In Too Deep (16 page)

‘I don’t know how you manage to run this place single-handed,’ I say, genuinely in awe of her. I sip my wine. It’s much nicer than the stuff I usually buy. Money’s even tighter since Rick went.

‘I have brilliant staff,’ she says. ‘And of course my son helps when he’s home.’ She turns to a side table laden with silver-framed photographs. ‘Oh, now where’s he gone?’ She frowns and gets up, disappearing into the next room. She returns holding a picture. ‘The cleaner must have moved him,’ she says. ‘She’s always putting things back in the wrong place.’

Susan hands me the frame. A young man, around the same age as Hannah, stands next to a mountain bike, propping it up. He’s wearing luminous sports kit, and he’s obviously very fit. The scenery behind him is rocky and
hilly, and he’s squinting into the sun with one arm raised to his brow. ‘He’s a nice-looking boy. You must be very proud.’

I’m quiet for a moment. It’s not envy or jealousy or me coveting her life for still having a husband and a son. Rather, it’s a kind of fondness and a processing of my memories, developing them into the future that never was; trying to figure out who Jacob would have become if he’d reached the same age.

‘That was taken last year. He went on a mountain-biking weekend in Wales with some mates.’ Then she reaches across to the side table and plucks another one out, passing it to me as well. ‘And this is my husband, Phil,’ she says. ‘He doesn’t always look that serious though.’ Her voice is steeped in layers of love and pride.

‘He’s very handsome,’ I force myself to say after a moment. ‘You two make a striking couple.’ I swallow down the jealous pang, the throb in my heart.

‘And how he knows it,’ Susan says quietly.

I hand them back to her with an appreciative smile. I don’t bother saying that perhaps Jacob would have liked mountain-biking given the chance, or that maybe by the time he’d reached eighteen, his unruly floppy curls would have turned into something more stylish like Susan’s son’s hair. And there’s no point wondering if Jacob’s spindly pre-teen legs would ever have become as muscular, or if he’d have got himself a girlfriend, or gone to university, or one day had a career.

Who knows?

‘Who knows what?’ Susan says kindly, replacing the photographs with the others. I offer a dismissive flick of my hand and laugh into my glass, embarrassed by the leakage of my thoughts again.

The lamb is slow-cooked and as tender as I’ve ever tasted. Roasted sweet potatoes with rosemary and garlic, along with steamed vegetables and a rich red wine gravy, make it a perfect meal.

‘Delicious,’ I say. ‘Thank you for inviting me.
Us
,’ I correct. I drink some more wine. Susan has been topping it up before I’ve finished each glass, so I don’t know how much I’ve had. I think my speech is OK, but it’s hard to tell. I know I feel woozy, not quite inside my own head, and so very, very tired.

‘All we need now is for one of the waitresses to come and clear up,’ she jokes. I half stand, gathering up the crockery, but her hand is on top of mine. We’ve been eating in the kitchen, having bypassed the much more formal dining room on the way through. It’s relaxed and comfortable in here, with a couple of small candles casting a honey-coloured glow across the old pine table. The Aga bubbles out a warmth that seeps right through me.

‘I was kidding,’ she says, a glint flickering in her eye. ‘Come and sit down in the living room again. Finish your drink and relax. I’ll do this later.’ Her hand lingers.

Gratefully, I do as I’m told, unable to trust myself with a stack of china. We go through to the other room, taking
our drinks and the bottle, and I sink down into the sofa again, full and content.

‘I’m sorry Hannah left,’ I say. ‘To be honest, she’s not been herself recently. I’m quite worried.’

I have no idea why I’m telling her this. Perhaps because, if I’m honest, friends have been thin on the ground since Rick went. They’ve been round to visit, of course – flitting in and out with their casseroles and their pitying looks – and I’ve had enough hugs and late-night vigils to last me a lifetime. But relationships have changed – as if I’m existing on a slightly different plane to the rest of them now. No one wants to get
too
close in case it’s contagious; no one wants to become infected. No one wants to end up like me.

‘Absolutely no need to apologise,’ Susan says immediately. ‘Don’t forget, I have a teenager myself, albeit male. He is not immune to the occasional bad mood.’

