They set off late. The drive over to Ben’s flat is a nightmare. Five minutes into the journey Kitty realises she’s left behind her favourite toy which means a further delay as they circle back and start again. The recent all-nighters are playing havoc with Clara’s body clock. She narrowly avoids colliding with a large man on an e-scooter with a tenuous grasp of the Highway Code. She is about to scream blue murder at the windscreen, then remembers Kitty sitting beside her and makes do with a muttered curse instead.
The final insult is trying to find a parking spot in Pimlico. Comparing Ben’s new place to a prison is admittedly unfair. Prisons have far easier parking systems than Cumberland Street. After circling round three times, Clara finds a tiny space within five minutes’ walk of Ben’s flat. She checks her mobile and sees three missed calls from him and several emails from her team about the conference arrangements. She longs for the distant days of eight hours’ sleep. Once upon a time she even had lie-ins.
Clara bundles Kitty out of the car and checks she has everything. Ben’s flat is on the top floor of a stuccoed building not far from Churchill Gardens, currently being rented from a friend. The lift is broken. The foyer smells of damp. The flat itself is small and undistinguished, largely filled with chipped IKEA furniture. Kitty is always too excited to complain about the décor. But there’s a divorced dad feel to this place which Clara detests. It reeks of middle-aged men with empty evenings.
They reach the top floor. Today is a rare break in the custody arrangements. Usually, Ben only has Kitty at weekends. But Clara is away at a conference for the next two days. Ben is cheaper than a childminder. And more fun too. She can hear them already, the usual effortless patter.
‘Hello, Daddy.’
‘Hello, KitKat.’
‘What’s for tea?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
‘What type of surprise?’
‘If I told you that it wouldn’t be a surprise.’
‘Are there chips?’
‘There might be.’
‘I like chips.’
‘I know you do.’
There is the sound of Kitty running away, her mind entirely occupied with the parental promise of fat-fried potato. Clara finishes hauling the overnight bag up the stairs and dumps it gratefully inside the hallway.
‘Why did I hear the word chips shouted in a loud, high-pitched voice?’
Ben takes the overnight bag and stows it in the kitchen. ‘One of the neighbours downstairs. I think it’s his mantra. Cuppa?’
Ben sounds like he’s trying too hard to be normal. His voice is louder than usual, his mannerisms exaggerated. Clara notices his hand shaking as he prepares the tea. His face is pale, drawn even. She wonders whether to say anything, but holds back. She’s not his wife, at least not anymore. They haven’t been emotionally honest in so long. It’s too difficult to start again now.
The kettle finishes boiling, the low grumble filling the kitchen. Two mugs are already out, pre-loaded with bags of Yorkshire Gold. Clara sees Ben brew both and pull out a chair at the rickety kitchen table.
She looks at her watch. ‘I should really get back.’
‘Five minutes. Don’t stay for me. Stay for the complimentary Hobnob.’
She smiles, then catches herself. It takes her back to that very first date. Ben was clever, awkward and shy; he always used to say that happiness looked so good on her. She sometimes wonders if their marriage would have been different without the events of that night, the baggage of the Anna O case. It all changed then. The pressure of being SIO, the move to the Met’s fabled Murder Squad, the lack of time for anything other than work and childcare.
Clara takes a seat and exhales for the first time all day.
She decides to stay.