The Shadow Year (42 page)

William nods. ‘Of course.’ He reaches out and touches one of the clematis buds hanging off the vine creeping its way up the front of the cottage. ‘This will be in flower soon.’

Lila smiles. ‘Something to come back for.’

He nods and as he and Rosie disappear over the crest of the ridge she shuts the door behind him and leans hard against it, her hands instinctively rising up – one to rest on her belly, the other to the necklace hanging about her neck. A gift of honesty; it’s more appropriate than William could ever know. Whatever happens next, she knows the time for indecision is over. It’s time to face Tom and work out where they go from here.

The city rises up to greet her like a grey cardboard cut-out propped against the horizon. The urban landscape is a shock after the peace and relative stillness of the countryside. It is all movement and noise. Slowly, she navigates her way through increasingly familiar streets and tries not to jump at the blare of a bus horn, the brash shouts of schoolkids, music pumping from a car window. She feels a little ridiculous; she’s always prided herself on her London savvy but after weeks away in the countryside, she is like a muddled tourist or a hermit resurfacing from a period of self-imposed exile. It’s a relief when she finally pulls into their street and parks the car.

Opening the front door, her ‘hello’ echoes down the hallway. She flings her bag onto the floor before spotting Tom’s note on the side table. She glances over his brief apology for not being there to welcome her back in person, as well as the directions to the Soho restaurant he has booked for dinner.
7 p.m.: I’ll meet you there
.

Lila is relieved. She has an hour or two alone. It’s plenty of time. She reaches into her handbag and pulls the pregnancy test from its paper bag, studies the cardboard box carefully then heads upstairs to the bathroom.

She’s been thinking of nothing else virtually the whole way home. She’s got to be pregnant, surely: the metallic taste in her mouth, the bloated sensation in her belly, her tender, swollen breasts? And yet it still doesn’t make any sense. It took them twelve months of trying to conceive Milly. Now, after just one night – Valentine’s night – could they have conceived another child? She doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The last time she took a pregnancy test she was with Tom, the two of them squeezed into the bathroom, waiting impatiently for the minutes to pass. Back then, they had been filled with nothing but hope and longing, but this time it is different. This time
she
feels different.

She is afraid. Afraid because she’s not sure she can do it again – afraid for the fragile new life inside her – and afraid for the perilous state of her marriage. She’s not so naive as to think another baby can just paper over the cracks and make everything all right again. If she is pregnant, how on earth will she do this? How will she not spend every moment agonising and worrying? She can’t think straight for terror.

Taking the white stick from its cellophane wrapper, she follows the printed instructions carefully then balances the stick on the edge of the sink and walks away. She doesn’t cheat; she doesn’t peek early. Instead she wanders into the bedroom and opens her closet. Clothes she hasn’t worn in months hang forgotten on their hangers, dresses and suits she used to shrug on every day for work. She flicks through them and selects an old favourite – a knee-length dress in a stretchy green fabric – and pulls it on. She smooths the material over her body and turns this way and that in the mirror, assessing her reflection. There is no visible trace of a bump; if anything, the dress is a little too big for her now and she wonders if she’s kidding herself. She’s been doing all that physical work . . . and swimming every day . . . but wouldn’t the dress be tighter? She pushes the thought away and reaches instead for her make-up bag, carefully applying foundation, mascara, blusher and a slick of colour to her lips. She pulls a brush through her hair then stands back and surveys her face. Too much? She grabs a tissue and wipes most of the make-up off again, leaving just the mascara and a smear of lipstick behind. Then, when she can stand it no longer, she returns to the bathroom and reaches for the test.

The restaurant is an elegant new place tucked down a cobbled lane in Soho. Lila glances around at her surroundings as the solemn-faced maître d’ leads her to an intimate corner table where Tom is already seated. There are white tablecloths, flickering candles, chandeliers and clinking glasses all accompanied by the genteel hum of expensively dressed patrons. Lila tugs at her dress and tries to keep pace with the man weaving through the tables. It’s clear Tom is pushing the boat out and she knows she should be grateful, but as she moves across the restaurant floor she feels nothing but discomfort. She used to be good at this but tonight she feels awkward in her dress and heels and a million miles away from the rustic pleasures of the cottage. Suddenly she wishes she had done something different with her hair, or that she hadn’t wiped all that make-up off. She has forgotten how this works.