We exchange knowing grins, and for some reason I want to reach out and touch her hand, just as she touched mine. But I don’t.

‘Hannah’s had a tough time lately,’ I say, knowing she’d hate me talking about her.

‘I understand. Losing a sibling must have been devastating.’

‘She took it badly. And now her with her dad missing, too . . .’

My hand comes up to my mouth.

For a moment Susan looks utterly puzzled. Then she frowns, as if she’s realised she can’t possibly be right, that
we couldn’t have lost both a son and a father from the same family.

‘But . . . I thought your husband was in Ireland working.’ She waits a moment, sizing me up. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being nosy again. Please, no need to talk about anything you’re not comfortable with.’

But as it sinks in that I’ve revealed my secret to Susan, as the very thing that makes me different from everyone else – unreachable and cursed – slips out, I find that I
do
feel comfortable talking to her about it. I take a deep breath.

‘Hannah felt bad for me having to explain what has happened. She was trying to make it so I didn’t have to. She’s also having a hard time accepting the situation, and I think believing that her dad is actually away working somehow helps her.’

I was naive to think that I could go the whole weekend without it cropping up, especially as this break was Rick’s idea. Besides, there’s something persuasive about Susan – the angular yet appealing features of her face, the way they blur at the edges as if she’s been smudged by an artist’s finger. Her gaze holds me carefully, making me feel like a damaged bird in her cupped hands, while her voice touches something inside me, urging me to continue.

‘And the terrible thing is,’ I say, ‘that I have no idea what’s happened to him. No one does.’

Kath Lane always said the more people who know the story, the more people will be on the lookout for Rick. It’s a long shot, I realise, but I have to weigh up my shame against the outcome.

Susan stares at me – eyebrows raised, the rest of her face stuck in a shocked expression as if she’s either faking it or is genuinely lost for words.

‘Rick went out to buy a newspaper last November and didn’t come back,’ I explain. ‘No one knows what happened to him, and the police haven’t made any progress with their investigation.’

Every time I say it, it comes out differently. I don’t have a speech carefully planned, though it gets shorter each time I tell it. But all people really want to know about is what must have been going through Rick’s mind to make him leave that way, or if things had been bad between us, or even if I had something to do with it. I feel myself redden at the thought of the argument Rick and I had, and also because with each recounting I miss things out, watching the truth slip away, damning myself further as the cloak of guilt fits more and more snugly.

‘That’s awful for you,’ Susan says, looking utterly confused. ‘Your husband
disappeared
?’

I give a little nod, as if it happens to everyone. ‘Yes.’

Susan leans forward on her chair, elbows on the table, her hands clasped at her neck. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she says, just like every other person I’ve told. ‘How is that possible in this day and age? Surely they can find him. Haven’t they checked CCTV and bank accounts, or put up posters or done appeals on TV? What about locating his phone somehow?’

Susan’s concern is following a familiar pattern. She’s only trying to help, but it’s so predictable now. Before
long she’ll be yawning, hinting that she has an early start, giving me a wide berth next time she sees me, thankful when we pack up and finally leave her hotel. People distance themselves from bad luck and misery.

‘The police have done everything they can. The case isn’t high priority any more,’ I say, too tired to recount the few statements the police took from vague witnesses who may or may not have seen anything that morning. Memory plays tricks, especially when you don’t think it’s needed.

‘But what about you, Gina? How do you cope day to day? I know it would drive me potty, the not knowing.’

I laugh softly and raise my glass as if toasting her. Strangely, it feels OK to let her know that I’m not really coping, whereas normally I try to hide it.

‘You read about these things in the papers, but you never think it will happen to you. Like everyone, I thought I was immune.’

Susan’s gaze is curious and sympathetic as I continue.

‘Though Jacob’s death got rid of my naivety about that. You never get over the loss of a child, but you learn to deal with it the best way you can. Eventually, some kind of life and routine re-forms, though it’s never the same. You get on with living it, albeit rather crookedly and painfully compared to before.’

‘I can imagine,’ Susan says.

No, you can’t
.

‘Losing Jacob made me think that was it, we’d had our
share of tragedy and we wouldn’t get any more.’ I laugh sourly, draining my glass. Susan immediately tops it up. ‘The corner shop is about ten minutes’ walk away and Rick only had a few coins with him. We were expecting friends for dinner that night, and stupidly, as the afternoon wore on, I remember thinking that he’d definitely be back soon because he wouldn’t want to miss my paella. He always helped me cook it.’ None of it’s coming out right.

