Until You're Mine (31 page)

‘Then I admire you greatly,’ Pip says. I think she means it. ‘And that makes me probably not worried about you at all right now.’ She smiles broadly.

‘Good,’ I say. The last thing I want is for her to fuss over me.

I offer her a smile as our food arrives. My mozzarella and vegetable panini is steaming hot and served on a bed of greenery and dressing. I don’t feel in the least bit hungry, even though I left the office famished. Pip tucks in to her linguine, wrapping the pale ribbons of pasta around her fork. The whole lot slides off just as she’s about to put it in her mouth. She sighs and puts down her cutlery.

‘It’s just that I thought you seemed a bit down or distracted the last couple of times I’ve seen you,’ she says. ‘But it’s probably because James has gone and you’re getting used to Zoe.’

My heart thunders in my chest when she mentions Zoe. I should be spending the limited time we have together telling her about what I found in her room, asking her opinion about the photographs, the pregnancy testing kit, the blood on her top. Pouring out my heart about times long gone and done with, harping on about my grand path in life and my woes at work, should not have been a priority.

But talking about Zoe now somehow seems wrong, and Pip would only say I was jumping to conclusions, reading too much into very little. She’ll think I’m making it up, being paranoid and irrational. Besides, I know she really likes Zoe.

‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘you don’t get off that lightly, Mrs Pearce.’ I force myself to pick up my sandwich. ‘When you rang this morning, I thought
you
sounded horribly down in the dumps.’ I gauge her reaction. ‘Us beached whales need to stick together, you know.’

At this she laughs. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit apprehensive about the birth, but nothing I haven’t done before.’

‘How was it with Lilly?’ I’m keen to know her story. ‘Easy, quick, caught on the hop, or a long, drawn-out affair lasting days?’

Pip forks up another mouthful and ends up with creamy sauce on her chin. She wipes it away with a grin. ‘Awful,’ she says. ‘Nearly died.’

‘Oh that’s terrible, Pip.’ She has previously mentioned that her labour wasn’t straightforward, but I had no idea she nearly died.

‘I was alone when it happened. Being my first time, I was absolutely terrified. The pain was unbearable.’ Pip pours more water. ‘I couldn’t get hold of anyone.’

‘When
what
happened?’ What I really need is to hear about an easy pregnancy, a gentle breeze of a labour and a dream of a baby born with a smile on her face.

‘
It
,’ Pip says, breaking apart a bread roll. She has a fierce appetite today. ‘You know, labour. The pain. The terrible, crippling, back-biting, madness-inducing pain that never ends.’

‘Oh,’ I say, slightly disappointed. ‘So nothing actually went wrong?’

‘No. My labour was text book. It was just plain awful, and Clive wasn’t answering his phone. He was in Edinburgh at the time. I swore I’d never have another baby but . . . here I am.’

‘Here we are,’ I say, feeling more scared than ever.

HOWEVER HARD I
scrub, the blood won’t come out. It’s embedded, the keeper of guilty secrets. The water is tinged pink beneath the suds so I sprinkle more soap powder onto the stain, rubbing the fabric vigorously. The basement sink glugs when I pull out the plug. I wring out the sweatshirt and hold it up. I sigh at the deep orange-brown tidemark circling the shoulder. As it is I’m going to have to stitch up the ripped seam. My sewing isn’t up to much, so either way she’s going to be cross that I ruined her favourite top. It’s the one she always lounges around in, the one she cries at soppy black-and-white films in while hugging a box of chocolates, the one she’s had since she was about sixteen. She didn’t know I took it. Cecelia will not be pleased.

‘You should have put that in to soak straight away,’ Jan says. I turn around, suppressing my shock. She’s standing with her hands on her hips, scowling at my rather useless attempts at hand washing. ‘Blood?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I say nervously. I fumble with the sweatshirt, trying to fold it so the stain is hidden. ‘I’ll probably just throw it away,’ I add, trying to indicate how unimportant it is.

‘Nonsense,’ she continues. ‘Here, let me see.’

She reaches for the dripping fabric but I recoil, holding it to my chest. ‘Really, it’s fine. It’s ancient. It’s for the bin.’ Then I make the mistake of chucking it in the basement rubbish bin and, of course, Jan lunges for it. I know she’s only trying to be helpful.

