JULIANNE QUENTIN HAD never loved her husband. She was a pragmatic woman, and she judged relationships in the same way she judged everything else in her life: with good sense, a strong belief in right and wrong, and an acute understanding of the practical realities of the world.
She believed in partnership, though. She believed in respect. She believed in treating people with decency and equality and receiving the same in return. James had seemed like such an honest man, when she first met him. So nervous, with that stammer and his habit of pushing his glasses higher up on his nose all the time, so nervous that she couldn’t imagine him having the ability to lie at all. And he had been clever. He’d got the internship at FullLife and the competition was fierce. His intelligence was an interesting counterpoint to her own common sense; he’d never made her feel anxious. She couldn’t have spent her life with one of those men who need to control others, and she’d known a few of them, when she was younger. The ones who insist carrying the children is their job, because they’re the man. The ones who put their hand on the small of your back to guide you across the road, as though without their guidance you might inexplicably leap in front of a car. Sometimes she wondered if there was some kind of basic male instinct at play – though she had to admit things were better, now. The pouch had evened the playing field.
But James had never been like that. He’d never – not once – expected her to look to him for the answers to her own questions. And in return, she had never tried to tell him the answers to his. They had given each other independence. So really, what in heaven’s name did he think he was doing?
He’d shut the door quietly when he left, first thing this morning. Creeping out before dawn without waking her. She had no idea where he’d gone. And it was none of her business anyway – he was a grown man and would make his own decisions. Just like she’d make hers. But still, this was totally out of character. Had he lost faith in his work so completely he was on some kind of crusade? He’d signed a contract, though, and he had a duty to keep the details secure for the parents, the children … They were a medical facility, of course their data was confidential.
Suddenly everything that her husband had said and done the previous night seemed absurd. He was not someone who leaked information to the press and went around acting like a misguided hero. He didn’t have affairs or harbour unfulfilled love for some woman he knew when he was a student. Their life was not that kind of story, and she wanted no part of it.
She went upstairs and packed his clothes into suitcases.
She checked her schedule, saw that she had a midday meeting to discuss the latest flight routes, and was booked into the control room on the 2–7 shift. Fine. She’d travel in early, have time for a coffee and sandwich in her favourite cafe. Her life was going to be just fine.
But she didn’t know how to wipe a hard drive.
That was OK. How difficult could it possibly be?
She went upstairs, clicked on the computer to wake it up, and searched: how to wipe a hard drive.
The computer told her how to wipe a hard drive.
Calmly, she wiped the hard drive.
She didn’t think it was anger that made her do it. It was simply the right thing to do. The information was confidential – personal, private and rightly so – and clearly James was having a breakdown that he would later regret. She’d just saved him from doing some irrevocable damage.
Then she went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. Toast, butter, jam. And she did not think, not for a second, about the irrevocable damage that James had done to her, to their family, or how it had – in one brutal swipe – changed everything.
When Eva woke up there was the strangest sound in her home – unsettling, haunting, but absolutely right at the same time. It took her a moment, in her half-sleep, to place it. It was not a CD, it was not the radio. Someone was playing her piano.
It was a tune she didn’t know. It was melodic. They had a touch on the keys that was firmer than hers, a heavy tread on the pedal, but there was depth too. It had been so long that for a moment she could hardly believe it. Piotr was playing her piano.
As she reached for the glass of water beside her bed, caught a glimpse of the sky, like layers of oil paint, she realised that he was doing more than playing. He was composing. He could never remember how to play the notes of others without sheet music, but he could do something better, something she’d never been able to even though she played better than him. She couldn’t deny it; he was creating something beautiful. There was emotion in the way his notes fled from one another, a deep sort of ache in the sustained bass. She closed her eyes, imagined that she could touch her hands, briefly, on his shoulders while he played. But no.
They had a meeting to get to. Besides, she’d let him stay the night – on the sofa downstairs – and that was quite enough. She got up, pulled on her jeans, chose a purple shirt, a jumper, and stood at the top of the stairs.
