Читать книгу The Verdict - Olivia Isaac-Henry - Страница 18

There’s a moment when I wake, still cosy and warm under my duvet, that I forget, and all that lies ahead of me is the Tube and a laptop screen. As I roll over to switch off the alarm, I remember the missing backpacker Brandon Wells, the texts and the phone call.

It’s him.

Better get your story straight.

A warning or a threat? Again, I can’t think of anyone who could have sent the text, who would have sent the text, nor who would have called me. My mind starts whirring – the last thing I need is Audrey coming to stay, but it’s too late to put her off now.

I’m stuck in a meeting all day with Jonathan and Ulrich, who were at university together and are old friends. The only words I speak are an introduction, my name and role in the project. Then I just sit there as they run through figures and statistics. Occasionally, Jonathan asks, ‘Isn’t that right, Julia?’ and I nod without registering the question. My phone lies still and silent. I’m starting to hate the sound of these men’s voices, their charts, deadlines, projections and the occasional aside about uni days – Wasn’t Jonathan a lad, eh?

All I can think about is Garrick’s phone. I’m continually aware of its weight in my pocket, as if it’s calling to me. Has anything new arisen? Will I leave this office to find police officers waiting for me? My fingers tingle with frustration, and still Jonathan and Ulrich go on and on about leverage, bandwidth and accountability.

Eventually, they even bore themselves and decide to dedicate the rest of the day to swapping tales of their riotous youth.

‘We’re going for a quick drink,’ Jonathan says. He looks at me, slightly nervous. ‘You don’t want to come, Julia, do you?’

I’m tempted to say yes just to annoy him. Instead, I tell him I have work to do.

The second they leave I head straight to the toilets.

As always with such torturous waits, they’re in vain – no new information has been reported from Guildford. I’m disappointed, though I should be relieved. I’m becoming over reliant on Garrick’s phone, I won’t be able to keep it for ever. And I worry about my own phone. How would a stranger interpret the anonymous texts? What assumptions would be made about their being sent to me? At some point I’ll have to dump the phones as I did Brandon’s lump of a Nokia, over twenty years ago.

I wonder what happened to it. For how long are phone records kept? Has the Nokia been smashed to pieces or is it fifty feet deep in some Kentish landfill? Does it hold a trace of me, a hair, a fragment of fingernail?

My phone rings. Another false alarm.

‘Hi, hon,’ Pearl says. ‘You didn’t reply to my text. Are you coming round tonight?’

‘Audrey’s coming to stay.’

‘Tomorrow then.’

‘Rudi won’t mind?’

‘’Course not. Come for dinner. We need to catch up with all your shit.’

Pearl thinks my shit is the end of my marriage. She’s been in the States for the past three months. She wanted me to go over there and stay with her when she heard about my separation, but I had to be nearby in case Sam needed me. Which he hasn’t.

‘I won’t be able to get there until eight.’

‘You work too hard – and the girls will be in bed by then.’

‘I can’t get out of it,’ I say, ‘but I need to see you.’

‘I’ll keep a plate of something warm.’

Audrey’s small blue case is in the lounge when I get home. It’s the one she’s had for as long as I can remember. Her efficient packing means that she could easily be staying one night or one month.

She comes in from the kitchen and hugs me. I catch the scent of Rive Gauche. It doesn’t matter how much she irritates me, the waft of perfume and the hug always gives me a moment of inner calm. A memory from childhood, when a mother’s love and home-baked biscuits could shoo away the world’s ills.

‘I’ll take your bag up to the bedroom,’ I say.

‘I really can take the sofa, you know,’ she says.

‘Don’t be silly.’

I put the bag down next to the bed and check Garrick’s phone. Nothing new.

When I come down, Audrey’s poking around in the lounge then follows me into the kitchen.

‘This flat’s much nicer than I thought it would be. I remember that awful place you rented in Archway before,’ she says, looking out of the window. ‘This has a fantastic view. It’s not very big, but you don’t need much space and I suppose it’s only temporary.’

‘Tea?’ I say. ‘How was the exhibition?’

‘Oh, very good, very interesting,’ she says distractedly.

I knew she’d hate it. The trip isn’t about broadening her tastes in art. She’s down here to see me. The first visit since my separation.

‘We’ve got pasta for dinner. Is that OK?’

‘Lovely,’ she says. ‘I suppose this is what they call a bachelor pad – spinster pad doesn’t have the same ring, does it?’

‘No.’

‘Though technically, you’re not a spinster.’

‘Divorcee pad doesn’t sound any better.’

‘You’re not divorced. There’s still time to make it up. Sam might be close to adulthood, but he still needs his mother. This flat’s nice but wouldn’t you rather be home?’

‘It’s not an option.’

The kettle boils. I pour a little into the mug for Audrey’s tea and the rest into a pan for the linguine.

‘Have you spoken to Sam yet?’ she asks.

I see his face twisted in disgust. You’re a whore. I hate you.

‘I think he needs more time, Mum.’

‘Patching things up with your husband would be a good start.’

‘I’ve told you, that’s not going to happen.’

I filch the tea bag from Audrey’s mug, put the milk in and hand it to her. Her nose wrinkles a fraction.

‘I don’t have a teapot, Mum,’ I say.

She says nothing, takes the tea, rests it on her lap and tips her head to one side. I know what’s coming.

‘I still don’t know what you were thinking, Julia?’

‘Don’t start,’ I say.

I plunge the linguine into the water and start slicing some tomatoes.

‘If you said you’re sorry – that it was a mistake …’

‘I’m not sorry. It wasn’t worth it because it’s made Sam hate me. I told you, my marriage was over years ago.’

