Things aren’t fine. They’re far from fine. And on top of that, I’ve still got presents to wrap, food to buy, people to see. No more crying on the floor in the lounge in the small hours. No more phone calls to people I don’t even know. Just from a practical perspective, I don’t have the time. But no matter how busy I am, that strange, niggling feeling is in the back of my mind – this draining, clawing creature perched on my shoulder that’s only become larger since speaking to Myanna. I keep thinking of that painting by Henry Fuseli, showing a woman lying on a bed with some sort of demonic manifestation sitting on top of her. The image floats into my mind so often I end up googling it on my phone, irritated I can’t remember the name of the piece. When I see its title, that cold chill returns to my spine. It’s called The Nightmare.
I’m just coming back from a quick nip out to Whole Foods when I see Stephen sitting on the stairs, head in his hands.
‘Honey, are you okay?’ I ask. I’ve tried to talk to him twice now since the other night – the night of the discovery – but he’s either hurried away or James has been within hearing distance. Aside from a quick iMessage I sent him telling him everything is explained and he’s not to worry, we haven’t communicated properly in two days.
He just shrugs at me and says, ‘I don’t know.’ He’s mumbling, unable to look at me. One of the things I’ve always loved about my son is his effortless confidence, his ability to meet people’s eye, to talk with ease and charm. He’s a miniature version of James in that way. And now he’s been reduced to this. Lost, monosyllabic, sitting on the stairs as if he doesn’t know what to do.
Our housekeeper, Cassie, comes through into the hallway. She’s got rubber gloves on and her hair is tied back. She greets me with a warm smile. ‘Let me take those bags from you, Julianne,’ she says, picking up the ones I’ve already put down, catching two apples as they start to slip out.
‘Thank you,’ I say, giving her a distracted smile in return, not wanting to take my attention away from Stephen. I wait until she’s gone back through into the kitchen then go over to him and sit beside him on the stairs.
‘Dad’s at work,’ he says.
‘I know,’ I reply. I put my hand on top of his and give it a friendly squeeze. He doesn’t pull away, but his hand remains limp and oddly lifeless.
‘I just thought you’d like to be sure. In case you wanted to do anything.’
‘Do anything?’ I say, confused.
‘Anything without him being here.’
I stare at him closely, but he’s still staring directly ahead, not looking at me. ‘Stephen, what do you mean? I told you there’s nothing to be worried about. Everything’s fine. We don’t need to do anything,’ I say. He says nothing. ‘Come on, it’s Christmas. Look, I know …’ I lower my voice, though Cassie’s got Radio 4 on in the kitchen and I can hear her opening cupboards and unpacking the shopping. ‘I know what you found was strange. I found it disconcerting, too. But I spoke to him about it, and honestly, it’s all fine. It was just some work project he was doing and he put the files in his Dropbox by mistake.’
‘I see. So that’s sorted then.’ He doesn’t say it like a question. It’s a pointed statement, said bluntly and coldly. He’s suspicious. Suspicious of his own father. He thinks a man he’s loved his whole life might be hiding some awful secret. It devastates me. But there’s a small part of me that’s scared of something different, something I’m afraid of even admitting to myself: it comforts me that I’m not the only one with doubt. That I’m not alone with my torment. That Stephen, too, suspects the full truth hasn’t yet been told.
‘Yes. He just put the files in the wrong folder. Honey, please …’ I say, leaning in to hug him. ‘I know this has been a bit of an odd thing for us to deal with. The file on that woman was distressing to read. It was from another company your dad’s firm was going to do business with, but they decided not to. Because of that file. They decided it was unethical. Everything with your dad is fine. Truly. It’s all figured out.’ I’m making myself sound more sure than I am, but I know it’s what I need to do. This isn’t Stephen’s battle. This shouldn’t be something he has to worry about. ‘We can just … carry on with Christmas. We’ve got the Kelmans coming for dinner tomorrow, Grandma and Grandad on Christmas Eve …’
He sniffs and shakes his head. ‘Can’t let anything get in the way of that.’
I’m not used to sarcasm from him and it stings. ‘I didn’t mean …’
‘Files,’ he says, cutting across me.
I don’t understand him at first, then he says it again, ‘You said file. It’s files. Plural.’ And then I remember. That long list of files. Loads of them. And I’ve only seen two. Stephen’s looked through more than me.