Step by step she tiptoed down towards the sound, the speed of the high notes now making her afraid as they raced across the keys, the contrast with the full pedal making their immediacy blur. She didn’t know how he was going to react when he saw her. From the door she could see his head was bowed. His back hunched down, his face too close to the keys.
She swallowed.
He stopped playing, abruptly, and stood up.
‘Do you want to get going?’ he said, as the piano lid slipped silently from his fingers over the keys.
She could see that the sleeping bag was folded neatly on the sofa. The cushions carefully arranged back into position.
He didn’t look her in the eye. His hands rested on the lid as he took a step to the side, away from where she was standing.
‘We don’t want to keep your Dr Quentin waiting.’
For a second she didn’t trust herself to speak.
Instead she nodded.
And just like that they were two strangers again, with nothing but an old moth-eaten piano standing between them.
Holly left her house furtively. At least, she imagined she was being furtive, but perhaps it was just that no one in her family was paying much attention to her at the moment. And that was as it should be. Rosie needed to be with her mum, and Kaz needed to find a way to speak to Rosie, and Daphne needed to support her daughter. Holly needed to stop feeling useless and get some answers. Starting with Freida. She didn’t want to speak to FullLife – and she was fairly sure they wouldn’t tell her anything even if she tried – but Freida was a different matter. Freida had disappeared and asked her not to follow and Holly had gone along with it. But not any more. Freida was alive out there, she was certain, and now she was going to start talking. Holly was going to see to that.
She was wearing an inconspicuous long navy raincoat, comfortable trousers, her wide-brimmed hat, and her house trainers. She tended not to go out in sports shoes, but they did allow you to tread so quietly and walk so freely, and stealth and freedom were what mattered to her on this journey. At the corner of the road she waited patiently for the bus that would take her into central London – she simply hated the Tube, the pushing and the shoving, the blind claustrophobia of it all. Much better to be able to see where you’re going. She calmly showed the bus driver her over-sixties pass, climbing the step with the aid of her walking stick, which she didn’t actually need but liked because it helped her to go faster. She enjoyed stamping it firmly on the ground, to really make sure that the floor was solid. There was strength enough in her arms to give it a good testing. And today it was helping a bit with her sore knee. She ignored the pensioner seats and made her way to an empty pair halfway along the lower level. The morning light was streaming through the windows. She wondered if she should put on her sunglasses, but she had a feeling that might make her conspicuous rather than furtive. A step too far, perhaps.
Freida had written to her a few times over the years. Never with a return address. Never with an invite to visit. When the first letter arrived, six months after Freida had gone away, Holly ripped open the envelope with relief that at last her friend was going to explain. But she didn’t. She just waffled on about needing to be alone and what a pleasure it was to be away from London – from Holly’s home! I hope you are well, she wrote, and I’m sure you’re all better off without me. The neediness itself was enough to annoy Holly. The self-pity! But most of all she had hurt Holly’s feelings. So Holly had shut them away and lived her life, and loved her family, and never gone looking.
But now, she was headed to the offices of the news website that had sent Piotr Filipek to her door. She’d walk in and claim Piotr had invited her. She was an old lady – they had to believe what she said. At the very least, they’d have to produce him, even if just to prove she had no appointment at all. Then she’d insist that he help her find Freida. She’d seen that look on his face during the interview. He knew something, that was for sure, and if her suspicions were correct he had a pretty good idea where she was hiding. Once they found her, she’d demand that Freida tell her everything she knew – starting with why she left, and ending with exactly what was wrong with the pouches.
But what happened when she arrived at his office was unexpected. They simply had no clue where he was. They were happy enough to talk to her – in fact, once the receptionist realised who she was all the staff clustered around her, wanting photos, quotes, asking her about Rosie … And then they were asking about the baby, why no one was being allowed to see baby Will. She had to put her foot down.
‘I will speak to no one but Piotr Filipek,’ she said loudly, rolling the ‘r’ and projecting her voice the way old ladies can do. When she was younger she’d always imagined getting one of those buggies as an old person, so she could race through the streets shouting gossip and cackling. She’d never got the buggy but she could shout with the best of them – and she found it was most effective in front of people who thought you maternal and sweet. Having got their attention, she made her demand.
