Tell Me No Secrets (39 page)

‘I'm sorry for your loss, Angeline.'

‘Are you? Are you really?'

‘Yes, I am.' I keep my voice steady. ‘I did not want any of this to happen. I absolutely didn't.'

‘And yet it did.' She leans towards me. ‘Look me in the eye and tell me that neither of you wanted my daughter dead.' I look her in the eye but before I speak she says, ‘I thought as much.' She starts to shake with rage. ‘I will not forget this. You may have fooled the police, both of you, with your plausible story but you have not fooled me.'

‘Angeline.' Murray takes her left elbow and as he does so she lifts her right arm and slaps me so hard across the face that my teeth shift in my jaw. I lurch backward, my hand automatically raised to my cheek. Murray turns Angeline around and they go back to the car.

I go inside, my vision blurred, my heart pounding, my face stinging with pain. I pull Murphy up on the sofa beside me and stay there for the rest of the afternoon, dry-eyed and empty inside. No one disturbs me. The girls are not coming home until late evening because they are rehearsing
Romeo and Juliet
– Ella is Juliet and Daisy has found her niche backstage. Ed isn't due to come home either. He has been staying with my parents since Orla died. All three, in spite of their initial shock and subsequent anxiety as the details came to light, support me unreservedly. ‘Don't you worry about us – we're all rubbing along well together,' my mum tells me, her voice high-pitched with optimism. ‘And we're looking forward to Australia.'

I'm pleased that my mum and dad are coming out with us. My dad's stomach has settled since he started a course of treatment and they are planning ‘an adventure', my mum says. ‘We won't come for the whole year; just to see you settled. And then we might do a spot of travelling. I hear you can walk up and over the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I might even persuade your father into shorts.'

Paul will be back for tea, I hope. He is tying up loose ends at the university and I can never be sure quite when he will be home. I have made his favourite chicken casserole. It's in the slow cooker, ready, just in case.

At just after six he comes through the front door and Murphy goes to greet him. I stand up, stretch out my stiff legs and touch him lightly on the arm. ‘The table is set,' I say.

He doesn't look at me. ‘Give me fifteen minutes.' He goes upstairs for a shower and I stand at the kitchen window, watch the waves break over the sand and try to think of nothing.

When Paul comes to the table I sit opposite him and dish up. When I take the first forkful I realise that I can barely swallow, my face is numb, my teeth feel like they belong in someone else's mouth.

‘Are you going to tell me how you got that mark on your face?'

The sound of his voice makes me jump and I drop my fork. ‘Orla's mother.'

‘She came here?'

I nod.

He leans across the table and tenderly touches my cheek. ‘My God, she really hit you.' He comes around to my side, stands me up and turns my face up towards the light. ‘Why didn't you call me?'

‘I thought you would think . . .' My voice gives out. I try again. ‘I thought you would think that I deserved it.'

His jaw tightens and then he gives me a small, sad smile. ‘No, I don't think that.'

He runs his hands across my hair and down my shoulders and my arms.

At once I start to tremble and then to cry. Silent tears stream down my face. ‘Please, Paul,' I whisper. ‘Just tell me that there's a chance you'll forgive me.'

‘Of course there's a chance.' He pulls me into his chest and holds me there. ‘Give me time, Grace.'

It's more than I could have hoped for and I can barely breathe for fear that he will change his mind and push me away. But he doesn't. Food forgotten, he takes me upstairs. We lie on the bed together. He keeps his arms around me and we talk. I tell him how sorry I am, how much I love him, how much I want to make it right between us and how hard I will work to make our family happy again.

The evening's performance of
Romeo and Juliet
is just days before we leave for Melbourne. My face is still bruised but I do a good job of covering it with make-up. We collect my parents and Ed and go in to St Andrews to watch the play. Paul holds my hand as we walk up the steps. We sit in the second row, right in front of the stage. I am in the middle, Paul on one side, my mum on the other.

Just before the performance starts, my dad realises he has left his glasses in the car. I take the keys from Paul, go back through the foyer and past the last few stragglers who are just arriving. I find Dad's glasses and head straight back inside only to bump into Monica and Euan. I haven't spoken to either of them since the day Orla died.

There are an awkward few seconds while we each appraise one another. Monica looks remarkably well: her hair, her make-up, her smart trouser suit and crisp white blouse. She has hold of Euan's arm in such a way that makes it look as if she is the one keeping him upright. Euan's face is strained. Clearly, he hasn't shaved in days and there is a tremor in his jaw. I don't know what goes on in their private moments but, in public, Monica has behaved like Paul. She has stayed by Euan's side, supporting him, warding off idle gossip and nosey neighbours. And I don't know whether she knows about the affair, but if she does, she hides it well.

‘It hasn't started, has it?' she asks me.

‘Just about to, I think.' I sidle past them both.

‘Grace?' His voice sounds sore. I turn back and find that I can look him in the eye without hating him, without loving him, without, in fact, feeling anything at all. ‘I'm sorry.'

I don't answer. I walk back down the centre aisle, just as the curtain begins to open and slide into my seat next to Paul.

‘Did you get talking to someone out there?' he says.

‘There's nobody out there.' I rest my head against his shoulder. ‘Nobody at all.'