Tom looks up as she draws near, lays his BlackBerry on the table and half stands, reaching out to her with a hand. ‘There you are,’ he says and kisses her on the cheek while the maître d’ pulls back her chair and then snaps open the curled fabric of her napkin, laying it with a flourish across her lap. ‘Happy birthday. You look lovely.’

‘Thank you.’ She fusses with her hair, tucking it behind her ears then releasing it again.

‘An aperitif perhaps, Madame?’ offers the waiter. ‘Champagne?’

‘No thank you,’ she says, ‘just a sparkling water.’

Tom glances at her. ‘But it’s your birthday. We should be celebrating.’

‘I know. I’ll have a glass of wine later.’

Tom looks stung. ‘Or perhaps you’re just not in the mood to celebrate?’

She shoots him a look. What does he mean by
that
?

‘Very good, madame,’ says the maître d’ and melts away seamlessly.

Tom and Lila stare at each other and Lila has to take a breath. She has forgotten how handsome he is – his eyes dark and his shaven skin smooth and glowing, the white scar on his cheek illuminated in the candlelight – but he feels like a stranger, someone she is meeting for the very first time and the thought makes her stomach lurch. She wants to reach out for his hand, but she stops herself.

‘A work colleague recommended this place,’ he says, glancing about the restaurant. ‘It’s supposed to be good. We were lucky to get a table.’

‘It’s lovely. Thank you.’

Tom nods. ‘So you got back OK?’

‘Yes.’

He casts his gaze over her. ‘You look different.’ He eyes her carefully. ‘Less make-up?’

Lila gives a little nod.

‘It suits you. I never thought you needed all that gunk.’ His eyes narrow as he studies her and Lila fights the urge to turn away. ‘And you’ve caught the sun. Your freckles are back.’

Lila is relieved to see him smile, at last. ‘It’s all that time I’ve been spending outdoors. You should see the place, Tom. It’s looking really good.’

Tom nods but she sees his smile falter and notices how his eyes drop away from hers. ‘Is that an invitation?’

Lila looks at him for a moment. ‘You don’t need an invitation.’

‘Don’t I?’ He lifts his gaze, this time in a challenge. ‘I told you how I felt.’

Lila shakes her head. She’d thought she was the one treading uncertain territory but it seems Tom is equally unsure of himself. A waiter appears before them with a tall glass of sparkling water. He places it on the table before her. ‘We’ll need a few more minutes before we order,’ says Tom.

‘Very good, sir.’

Lila reaches for her drink. Beads of condensation are already forming on the outside of the glass, sparkling golden in the candlelight. She takes a sip then returns it carefully to the table and eyes Tom. He is staring down at the menu. ‘I’m told the pork belly is very good . . . as is the duck. But really I’m sure it will all be excellent.’

‘Tom,’ she says, unable to wait any longer, unable to take any more of their stilted conversation, ‘there’s something I have to tell you.’

He glances up, his eyes dark and unreadable, then shuts the menu with a snap and lays it on the edge of the table. ‘I think I know what this is about, but go on.’

‘You do?’ Lila is confused. How?

‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘It’s about William, isn’t it?’

‘William?’

‘Yes. Or rather
you
and William.’ There’s a look in his eyes she hasn’t seen before, a cool detachment.

‘Me and William?’

‘Yes,’ he sighs. ‘You know, if you came all this way to tell me that you’re leaving me for William then we probably could have spared us both the embarrassment of dinner, but do go on.’ She hears the edge in his voice.

‘You think I’m here to tell you that I’m leaving you . . . for William?’

‘Yes.’ He eyes her carefully then gives a bitter laugh. ‘Oh come off it, you’ve been hiding out in your little love nest for months now. Don’t you think it’s time you told me the truth?’

Lila’s hands jump instinctively to the silver pendant hanging around her neck. Honesty. That’s what she’s come for. ‘This isn’t about William,’ she says, but Tom is staring at the necklace, his eyes narrowing.

‘Very nice. Did
he
give it to you?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I wish you would just come out and say it. You’ve kept me dangling for months now, and I’ve been more than patient, Lila. I’ve been hoping you’d come back to me . . . that if I just gave you a little time . . . but I can see now that it’s not going to happen. You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?’