‘Tell me where I can find him,’ she said. ‘Now, please.’
And the receptionist started typing on his computer, the other journalists tapping into their phones to get contact details. They even wrote it down for her. She quickly had a mobile phone number, an email address, and a home address for Piotr Filipek.
‘Are you sure you should be giving this information out?’ she said, folding up the paper and burying it safe in her trouser pocket. The receptionist looked so upset then that she patted him on the head a couple of times, just for reassurance, and held on to his chin as she said a sincere Thank You. They all kept out of her way as she swept through the lobby. Ha!
Next she made her way straight to his flat. She pressed all the buzzers until someone let her in (it was that kind of neighbourhood, full of students) and in she went, climbing the stairs to locate his front door and hammer on it with her walking stick.
There was no answer.
She hammered louder.
Nothing.
She listened close to the door, peered through the letter box. From somewhere out of sight there came a miaow. Other than the cat, it seemed there was nobody home.
Very well, she thought, and sat on the stairs to wait. It looked like the banister had just been replaced – it was shiny and clean, unlike the rest of the drab stairwell. Twice people walked past, heading down from the flats above, stopping to ask if she was OK, if she needed help, if she was lost …
‘I’m perfectly well, thank you. I have an appointment,’ she replied each time.
An hour passed.
Her bottom started to ache from sitting on the cold stair. Her knee felt tender where it was bruised. Her stomach was growling for some breakfast, but she didn’t care. Sooner or later, he’d have to show up.
Eva and James had planned a new venue for their early-morning meeting, an impersonal coffee chain near Waterloo. But as she sat opposite Piotr in the cafe, resisting the urge to comment on the latte that was larger than his entire face, she began to worry. James was late. Ten minutes so far, but she’d expected him to be there first, after the horror in his eyes the day before. He needed to tell her everything, she’d seen it, the release that comes from finally accepting that a secret cannot be held any longer.
Maybe he’d gone back to work first thing for the evidence and got held up. Or maybe he was in the lab, trying to find a solution. Could they have got to him? She checked her watch again.
‘Don’t worry,’ Piotr said. ‘I’m sure he’s on his way.’
‘You’ve never even met him.’
He nodded, looked away, scooped some of the foam out of his cup. Suddenly, irrationally, she wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Her own black Americano was still too hot to drink, so she decided to wait till it was cool enough, drink it, then suggest they leave.
‘Do you have his number?’ Piotr asked.
‘In my mum’s address book.’
‘Do you have it with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you could phone him?’
Eva’s phone was on the table between them, she’d been picking it up and putting it down again since they’d arrived. She could phone him. But somehow she knew that wasn’t going to make any difference. If he wasn’t here, he wasn’t going to be answering his phone. And if he’d decided not to talk to her, there was no way they would get admittance to FullLife either. Not now.
‘Do you want me to leave?’ Piotr said suddenly, and she realised she hadn’t answered his suggestion, and had been ignoring him since they left the house. She didn’t want him to leave, though. It was … reassuring, having him here. She just didn’t particularly want him to talk while she was thinking.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, it’s not that.’
He sat back and regarded her, as if trying to anticipate her next move, and she saw a flicker of the old journalist back in his eyes. It made her smile.
‘I’m trying to have an idea,’ she said. ‘And you’re distracting me.’
Now it was his turn to smile, and he didn’t try to hide it – he beamed at her from across the table.
‘Shall we go to FullLife?’
‘They won’t let us in. Especially now.’
‘Then if you won’t phone him …’
Eva picked up her coffee, expecting it to scald her tongue again, but it didn’t. The coffee was rich and she held it in her mouth for a moment – as though savouring it would bring James Quentin to the cafe, along with the certainty of what to do.
‘You try.’
She’d been carrying her mum’s address book with her for two days. Since finding it she hadn’t wanted to let it out of her sight. It felt like a connection, the one thing still joining them together despite the soil between them – the handwriting, the notes she’d made beside certain entries. Sometimes she reached into her bag just to check it was still there, ran her finger over the comforting creases in the spine. Without showing any of this sentiment, she passed it to Piotr.