‘And what about him – this Hugh person – did you think about him and his wife? How do you think she felt?’

In truth it wasn’t until Hugh’s wife confronted me in the lobby at work – What sort of woman was I? Did I really think I could break up their marriage, fifteen years and three children? – that I remember crying similar tears years ago over Christian, when he betrayed me. Her face showed anger, but also fear that her husband would leave. I’d forgotten that some women love their husbands. That not all marriages are a slow tussle of one person imposing their will on another, seeing how much the other can bear. This woman loved Hugh. Only then did I feel ashamed.

‘You could start over, afresh. I’m sure he’d take you back. Say that you were feeling neglected, you wanted to make sure you’re still desirable,’ Audrey says. ‘All women feel like that at your age. We just don’t …’

She raises her eyes to the ceiling and searches for the words. I decide to help.

‘Just don’t shag your son’s rugby coach,’ I say.

‘Have affairs,’ she says firmly. ‘You think you’re being very modern, don’t you, Julia? When ninety-nine per cent of your marital problems are down to your attitude. If your husband was neglectful, it’s because you made it clear you don’t need him. You’re so masculine.’

‘Remind me to shave my beard off.’

‘And sarcastic.’

‘You’re feminine, Mum, always let Robert rule the roost. How did that work out for you? Is he still changing secretaries every few years?’

She ignores my dig.

‘What I’m saying is, all marriages go through rough patches. Often much more serious than yours. You can both get through this.’

‘Neither of us want to get through this. We’ve not been happy for years, and anyway he’s found someone else.’

‘Who?’

‘Plain Jane.’

‘Well you’re definitely in with a chance of getting him back. You’ve still got your looks. My genes, no need to thank me. Though a little make-up wouldn’t go amiss. You should be making more effort now you’re separated, not less.’

I smile. ‘Jane’s not really plain,’ I say. ‘I just call her that because she’s so boring. I think they were seeing each other before.’

‘Maybe you should try being a little more boring. It’s all very well being a career girl—’

‘No one’s used that expression since 1979. In the same way that no one says “lady doctor”.’

‘So what am I supposed to call female doctors?’

‘Doctors?’

‘You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you, Julia? I don’t know why you always have to be so hard on me.’

‘Not as hard as you are on me. Sam’s going to grow up hardly knowing who you are, the amount you work. Is it any wonder your husband’s had enough? I’m not taking your side in all this.’

‘They’re called home truths,’ she says. ‘And I may be hard on you but at least I don’t sneer.’

‘I—’

Audrey raises a hand.

‘Don’t deny it. Poor Mum, the little woman at home in the kitchen who gets into a tizzy if her husband’s dinner’s not warm enough and worries that her windows aren’t as clean as next door’s.’

‘That’s not true,’ I say.

‘And it’s not just the words I use or being a housewife. It’s everything. Oh, she reads Joanna Trollope and Maeve Binchy, while you’re reading something with no plot that’s won a prize, thinking it makes you clever.’

‘I like those books.’

‘Well I like Maeve Binchy and Joanna Trollope. There’s nothing wrong with them.’

‘I never said there was.’

‘No, but I see you smirking every time I pick one up. It’s the same with television or even the curtains. If I was clever and educated, I’d like better television and have better curtains. Well, where’s your cleverness got you? Halfway to a divorce and relying on a handout from your stepfather to put a roof over your head. And you look down at me for not being independent.’

‘Touché.’

‘And why haven’t you got any money after all your years working?’

‘Sam has to stay in the house, and I have to help pay for it and Sam’s upkeep.’

‘No savings?’

‘Sam’s starting university soon.’

‘He can’t cost that much. I know you’re at fault …’

‘Yeah, we covered that.’

‘But you should be able to live decently. What would you have done if I hadn’t been able to lend you the money for the deposit?’

‘You did, and I’m doing OK.’

I go to the stove. The pasta’s turned to mush. I hold up the soggy mess. Audrey shakes her head. Another example of my domestic ineptitude.

Audrey looks out of the window. It’s clear tonight and the lights of the City outline its buildings against the inky sky.

‘I suppose when Sam does leave home, you’ll get your share of the house,’ she says.

‘Hmm,’ I say.

After dinner we go to the lounge and watch Audrey’s favourite television programme. It’s about an English couple renovating a French château. There’s about a hundred episodes. After the first advert break I sneak off to the bathroom and check the phone. Nothing new pops up.

I come back to the lounge and slip the phone down the side of the sofa. After three episodes of the château programme Audrey says, ‘I’ll go up and read. It’s been a long day. I’m leaving early tomorrow. I’ll ring you when I get back.’

‘I’ll be at Pearl’s tomorrow,’ I say.

‘Friday then, when you’re free.’

I kiss her goodnight. When she’s gone, I retrieve the bottle of vino cheapo lurking at the back of the fridge and pour myself a glass.

I’m a third of the way down when the buzzer goes.

It must be for the previous occupants – no one ever calls for me. I decide to leave it. It buzzes again.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Rex and Sol have gone.’

‘Is that Ms Winter, Julia Winter?’ a male voice says.

‘Who’s this?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Warren and I’m with Detective Constable Akande of Surrey Police.’

The intercom crackles.

‘What’s this about?’ I ask.

‘Perhaps we could come up and speak to you?’

‘It’s getting late,’ I say.

‘It is rather urgent, Ms Winter.’ Another voice, female – this must be Akande.

‘Can you tell me what it’s about?’ I ask again, though I know what they’re going to say.

‘We’re here to talk to you about Brandon Wells.’