‘They’re not important,’ I say to him, and eventually he looks at me. His eyes make me want to cry. The look on his face takes me back to that moment a couple of days ago when he came into the kitchen and told me he’d found something. It feels like a lifetime ago now. Eventually, he moves to lift himself up off the stairs.
‘If you say so,’ he says, then walks away, up towards his room. I hear the thud of his bedroom door closing, and I’m left sitting on the stairs on my own, the theme tune of The Archers drifting in from the kitchen and a tight knot in my stomach, twisting away at my insides, that I fear will never go away.
I’m sorting out the remaining presents I have to wrap when my phone sounds a ping from my pocket. It’s Ally Kelman, asking if she can bring anything tomorrow. She always does this, regularly asks and offers to help, then turns up either late and empty-handed, or early and sits around watching me getting the place organised. I read through her message again, trying to focus.
Popping into Selfridges later so can pick something up? Unless you’d like to join? Naughty afternoon champagne bar trip? x
I’m in the middle of messaging back an apology, saying I’ve got too much to do, but then I stop. Do I really want to stay here in this suffocating house? And I’ve been meaning to pop into the shops to find something for James’s mom. I bought her a scarf earlier in the year that I thought she’d love, only to see a photo of her on holiday in Norway wearing an identical garment. I’ve been planning to find something else for weeks but it keeps slipping my mind. And maybe I could talk to Ally. Not tell her anything explicit. Just a distraction, a moan about James, her usual no-nonsense approach to life. It could be what I need. She’s been a good friend over the years, and God knows I’ve been a kind ear and shoulder to cry on during her recent divorce.
I text back. Sure. Although can we go to John Lewis? I have something to return. I can be there in an hour?
She messages back immediately. Okay! See you at the café.
I go up the stairs and knock on Stephen’s door. ‘I’m just popping out to John Lewis,’ I say to the wood. For a moment I think he’s going to blank me for the first time since he was a child, but he doesn’t. He eventually murmurs back, ‘Okay.’ I hesitate, wondering whether to go inside, but I can’t face a repeat of our conversation earlier. Not yet. After a quick exchange with Cassie before I leave about wine supplies, I wrap up warmly and head out and across the cold street. I decide to take the underground rather than the car, but regret it after waiting on the Knightsbridge Piccadilly line platform for ten minutes for a delayed train. After I finally get to Green Park I decide to ditch the Tube and continue my journey above ground. The buzz of Central London is immediate and infectious. The Christmas lights of The Ritz glint in the gloomy December afternoon light and there are people with bulging shopping bags everywhere. It feels like it might snow and I wrap my coat around me, setting off up Old Bond Street. Under normal circumstances I’d love this. The festive season is my favourite time of year and I’m never usually bothered by the crowds and endless Christmas music playing in the shops. But now it’s as if I’m watching myself in a movie rather than real life, feeling secondhand fake emotions rather than the rush of the real thing. Everything’s muted, dialled down, diluted.
I reach Oxford Street after a fifteen-minute walk and cross the road to John Lewis. I have ten minutes before meeting Ally, so start to browse the cosmetics on the ground floor, but after a few seconds there’s a tap on my shoulder.
‘Hello! I thought I was going to be late but managed to dodge the tourists.’
Ally looks the same as she always looks: dishevelled in an expensive, beautiful sort of way. Her flowing blonde hair is down today, pouring over her bright-red coat, messy and perfect at the same time, her face flushed from the cold.
‘Hiya,’ I say, returning her smile. ‘How’s it all going?’
‘Oh gosh, such a hassle. I still have a ton of shopping to do. Why do I always leave it till the bloody last minute? I must be some sort of masochist or something.’ She lets out her loud, disarming laugh. ‘Anyway, come on, let’s get a drink.’
‘A non-alcoholic drink,’ I say. ‘I’m definitely in more of a hot chocolate mood than a champagne mood. If that’s okay?’
‘Lead the way!’ she says brightly, not caring that her loud, theatrical voice is making staff and customers stare.
We journey to the café on one of the upper levels, Ally remarking on the cascade of Christmas lights hanging in the air near the escalators, ‘You should have these in your house, Julianne!’
In the café, I get my hot chocolate and Ally opts for a cappuccino; then we find a corner and begin to talk.