‘He’s under Q,’ she said. ‘For Quentin.’
He flicked through, overshot then pushed the pages back until the address book was lying open at Q in his palm.
She looked again at the door, willed it to open while she sipped her coffee.
‘Erm … Eva?’
‘What?’
‘Have you seen this?’
And she knew what it was before her eyes moved to the page – she’d known all along, but had forgotten, or chosen not to remember, because for some reason she hadn’t wanted to go there. To his home. But that was where they would have to go. If he didn’t turn up.
She looked down at her empty cup.
‘Want some of mine?’ Piotr said, offering a half-full cup of caffeinated milk with a smile. ‘Don’t think I can handle it after all …’
She put her hands on his over the handles of the giant cup, and steered it down to the table.
‘Are we going to try his home?’ she said.
‘I think we’re going to try his home.’
‘Then let’s go.’
Karl had not slept in forty-eight hours. He had lain in bed. He had tried the sofa, the spare room that had once been Kaz’s bedroom. He’d leaned back in his armchair in the lounge and closed his eyes and prayed that he could sleep, just for the fleeting peace it would bring. He’d stumbled his way into the painted room, unable to call it the baby’s room even in his mind, surrounded himself with the sea creatures and distant stars, curled up on the floor beneath them. None of it made any difference. The scene in the birthing centre played over and over in his mind, as he imagined things he could have done to help despite knowing there was nothing anyone could have done by the time they were assembled in that room, waiting, expectantly.
It was no one’s fault. There was no one to blame. He had tried – blaming the doctors who came running, the nurse who was there, the ineffective resuscitation pads, and once, in a particularly dark moment, he had wondered if Rosie and Kaz had done something wrong. He was ashamed of that, but the thought had dug its way into his mind and he had to struggle to keep it flattened down. He told himself he must never think it – and, when that did not work, he swore to never speak it out loud.
He wondered if it was something that had been passed on. From Cris. He retreated deeper into his thoughts and shook his head as Cris offered lunch, a walk, a talk. None of it was any use. Karl would not sleep.
He had tried so hard, throughout his adult life, to be a good parent. He could remember when Kaz was born, how he’d sat up late at night with him, when he was restless, and formed lists in his mind of what he’d do for his child. Some nights he imagined teaching him to swim. Sometimes it was picking him up from school in the car to save him cycling home through heavy rain. His father had done that for him once, and he still remembered the gratitude of seeing that car, its windows misted and its lights on, outside the school gate. He’d spent ages running through all the possible types of advice he could give – advice about school, relationships, work, how to fix a leaking tap, repot a house plant, how to dance, how to be gentle, how to be strong. But it wasn’t the advice he could give that really mattered. What he wanted to do was listen. He would listen to his son, he promised himself. He’d be a father who knew how to listen without offering advice. But the thing was, now he needed someone to do that for him. He achingly wanted his own father to sit down opposite him, to remind him of the beautiful feeling that came from knowing there was someone who would appear just when he needed them, in the car, its windows misted and its lights on, offering him a drive home.
He looked up at Cris and felt his eyes starting to water before he blinked that away – he shouldn’t be the one crying about this.
‘I know,’ Cris said.
But Karl hadn’t spoken. When was the last time he had spoken?
It was the day of the birth. The day his grandson died. The day they had stumbled as a family, numb with disbelief, out into a world of sharp biting sunlight and traffic and the chattering of journalists waiting on the other side of the building. The nurse had guided them out of a side entrance, where no one would see them, and they would be driven back to their homes so they could have some time, some rest, some space to recover. Had she actually used that word, recover? He couldn’t remember. What he remembered saying was:
‘Come home, Kaz.’
