I return from my visit to Carol energized and happy. A corner has been turned. The future won’t be easy, but at least it’s clear.
I walk into One Folgate Street and stop dead. By the stairs is a Swaine Adeney leather overnight bag.
“Edward?” I say tentatively.
He’s in the refectory, staring at my mind map, the riot of Post-it notes plastered across the wall. In the middle I’ve stuck the sketch, the double vision of me/Emma I retrieved from the recycling bin.
He turns his head toward me and I flinch from the icy anger of his gaze. “I can explain,” I say quickly. “I had to get things straight—”
“Murdered—Edward Monkford,” he says softly. “Nice to see I’m only one of the suspects, Jane.”
“I know you didn’t do it. I’ve just come from Emma’s therapist. Emma lied to her and I think I understand why now. And I think I know why Emma killed herself.” I hesitate. “She did it to punish you. A final, dramatic gesture to make you feel bad about breaking up with her. And I imagine, given what you’d already been through, that she succeeded.”
“I loved Emma.” The words, so flat and final, explode into the air. “But she lied to me. I thought perhaps I could have the love without the lies. With you, I mean. Do you remember your application letter? How you talked about integrity and honesty and trust? That was what made me think it might work, that it might be better this time. But I’ve never loved you the way I loved her.”
I stare at him, shocked.
“Why are you here?” I manage to say. I know it’s hardly relevant, but I need time to process what he’s just said.
“I had to come up to London to see the lawyers. The first residents have moved in at New Austell, but they’re being difficult. They seem to think if they work together, they can force me to change the rules. I’m going to serve them with eviction orders. All of them.” He shrugs. “I brought us supper.”
On the counter are half a dozen paper bags from the kind of old-fashioned grocers Edward favors.
“It’s actually a good thing you’re here,” I say numbly. “We need to talk.”
“Clearly.” His eyes go back to the mind map.
“Edward, I’m pregnant.” I say the words flatly, to a man who’s just told me he doesn’t love me. In my worst dreams, this isn’t how I imagined it. “You have a right to know.”
“Yes,” he says at last. “How long have you been hiding this from me?”
It’s tempting to lie, but I refuse to give myself that cop-out. “I’m just over twelve weeks.”
“Do you intend to keep it?”
“They thought he might have Down syndrome.” At this, Edward runs his hand over his face. “Anyway, it turns out he doesn’t. Yes, I am going to keep it. Him. I’m going to keep him. I know it’s not what you’d choose, but there it is.”
He closes his eyes briefly, as if in pain.
“I assume, given what you’ve just said, that you don’t want to be his father in any practical sense,” I go on. “That’s fine. I don’t want anything from you, Edward. If you’d only told me you were still in love with Emma—”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupts. “It was like an illness. I hated myself every second I was with her.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. “The therapist I saw today…She talked about how we can get stuck inside a story, trying to reenact our old relationships. I think somehow you’re still stuck inside Emma’s story. I can’t help you get out of it. But I won’t get stuck in there with you.”
He looks up at the walls, at the perfect, sterile spaces he’s created. He seems to draw strength from them. He stands up.
He says, “Goodbye, Jane.” He picks up the Swaine Adeney bag and leaves.