‘The bitch is at it again,’ Ally says, without even taking a sip of her coffee. ‘All over Facebook and Instagram. They’re in Miami.’ She says the last word with wide eyes as if she’s never heard of anything so ridiculous. When I don’t respond immediately, she adds, ‘As in Florida.’
‘I know where Miami is.’
She laughs again. ‘Oh, of course you do. Probably went there all the time when you were back in the States, did you?’
‘Well, no, Chicago’s not exactly—’
‘Anyway, look at this.’ She brandishes her massive Samsung smartphone, the screen filled with the warm glow of an evening on the beach, a couple in the centre embracing. ‘That’s HIM. And her. Thunder-tits, as I like to call her.’
I study the picture. In another context, it might have been quite sweet, and because of the soft lighting the age difference between Ally’s ex-husband and his new twenty-eight-year-old girlfriend isn’t as plain to see. I’m not really sure what to say, although that rarely matters with Ally.
‘I was tempted just to comment underneath “Twats”, but thought that might seem childish.’
‘A bit,’ I say, blowing on my hot chocolate. ‘What is it she does again?’
‘She’s a mindfulness coach. I know. I’m not even fucking joking. As far as I can make out, she doesn’t have any formal qualifications. So she’s poking around in people’s heads, telling them to think of waterfalls and whatever nonsense, and she doesn’t even know what she’s doing. That would worry me, if I went to see her to deal with my stress. Like going to a dentist who just hacks up teeth for a hobby.’
She pauses a moment to have some of her cappuccino, then raises her hand and points upward, as if she’s just remembered something important. ‘Oh my God, I completely forgot to say. That guy I went on a date with. Cameron. It’s a thing. We’re a thing. He’s coming tomorrow. To your dinner. If that’s okay with you, of course.’
This rush of information takes me by surprise. ‘Er … wow, that’s great.’ To be completely honest, the addition of another person at such short notice isn’t exactly ideal, but I’m used to this kind of thing with Ally. She’s presumptuous, and always gets away with it. I just nod and smile, as I do now. ‘No problem. Bring him along.’
‘Super,’ she says. ‘I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’s young. I thought two can play at that game. The sex is really rather surprising. I’d forgotten how creative people in their twenties can be. And how blasé. The other night he lost his erection during sex and just shuffled off to get some Oreos. No embarrassment, no awkwardness. Older men act like it’s a sign they’re knocking on the doors of the retirement home. I think young people just take it in their stride. Watch a bit of porn to get themselves in the mood again. We didn’t watch porn together that night, though – we shared the Oreos while watching Planet Earth II. Have you seen that episode with the snakes and the lizards?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I reply. ‘You say you watch porn? Like, together?’
Ally shrugs. ‘Yeah, sometimes. Not that often. He likes it and I don’t mind. Especially if I’m going down on him while he’s watching it happen to a guy on-screen. I always try to make sure the girl in the video looks wildly different to me so he won’t start comparing us.’ Another loud laugh. ‘I’m not sure I’d be able to compete with those youthful Californian blondes.’
Normally I’d take this kind of conversation in my stride, laugh at some of the more outrageous details and try to steer the conversation into less colourful territory. But today’s different.
‘Aren’t you ever worried … when you’re dating new people … that you’ll, I don’t know, discover something you don’t like. Something you find unpalatable?’
Ally’s eyes light up mischievously.
‘Only mildly so. Having sex in public. Getting caught. No more than most people. We don’t do it in public, I hasten to add. None of those is my scene.’
‘No, I’m not necessarily talking about sex.’
She raises an eyebrow at me. ‘What do you mean? Political things? Like, discovering they’re far-right racists on the quiet?’
I’m not sure how to phrase this, whether I’m being stupid, going too far. ‘I suppose. Or, like … having a secret life. A side you don’t know anything about. And then when you discover it … other things start to make sense. And it preys on your mind.’ I realise I’ve been looking at my hot chocolate the whole time while talking, but when I look up, Ally’s eyes are averted, too, staring at a space across the table.
‘Well, I suppose that can happen,’ Ally says, her voice not as smooth as normal. I shouldn’t have taken the conversation into such serious territory, I think. ‘My twat of an ex-husband obviously had a not-so-secret love of enormous breasts. I suppose that’s my only experience of that kind of thing.’