And it had been the wrong thing. So utterly the wrong thing. Kaz was clutching on to Rosie, their heads pressed close together as though they wanted only each other in the world and everything else to disintegrate. And they had been ushered towards two cars – of course, he’d thought, we have to take two, there are too many of us – and he’d watched as Kaz and Rosie climbed into the back of the first car along with Rosie’s mum and Holly, who was impenetrable now, her eyes locking on to no one. And they’d driven off. The driver of their car was motioning to them, but Karl just stood there watching his son drive away with his other family.
Of course, Holly had invited them back to the house as well – of course, they were all one family. Except you never really were all the same family, were you? Because there’d only been one time when he’d felt that completeness, and that was many years ago, when he’d been surrounded by brothers and sisters, and he’d known with a deep certainty that his mum would always comfort him when he was sad, and that his dad would always know the right thing to do. He’d looked at Cris, seen his red eyes but felt too exhausted to pull him close. He had run out of whatever it was that propelled him. In the car, sitting together on the back seat as the driver made his way through the busy roads towards west London, he’d looked at Cris and said: ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Eva and Piotr were standing on a quiet residential street of semi-detached Georgian houses, with neat, walled front gardens and well-shaped shrubs. It was not quite suburbia – the gardens were too small for that, the houses cuddled too close – but it was a different world to the gritty north London of their old flat, or the gently preserved spaciousness that surrounded Eva’s home.
‘I guess FullLife pay well,’ said Piotr, and Eva nodded but pulled her coat closer, keeping her arms crossed around her body. He’d always felt peeved that he didn’t get paid more – not quite a chip on the shoulder, but enough that he felt the need to let out a whistle when he saw something he couldn’t afford. It irritated her.
‘Do you think that’s why he worked there?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘So he believed in what he was doing?’
Eva thought about that for a moment. ‘Yes, I think he did. Or he must have done, to begin with. Number 38.’
Eva marched up the path and rang the bell. Together, they waited.
She checked her watch – it was gone ten. If he was here he surely had no intention of speaking to her. There was a letter box, silver against the deep blue wood of the door. She pressed the bell again. It made a ding-dong sound like Big Ben.
Certain no one would be there, she leaned down and pushed on the letter box, which opened easily against her fingers, and peered inside.
Two eyes peered back.
Eva gasped and stumbled off the red-tiled step she was standing on, falling backwards into Piotr.
‘There’s someone in there,’ she said, as the door opened a fraction.
‘Can I help you?’
It was a woman, mid-sixties, about her mum’s age. Just before she’d died. She was dressed in smart black trousers and a white shirt with a silk scarf tied around her neck.
‘I have to get to work soon, so if you’re selling—’
‘It’s Sunday morning,’ said Eva uselessly.
‘No, no.’ Piotr stepped towards the front door, holding out his hand and introducing himself. ‘We’re looking for James Quentin. Ms …?’
‘He’s not here.’ There was hostility in her tone, and she left his hand hanging.
‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’ Eva took over from Piotr.
The woman’s eyes narrowed.
‘Who are you?’ she said to Eva.
‘I’m a … I’m …’ She knew instinctively that to say she was a friend of James would be a problem. Something had happened, though she didn’t know exactly what.
‘We’re journalists,’ said Piotr, handing over his ID. ‘Researching an article on the latest generation of baby pouchers. Dr Quentin was supposed to meet us.’
‘He told you to come here?’
‘No. We don’t know where he is. He didn’t turn up to our meeting, so we’re looking for him.’
Eva noticed the cases stacked in the hall, along with black bags meant for charity or perhaps the dump – it looked a little like her own hall did, at the moment. But she knew from the woman’s straight back and sharp, brittle eyes this wasn’t packing done after someone had died. This was done after someone had left.
‘Did he leave a message?’ Piotr was saying. ‘Or did he tell you—’
‘He’s giving me information on FullLife,’ Eva said, ignoring Piotr and talking to the woman standing in the doorway. ‘Something is going wrong, and he has the proof. I’m sorry if you didn’t know.’
‘Oh, he told me,’ Julianne said.