‘Tom!’ Lila’s cheeks flush at the thought of her and William, together. ‘Would you just li—’

But her blushes only seem to convince him further. He pushes back his chair and rises from the table. ‘I’m sorry, would you excuse me. I think I need some air.’ He turns on his heel and strides away across the dining room before she can say another word.

Lila stares after him, speechless. What just happened? She looks hopelessly to the floor and sees Tom’s napkin there, an incongruous white splash against the charcoal carpet. A waiter walks by and picks it up, folds it carefully then lays it across Tom’s empty chair. ‘Everything all right, Madame?’

‘Yes . . . thank you.’ She shakes her head. Did she just imagine all that? Tom thinks she’s having an affair? With William? It’s preposterous. She has to follow him. She has to explain. ‘I just have to . . . I need . . .’ She looks at the waiter helplessly. ‘We’ll be right back. Sorry.’

The waiter nods and Lila reaches for her handbag and races after Tom across the restaurant floor, ignoring the curious glances of the other diners. She slips past the long mahogany bar with its rows of colourful bottles and sparkling cocktail glasses, then out into the foyer where the heavy wooden door onto the street is just slamming shut. She bursts through it and spies Tom walking quickly down the dark Soho lane.

‘Tom,’ she yells, ‘Tom, come back!’

Hearing her voice, he spins to face her, his face cast in shadow, his eyes an angry gleam.

‘We need to talk,’ she implores.

‘We need to talk?’ He throws his arms wide. ‘That’s rich, Lila. I’ve wanted to talk to you for months now, but you’ve been so cold, so evasive. Now you’re finally here, I can only assume you’ve come to tell me, finally, that our marriage is over. But really, you needn’t have bothered. We’re probably beyond that now, don’t you think? A text or an email would have sufficed.’

‘Tom.’ She moves until she is standing before him. ‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She reaches out for him but he pulls his arm away, the fabric of his jacket sliding through her fingers. ‘Just stop. All this talk about me and William . . . it’s ridiculous.’

‘Is it?’ He eyes the necklace again.

‘This? It’s a birthday gift, from William and his mother. There’s nothing going on.’

He eyes her carefully, but he doesn’t back away and she seizes her chance. ‘Tom, I’m here. I’m here now, aren’t I?’

He shakes his head. ‘I know I said I’d stay away but I didn’t think . . . I didn’t expect . . .’ He gives a bitter laugh. ‘We’ve had no contact at all these last few weeks. It’s felt as though you’ve been trying to sever any connection you have with me. It’s like we have nothing between us any more . . . nothing real . . . nothing of substance anyway.’

She flinches, the image of their absent daughter floating between them. She swallows and tries to explain. ‘But
you
said you didn’t want to come . . .’ He raises an eyebrow at her and she tries again. ‘I’ve had so much going through my mind. I needed some time.’

‘Time to work out how you feel about William?’

‘No. God, will you stop going on about William, please. He’s just a friend. It’s other things. Things I’ve been remembering.’ She hesitates, then realises that she might as well tell him. She’s got nothing left to lose except the thin sliver of truth she senses dangling just beyond reach. She takes a deep breath and tries again. ‘I’ve been remembering things. About that day . . . when I fell. I – I don’t think I was alone. I remember someone being there – an argument – and then their hands on me.’

Tom is staring, as if she is insane. ‘You think someone was there when you fell?’

She holds his gaze and her meaning hits him like a physical punch. He reels backwards. ‘You think someone was there? That they
pushed
you down the stairs?’ His eyes are wide with horror. ‘Lila, this is serious. This is . . . my God. We have to go to the police.’

Lila can’t meet his eye. ‘Tom, just answer me something first.’

He nods.

‘I need to know if you were there . . . in the house . . . when I fell?’

Tom’s eyes grow wide. ‘What?’

Lila bites her lip. ‘Please, I need to know.’

He studies her with growing horror. ‘You think it was
me
? You think
I
was there? You think
I
pushed you?’ He shakes his head then suddenly crouches low to the ground and puts his head in his hands. ‘Oh God, Lila. I don’t know what is going on with us but this . . . this is so fucked up.’