. The lights are on in the windows of the study and dining room, and somebody must hear the car approach because when Guy pulls up my father is already at the door, running towards us.
‘Oh Chloe, we were so worried,’ he bellows, rushing forward, taking me in his arms. He holds me so tight I can hardly breathe. I try to pull away but can’t.
‘Good evening, Dr Daniels,’ Guy says as he gets out of the car.
My father holds me out in front of him, ignoring Guy. ‘Why did you leave without saying anything? We were frantic. How did you even get out?’
He waits for my answer but I don’t offer anything, don’t want to even acknowledge his stupid questions. How did I get out? Why does it seem that the only thing that bothers him is that I outsmarted him? ‘I went to speak with the police,’ I say. ‘Then I came looking for you. Guy found me by chance.’
‘Oh yes,’ he says, indignant, still daring to be angry with me. Still ignoring Guy. He doesn’t yet realise that I know he’s been lying. ‘We know about the visit to the police. What was all that about? These two won’t tell us anything.’ He points towards two uniformed officers stepping from the house. ‘She’s back,’ he calls, and one of them gives a weary nod of the head. How tired of my amnesia they must be. My father thanks them, and after a quick check that I’m all right, they get in their car and drive away.
‘Oh Chloe, you’re back.’ I see my mother hurrying towards me from the house. As she approaches, I turn away from her. She appears so disappointed in that moment. She thought we had become closer, united by collusion. But you can’t fight on two separate fronts. You have to pick a side.
As if to shift things on, get the situation contained, my father turns to Guy. ‘Well, thank you so much,’ he says, moving forward to shake his hand. ‘How lucky that she saw you. I’d love to ask you in for a drink, but Chloe must be tired.’ But the way my father looks at me out of the corner of his eye, I know he has realised that something is wrong. He is no longer quite as confident as he was.
‘It’s no problem. I really should get going anyway,’ Guy says. He waves at me, nods towards my father. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr Daniels.’
We enter the house, the cool light and chilly air sucking me back in. The whole place feels like a lie, and it doesn’t matter what Guy tells me about my father’s best intentions, or his desire to protect me. It doesn’t matter if my relationship with Andrew was falling apart. What I needed when I woke up was the truth.
My father turns to face me as I stand inside the door. ‘Evelyn, bring a blanket,’ he says as he closes the door behind me. He tries to shuffle me out of my coat, fiddling at my zip which he can’t seem to manage in his haste. ‘You’re bloody freezing. Evelyn,’ he hollers again, sharper this time. ‘A blanket, now.’ And then he mutters something about the fact that if he’d have been at home this morning this would never have happened.
I push his hand away and step back. ‘What is it, Chloe?’
I look straight at him. ‘You’re a liar, Dad.’
He is frozen to the spot. I can see the fear flooding over him, into his lungs. He can’t breathe for it.
‘What?’ he says, stepping away, his hands on the hall table, bracing himself.
‘I said you’re a liar. You told me Andrew was dead.’ He opens his mouth to protest, but changes his mind. He’s realises there’s no point in lying any more. That I know. ‘He’s alive, Dad. The police spoke to him two weeks ago. Why did you lie?’
He moves from the table towards the stairs and sits down on the bottom step as my mother comes through from the kitchen. ‘What is it?’ she asks. ‘What’s going on?’
Where is Jess? I want her answers too. She told me I could trust her, yet she has been lying since the day I arrived.
‘You all lied to me,’ I say. ‘You lied about Andrew, about the fact that he is still alive.’ My voice is rising, my words building to a crescendo as I turn back to my father. ‘Why did you do it? Why did you tell me he was dead?’
He takes a deep breath. My mother stands watching me, tears in her eyes. I see Jess in the living room doorway, her head hanging in shame. It is my father who speaks.
‘Because, Chloe, I wished he was.’
The trouble was this, Chloe: I started to blame you, and it made me hate you. They say, don’t they, that there is a fine line between love and hate. I don’t think that’s true. I think love and hate are part of the same thing, the balance always swinging, more in favour of one than the other at any given time. It’s all about expectation. Because when we love somebody we start to expect, make demands, and then we get let down and love starts to morph into something else. We expect the person we love to protect us from harm. But when I needed you, you weren’t there. You always let me down. You always ran away. That’s why we are in this position now, this awful fucking position where I feel like there’s no way out.
Because now you want to leave me behind like something discarded, scraped from your shoe and tossed to the ground. You think there’s nothing left, no reason to stay. What is it? The excitement’s gone, peaked and faded, a firework on the way back down to earth? That’s it, isn’t it? Is it my fault, because of my problems? I think it might be. I could feel it in the way you rested against me that last time, not as close as you were before, your leg after we made love like wood at my side instead of threaded through mine like silk.
But I can’t handle being away from you, Chloe. I can’t cope on my own, not any more. When you leave, it makes me hate you, and then I miss you and love you more than I ever did.
Almost, at least.
And there it is again, that balance.
Love and hate. Love. Hate.
Now on my own, waiting for you to come back, I wonder if I’ve ever known which emotion I felt more strongly when it came to you.