‘Oh God, Gina,’ Susan says predictably, though with more sympathy than most people offer at this stage. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done in your shoes. And the police don’t have any clues?’

I shake my head. ‘No one does. Apart from the belongings he left behind, it’s almost as if he never existed.’

Susan looks at me. Behind those intense blue eyes, I see her mind racing, figuring out the right thing to say next, something that won’t upset me, but something that will end this exchange without seeming rude.

‘And your son, Jacob,’ she says, turning the conversation back, sizing up the weight of my life. ‘How did he die?’

It knocks me sideways. I drink more wine. In an odd way, I appreciate her directness.

‘A car,’ I say blankly, thankful that time has done its work. I can be flat and cold about it these days, showing nothing of my inner sadness. I don’t reveal one speck of how much I miss my handsome, funny, clever, sensitive, freckly little boy. ‘He was killed in a hit-and-run accident.’

I hate the word ‘accident’.

Susan’s mouth is slightly open. Her lower jaw quivers, hanging in the space where words should be.

‘This is him,’ I say, reaching down to my bag and pulling out my purse. I take out a photo. ‘He was eleven when he died. I took this a couple of weeks before, not knowing it would be the last one ever.’

Susan looks at the picture, gently taking it from me. ‘Such a happy-looking boy,’ she says respectfully, without sinking into the past tense. ‘Is that his pet rabbit?’

‘Yeah,’ I laugh fondly. ‘He loved it. It was called Peter. The poor thing died a few weeks after Jacob. I swear it had a broken heart, though Rick said that was silly.’

It was also very old, but I don’t tell her that. Then I feel ashamed for trying to eke out more sympathy, as if my story doesn’t warrant enough.

Susan keeps hold of the picture as we chat, toying with it between her fingers, making me feel on edge. I meant to get extra copies made, but never quite got round to it. I couldn’t stand it if it got damaged or something was spilled on it.

I reach out my hand to take it back, but she keeps hold of it.

‘I know you said you can talk about your son, Gina, but God, I’m so sorry – I wouldn’t have shown you a picture of Phil if I’d known about your husband,’ she says, shaking her head.

It’s from the heart, but all I can think of is that she still has hold of my precious photo – my darling, fragile Jacob
between her fingers. I’m considering reaching out for Phil’s picture – the one nearest – and taking him hostage until she gives my boy back.

‘It’s fine,’ I lie. ‘You weren’t to know.’

She gives me an odd look in return, her fingers tightening around the photograph of Jacob. His cheek is pressed under her thumb.

To initiate the swap, I grab Phil’s picture, pretending to be interested again. He’s shorter than Rick – more of the rugby player physique about him – and Phil’s hair is dark and cropped, showing a man who visits the barber regularly, perhaps even the type to go for a manicure once in a while. Rick used to laugh at such things, preferring the wild, slightly unkempt style he sported. ‘What’s the point of working for yourself if you can’t
be
yourself?’ he once said.

‘He looks very smart in his suit,’ I say, offering the frame to Susan. Finally, she reciprocates and hands me back Jacob. I quickly slip him back inside my purse, but with my lips aching for the kiss I usually give him.

She puts the picture of her husband back on the table. It seems to be the only one of him, with lots of other pictures of assorted family members, the hotel, someone’s wedding, and a portrait of Susan clearly taken a long while ago crowding the polished surface.

Then there’s a noise – a familiar sound that makes the blood drain from my cheeks and my heart kick up its pace. A telephone . . . maybe a text . . . maybe the first ring of a call . . .

I lunge for my bag, shoving my hand inside, then withdraw feeling deflated as Susan holds up her glowing phone.

Every call, every message . . . I pray it’s him.

‘It’s my son again,’ Susan says, reading the text. ‘He says he’ll be arriving home tomorrow afternoon.’

She taps out a brief reply.

‘I can’t wait to introduce him to Hannah,’ she continues, draining the last of the bottle into my glass before I’m able to stop her. ‘I know Tom will be dying to meet her.’