Ally’s still not looking fully at me. In fact, I’m sure she’s deliberately avoiding my gaze.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t really know what I’m talking about. It was just something I was watching on TV. Made me think.’ I try to say it brightly, aware my voice is probably sounding false. Something about the mood between us has changed slightly. I would have expected her to pounce on my words, asking if I’ve found something out about James. But she doesn’t. Instead, she changes the subject.
‘Let’s talk about something fun,’ she says, putting a hand on mine, her smile spreading across her lips. ‘Like my plans for a cruise with Cameron in the spring.’
We talk for another forty minutes, Ally showing me on her phone all the places she and her new man are going to visit. Eventually, I tell her I must get going and we gather our things and make our way down towards the entrance. At the doors, I stop still. ‘Oh damn,’ I say, ‘I was supposed to find something for James’s mom.’ I look back at the busy shop floor. The thought of going back in makes me feel so tired, I think I’m going to collapse in a ball on the floor. Ally doesn’t seem keen on lingering.
‘You know, darling, I’m going to have to dash. I’ve got a thing with a few former colleagues in bloody Hornchurch of all places – sodding miles away. One of them decided to move out to the suburbs so we’ve apparently all got to risk our lives in the depths of East London. Practically Essex, you know.’ She says ‘Essex’ in the same wide-eyed way she’d said Miami. ‘Plus, I still don’t know what I’m going to wear. Got to go home and try a few bits on. I’ll see you tomorrow, though. Can’t wait. Your Christmas do is always the highlight of my calendar.’ She leans in to give me a hug and an air-kiss and I say goodbye. She’s gone, lost among the bustle of shoppers.
I linger for a moment then take a deep breath and walk back into John Lewis. Just before I walk into the main part of the ground floor and back towards the escalators, I hear someone running up behind me and suddenly I’m being pulled around. The force of it startles me greatly and I draw in a sharp breath. But when I see the person who’s touched me, there isn’t any hope of drawing in another. I can’t breathe at all. A woman stands before me, her face white, her hair pulled back tightly as if she were about to go to the gym. Indeed, her whole attire suggests sports activities – she has an Adidas tracksuit and running shoes on, and a hoody that looks like it’s seen better days. Anyone would think she was a teenager or university student, if the lines in her face didn’t show so clearly she’d passed thirty-five.
‘Julianne.’ She says my name in almost a whisper and as soon as she’s said it I know exactly who she is.
‘Oh my God,’ I say, and take a step back. I’m instantly knocked aside by a man carrying a lot of bags, but I hardly feel it. I just stare at the woman in front of me. ‘Holly.’
‘Hello.’ Her tone is flat and her eyes keep darting about. ‘I was waiting for Ally to go. She hasn’t changed, has she? She looks just the same.’
I’m still trying to breathe, my legs unsteady, dimly aware shoppers are trying to push their way around us. ‘It must be … twenty years … or more. I can’t … I can’t stop and chat,’ I say, trying to act like there isn’t anything weird at all about this meeting. ‘But I hope …’
‘She said you called her. Myanna. She said she tried to talk to you a year ago but you didn’t respond and then she got bogged down in something else, something to do with ISIS trafficking women; important, of course, but it was frustrating as I really felt something was happening and then nothing came of it.’ She’s gabbling now, getting her words out in a rush. ‘But you called her two days ago. She’s going to help me. Help us. She’s got the time and the resources now.’ Her eyes are wide and I can’t help it – I’m frightened. Frightened by all the things she’s saying. ‘She’s been trying to get in touch with you but she thinks you’ve blocked her number or something. Have you?’
I feel the temperature around me changing, my skin going cold, my legs threatening to give way. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say.
‘I’m the reason she got in touch. I told her. I said you might help us. You might be willing to talk.’
I stare at her in horror. ‘Talk about what? What’s there to talk about? I don’t know what any of this is about …’
‘Don’t you? Please, Julianne. We can go somewhere right now and …’
‘I can’t,’ I say, forcing myself to straighten up and breathe slowly. ‘I’m busy. Tell your friend not to get in touch with me again.’ I walk away from her, back out of the doors of the shop and onto the street.
‘Julianne!’ She screams my name. People around me stop and stare, causing other people to knock into them, but I carry on going. I don’t stop. I push on until I reach Oxford Circus Underground station, then force myself to steady my pace and walk calmly behind the flow of shoppers and commuters heading home. It’s only when I’m safely on the Victoria line, sitting in a miraculously vacant seat, that I let my guard down and start to cry.