37
CHARLOTTE
October 22 . . .
“I’m sorry I haven’t been over for a few days. Man trouble.” I hold up the bottle I’m carrying. “I brought wine . . . if you’re allowed?”
Jen nods. “Sounds good.” She opens one of the cupboards and gets out two glasses.
“So what’s been happening? Any news? No Detective Constable Abbie Rose?” I look around. “Do you have a corkscrew?”
Silently, she opens a drawer. When she turns around, there are tears rolling down her face.
“What’s happened, Evie? Tell me.”
“It’s the police. The searches have stopped. They think I’ve had a breakdown and Angel was my stillborn baby.” Her voice cracks.
“They can’t.” I’m shocked. I put the bottle down, walk over, and put my arms round her.
“I’m okay.” She pulls away, then goes to one of the cupboards where she finds two wineglasses.
After taking them from her, I pour the wine. “Here. Drink this.” I can’t believe the police have done this. “It’s crazy,” I tell her. “Completely. For Christ’s sake, you’re a mother. You know the truth. Just because you don’t have photos doesn’t mean you made her up.” I pass one of the glasses to her.
She has a slug of wine. “The police think I did.” Her voice breaks.
“Jesus.” I’m utterly shocked.
She stares at her glass. “Jack thought the same as you.”
“Jack?” Then I remember. The guy who came when I found the body in the maize field was called Jack. Jack Bentley.
“The policeman with the dog. He lost his son. He’s the only person who really understands.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He said I should trust my gut.” She turns the wineglass between her fingers.
“Don’t you agree with him?”
She looks at me, her eyes filled with fear. “I want to. I really do. But do you know how many versions of me and Nick I have come up with? Even Abbie doesn’t know what to believe. I can’t trust myself.”
I imagine Abbie Rose, sitting at this same table, laboriously recording everything Jen says. “It doesn’t matter what Abbie Rose thinks. Jack’s right. You’re the only one who knows. Can you really give up?” I say more gently.
“Right now what else can I do?” She drains her glass, and I top it up. “I’m confused about so many things. Nick came back again.”
“God.” He’s the last person anyone needs.
She shrugs. “I didn’t want to see him, but it set off more memories, which was something. And my mother’s asked me to stay.”
“That could be really good for you.” I nod encouragingly. “A change of scene and someone to fuss over you could be just what you need.”
Jen doesn’t respond. “We haven’t really spoken for years. And . . .” She hesitates.
It’s there, in her silence. The truth. She hasn’t given up. A part of her still knows she has a daughter.
* * *
When I drive home, the lights are on in the house and loud music is playing. When I go in, the place is a complete mess, with cupboards and drawers emptied onto the floor.
Rick’s drunk—and stoned. At least he’s an amiable drunk, rather than a nasty one. All traces of his anger seem to have gone.
“I’m searching,” he keeps saying to me. “I know it’s here, babe. Help me look.”
“It’s a fucking mess, Rick. What are you playing at?”
“I can’t find it,” he says mournfully. “It’s gone, babe. Where’d you put it?”
“Put what?” I snap, bending down to start picking up what he’s strewn all over the floor.
“Dunno, babe, do I? Wouldn’t have to ask if I did . . .”
By the time I’ve finished tidying, he’s snoring on the sofa. I sit on the floor, watching him. This isn’t working anymore.
* * *
I catch him the next day, after he’s chased off his hangover with an early morning surf, and wait for him to shower and change, working out what I’m going to say.
When he comes downstairs, his hair still damp, neither of us mentions last night.
“Rick? This isn’t working.”
He stares at me a moment, then sighs. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.” He shrugs, cold again. “So now what?”
“Are you still going to Portugal?” One of his surfing friends has a place there. Last I heard, a whole crowd of them was going in search of big waves.
“Not for another week. I could stay at Jimbo’s,” he offers. “It’s out of season. He’s got plenty of room.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s okay. There’s no need. You get ready for your trip. I’ll stay with a friend.”
He walks over, leans down, presses a kiss against my forehead. He smells of shampoo. Then he pulls back, looking into my eyes. “Best thing,” he says quietly.
“Yes.” A pang of sadness hits me.
* * *
It doesn’t take long to pack enough for a week. Only as I drive away do I realize what I’m losing. Not just a friend and companion. He was there when I needed him. My safety net.