Ipswich
19th August
Siobhan
Callum’s lawyer, Patrick O’Connell, has come back to the house with him. The pair of them disappear off into my husband’s studio, taking with them a bottle of whiskey (oh, stop being such a cliché, Callum), and Maria and I sit at the kitchen table, trying listlessly to eat a lasagne that she’s made. Yvonne, our family liaison officer, has gone for the day, and I’m rather hoping that she doesn’t come back. I’m sick of her snooping around; I feel like she’s been watching us, listening in on our conversations. That’s the absolute last thing I need.
Emma appears at the doorway.
‘Why did they call Dad back today?’ she asks, her voice small. She’s wearing jeans with a rip in the knee, a white T-shirt that could do with a wash.
I swallow the bite of lasagne that I’ve been pushing around inside my mouth for the last thirty seconds.
‘Sweetheart, I don’t know.’
But she’s not looking at me, she’s looking at Maria, and as I look up, a spark of something seems to pass between them, like a jolt of electricity that zips straight by me.
‘Have they found something?’ she asks, and Maria gestures to her to come sit with us, patting the chair next to her at the kitchen table.
I take a sip of my glass of red wine; it tastes vinegary and strange, has been sitting out on the side for far too long in the heat.
‘Emma,’ I say, ‘nobody’s told us anything. Dad’s with his solicitor in the studio, and Patrick is one of the best lawyers around. He’ll know what went on today, and he’ll know what to do.’ I reach out a hand across the table to stroke hers, but her skin is cold, unresponsive to my touch.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ I ask her, because all of a sudden, I’m noticing how pale she is, the tiny beads of sweat that are sitting along her hairline, just visible against her skin and the blonde of her hair.
‘You must be tired,’ Maria says suddenly, and getting to her feet, she stands and puts a hand on my daughter’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t you go back upstairs, have a little lie down? I’ll bring you up some painkillers.’
Wordlessly, Emma does as my sister says, standing up and moving away from the table, almost as though she is in a trance.
‘Emma?’ I say, astonished, but Maria turns back to wince at me and puts her hand on her abdomen.
‘Period pains!’ she whispers, mouthing the words, ‘she told me earlier. It’ll pass!’
The pair of them disappear from the kitchen, leaving me sat in front of the plate of congealing lasagne, wondering what on earth that was about.
I’m shut out, I realise, I’m shut out of even the things going on in my own home.
Slowly, I get to my feet and begin cleaning the table, scraping the messy lasagne off our plates and into the waiting bin. I slug the rest of my red wine, wanting something to take the edge off. I can’t stop the jealousy swirling around inside me – first my husband, then my sister – it seems Emma is prepared to be close to anybody apart from me. What do I have to do to be her mother again? What do I have to do for her to let me in?