Eva took a step forward. ‘Is someone … are you going away?’ she asked, trying to sound caring, though she didn’t even know this woman’s name. Using Mrs Quentin would seem to be a mistake. She reached out, but the sharp intake of breath told her that her comfort wasn’t welcome. Eva stepped back – whatever had happened, this woman’s anger was making her cold, and Eva didn’t want to touch it. She’d spent a long time dealing with her own anger, she didn’t want anyone else’s. They should leave.
Piotr, though, was moving closer. She almost pulled him back, but didn’t. Piotr, with his broad chest and big eyes and overgrown curly hair, was asking the woman if she was OK, was offering to make her a cup of tea. Did she just say her name was Julianne? And, good heavens, thought Eva, how on earth did that happen? Because suddenly she found she was following Piotr and Julianne into the house.
As she sat holding her mug of tea, trying to look sympathetic but staying out of the conversation, she wondered when Piotr had learned the skill of appearing genuine. She didn’t think he’d had it when they were together. Sharp, yes. Cutting sometimes. He’d known how to steer a conversation and had a knack for understanding what people meant rather than what they said. But sympathetic? It was unlikely he was being genuine, so he must have worked out how to appear so. Perhaps it was all an act with her, too, the way he kept waiting for her to decide what they’d do next. Although he’d been the one to step up here, so maybe it was just a new variety of leadership. Waiting in the wings until he could shine. Was he trying to impress her? No, he seemed oblivious to her now.
Julianne was talking about thirty years of marriage. How he’d never seemed like the kind to do something so rash, but then perhaps you really never can tell? She was talking in a matter-of-fact voice. He hadn’t been like himself for months, now that she thought about it, but you have ups and downs, don’t you, in a marriage? She’d thought if she just gave him more space … And she herself needed space. They’d never lived in each other’s pockets. But to start going on about having an affair …
Eva looked up from her tea, as it suddenly dawned on her that all of this had nothing to do with FullLife, but plenty to do with her.
‘Who …?’
Piotr shook his head, just subtly, and Julianne simply sighed.
‘What does it matter?’ she said. ‘I won’t be jealous. I won’t behave like that. I’ve packed all his stuff and he’s gone.’
‘If we find him—’
‘Don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to know.’
Eva was impressed with her composure. She wished she’d been as confident, as able to draw a line under their relationship, when she left Piotr. Not that he’d given her any choice. She felt a stab of anger, but swallowed it down.
‘We do need to find him though,’ she said, her tone a little too formal for the mood that Piotr had created. ‘He has information, about FullLife …’
She trailed off, expecting to be met by the stare of Julianne Quentin. But Julianne was looking at Piotr.
‘Perhaps he’s left some clues in his study …’ he said.
So that was his play.
‘Or on his computer?’
‘Empty,’ said Julianne. ‘And wiped.’
‘You wiped his computer?’ asked Eva, unable to help herself.
‘Do you have some family you could call?’ said Piotr simultaneously.
‘The twins will be home this evening …’
‘Someone who’ll understand?’
‘There’s my brother. He’s divorced.’
‘Yes, call your brother. That’s what I’d suggest …’ he smiled apologetically. ‘But what do I know?’
‘Oh, that’s a good idea,’ she smiled back. ‘After work. But I really do have to go …’
Perhaps they could rescue some information from the hard drive, thought Eva, if they could get hold of the computer after she’d gone. They might have to break in.
‘We’ll walk you to the station,’ Piotr said. ‘If you don’t mind the company?’
And ten minutes later, Eva was standing on the platform watching Piotr and Julianne wave goodbye to one another, waiting for him to turn to her and suggest returning to the house, to see what they could salvage. But he didn’t say anything.
‘What now?’ she asked. ‘We could break a window?’
He laughed, a big belly laugh with no criticism in it, only warmth.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We can go back to my flat.’ He looked at her as if offering but not wanting to suggest she would join him. She’d always assumed he wouldn’t be living in the same flat. Something in his expression told her he was. But it was just a building. She wouldn’t let herself be upset by a building. If he could stand living in it after everything they’d been through, then she could stand visiting it.
‘OK, but what then?’ she said, businesslike and brusque.
‘Then I need to feed my cat,’ he replied.