Ipswich
17th August
Siobhan
Inside the house, once the front door is shut behind us, blocking out the press, the atmosphere is charged. For the last few days, I haven’t really been paying much attention to the general upkeep of it all, and I see Callum’s eyes glance over the pile of dirty dishes from our meal last night, the remnants of slowly congealing food. The fact that we’re trying not to open the windows because of the press makes everything worse – the bin in the corner is beginning to overflow, and there is a small row of glass bottles lined up next to it. A fly buzzes dully around the rim of a Merlot.
‘Christ,’ he says, not one to beat about the bush, ‘this place is a tip.’ He goes straight to the fridge and pulls out a beer – luckily neither Maria nor myself have touched those – before turning back to look at us. Emma looks like she’s going to cry, and I know she doesn’t like seeing her father in this sort of state. I watch their eyes connect and I see his face suddenly soften.
‘Come here, Ems,’ he says, and she walks towards him, her face small and white. Somehow, she looks younger than ever. He folds her into his arms, and I want so badly to join in too, but I can’t – it’s as though my legs are rooted to the spot. Maria looks at me, and I see a flicker of compassion in her eyes. Not for the first time, I feel truly grateful that my sister is here.
It is she who breaks the silence.
‘What have the police said?’ she asks him, going over to the kitchen table and pulling out a couple of chairs for us to sit on. Gingerly, I move to sit down, realising as I do so that my whole body aches, a horrible dull ache that makes me want to crawl under the duvet and never wake up. Well, that’s not quite true – I would like to wake up, I’d like to wake up in a different life, a life where my daughter loves me rather than shuts me out, a life where my husband hasn’t been having an affair, a life where the media aren’t camped outside my house because they think the man opposite me might be a murderer. Oh, and a child abductor too.
Reluctantly, Callum lets go of Emma. ‘Go upstairs for a bit, Em,’ he says, ‘or, you know what, why don’t you go outside? You look like you’ve not seen daylight in days. It’s lovely and warm out there.’ I flash him a warning look – the last thing I want is my daughter getting doorstepped by the press – but he ignores me. ‘It’s not healthy for you to be cooped up like this,’ he continues, ‘why don’t you give one of your school mates a call? Go do something normal? God knows, we’ll all go mad if we force ourselves to stay under house arrest just because of a few bloody hacks.’
He gives her a little grin, and against my better judgement I start to wonder if he might be right, if Emma would be better off getting back to normality a little bit. Whatever that means, anyway.
‘I could call Molly?’ she says hopefully, already picking her mobile up off the table. Its rose gold case glints at me, like a little gateway to the outside world. I shudder inside, thinking of the things people will be saying about us on social media. What the uber-mothers will be thinking about me.
‘Sure, call Molly,’ Callum says, his expression brightening.
‘Molly? I don’t think I’ve met Molly,’ Maria says, looking questioningly at Emma.
‘They’re at school together, aren’t you Ems?’ I say, then worry immediately that I’m talking down to her, as if she is a child. But she is a child, part of me screams inside, she’s my child and she shouldn’t be having to go through all this. God knows what the psychology books would say about our family now.
She presses a button on her phone and disappears into the next room, her step obviously lighter.
‘Why haven’t you been letting her out of the house?’ Callum says, glaring at me, ‘she must have been going mad cooped up like this.’
‘Callum, in case you haven’t noticed,’ I say, exasperated, ‘the bloody world’s press is currently sitting outside our door. I don’t want Emma getting caught up in all that, I don’t want her to see the things people are saying about – about that woman, about the baby, about you.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Siobhan, don’t you think she’s already seen it all? She’s sixteen, for God’s sake! She’s got it all on her phone. There’s nothing a couple of newspaper journos could say that’ll shock her when she’s got Twitter in her pocket.’
He takes a long sip of his beer. Maria leans forward, trying to take control.
‘What have the police said, Callum?’ she asks in a low voice, not wanting Emma to hear.
He sighs. ‘They don’t really have anything against me,’ he says heavily, ‘the whole thing is ridiculous. I’ve told them I was in the studio that night, that you and Emma saw the light on, and you’d have heard me come in later. All true, of course. And I appreciate you sticking to it.’ He looks at me, and now he does at least look a little admonished, a little less hostile. I feel the guilt again – he doesn’t know what I said to McVey, he doesn’t know I ruined his alibi. ‘Look, there’s no point in me denying the affair altogether, Siobhan, but—’ He breaks off, suddenly, and glances at Maria.
There’s a beat of silence.
‘Look, Maria,’ he says, ‘I know you’ve been very helpful to my wife, and to Emma, these last few days when everything’s been so up in the air, but really, you don’t have to stay. I’m out now, at least for the time being, and I can look after things. We don’t want to keep you away from your own life any longer than we already have – I’m sure you’ve got things that you’ve had to put on hold while this circus unfolded!’ He attempts a sort of laugh, to lighten the atmosphere, but my sister is staring at him, stony-faced.
I don’t know what to do.
‘We do appreciate how much you’ve helped,’ Callum says, continuing because Maria hasn’t said a word, ‘but there’s no need for you to be here if you don’t want to be – you could head back to France, or to Woodbridge. I can call you a taxi, seeing as the car’s still in France. Or you could go back out there! Hell, if you go to France we might even be able to join you in a day or so when all this has blown over, finish off that bloody holiday!’
The joke, if that’s what it is, falls flat around the table.
Maria, on the chair next to me, is stiff, her back straight as a rod and her hands clasped neatly together on the table, as if she doesn’t trust herself to let them loose.
‘Of course,’ I jump in, worried he’s offended her, ‘Callum’s not saying you’re not welcome, Maria, you’re welcome for as long as you like, it’s more that we don’t want to impose…’ I trail off, realising as I do how much I want her to stay. Callum is acting as though everything is normal, as though we are husband and wife not wanting a guest to outstay their welcome, a team against an outsider, a third wheel. Only it’s not like that at all, is it? The bond Callum and I had, the vows we made to each other fifteen years ago in a church, all that is broken now.
It’s broken because of Caroline Harvey.
‘In fact,’ I say, my voice coming out overly loud, ‘I want you to stay, Maria. I could use the support.’
I don’t look at Callum.
‘Of course I’ll stay,’ my sister says, as if she has simply been waiting for me to come to my senses and confirm what she wants to hear.
Although we are not looking at each other, I can almost sense the connection between Maria and I. Because I’ve admitted it now, haven’t I. I’ve admitted I need her. And perhaps she needs me too.
‘Right, right, fine,’ Callum says suddenly, as if knowing he’s fighting a losing battle. ‘In that case though, do you think you could give me and my wife a moment alone together, please Maria? Or would that be too much to ask?’
He’s being rude, but my sister merely inclines her head, her hair dipping down towards the table, then pushes back her chair and gets to her feet.
‘I’ll go sort Emma out,’ she says, before leaving the room. There is something so graceful about her, despite all of this madness. I wish I could see inside her head, see what she’s thinking.
And then she is gone, and I am left alone with my husband.