‘What you need is to soak it in some hydrogen peroxide.’ She slaps the sweatshirt back into the sink and rummages in the cupboard beneath. ‘I swear there’s some in here.’ A moment later she stands up beaming and holding a black plastic bottle. She shakes it. ‘Should be enough,’ and she douses it onto the sweatshirt along with some water.

‘Thanks, Jan,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll sort it now. I’ll rinse it out in a few minutes.’

‘Oh no, love. Best leave it for a few hours. Did you have an accident?’ She hooks up the bloodied shoulder with her little finger.

‘Yes . . . yes, I did,’ I say. ‘I fell off my bike.’

‘You must have a nasty cut,’ she says, but I brush it off, claiming it’s just a graze. ‘Some graze,’ she says incredulously, looking at the top then back at me again. ‘Looks more like murder.’ Then, before I can reply or protest, she’s heading back up the steps. ‘See you next week,’ she calls out.

I don’t say that, if all goes to plan, she most certainly won’t.

I decide to take Jan’s advice and leave the top to soak. No one’s home to question the gory-looking garment and Jan seemed to believe me when I told her about falling off my bike. Bloodying a sweatshirt is pretty high up on my list of idiotic things not to do while I’m in this house. Drawing unnecessary attention to myself is not on my agenda. I really can’t afford for Claudia to become suspicious about me. I certainly wouldn’t want anyone with bloody clothes looking after my children.

My children
, I think, and then Cecelia is back in my head again, yelling at me for ruining her favourite slouchy top and not being able to give her a baby.

I’m relieved that Claudia went into work this morning. Judging by her pale colour and proximity to her due date, I was convinced she wouldn’t. While she doesn’t complain much about the effort it takes to move around the house or climb the stairs or even bend down to pick something up, I can see the frustration and exhaustion written on her face. Having seen Cecelia again so soon after I promised myself I wouldn’t (so much for my self-imposed contact ban of at least a month since our separation), I’m even more convinced that me not getting pregnant naturally was a blessing in disguise. Cecelia doesn’t see it that way, of course.

I take the opportunity of an empty house to sneak back into James’s study. This time I’ll make certain that the photos are off my camera and safely uploaded. I’m sure Claudia is suspicious, that she was probing through my things. I don’t miss the irony of this as I turn the key to the study door.

‘Right,’ I say, still not having much of an idea what it is I’m looking for. ‘Where to begin today?’

I bite my lip and look around James’s inner sanctum. I wonder if he senses, from all the way under the sea, that I’m in his domain. When he gets home, will his nose twitch and his eyes dart around the room, picking up any vague scent I might have left, or will he spot misplaced items? The carpet is a deep red colour and plush underfoot. I must be careful not to leave footprints in the nap when I leave. If Claudia comes in, which I know she does from time to time, she’ll be sure to notice.

I pull on the drawer of an antique wooden filing cabinet but, as I suspected, it’s locked. Last time I was in here I covered the contents of the metal cabinet, thinking that the fireproof one would contain the more interesting documents. While some of the papers I photographed might prove useful, I’m certain what I need is yet to be found. There is money in this family, I am sure of that, and I’m certain it came from the Sheehan side. But I need proof, so much proof, and I need it fast. I have to think of my future.

In a flash, I locate the key to the wooden filing cabinet. It’s tucked beneath a rather dry-looking pot plant on the windowsill. I ease open the top drawer with no idea what I’ll find inside, if anything, but if I’m to do this properly, if I’m to succeed –
oh God, let me for once have some luck!
– then it has to be in here. I need that elusive
thing
, the proof, the deal-sealer. Someone like me doesn’t get many opportunities like this. If I think about it, it’s all being handed to me on a plate. That’s why I’m so nervous, I realise, as I pull out the first file. If I mess up, if I don’t come away with exactly what I want, if I get caught before I’m finished, then I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do to the police.

I spread out the contents of the first file on James’s desk. It’s a load of statements – some kind of investment fund – ranging from 1996 to 2008. I carefully photograph each one. It takes me twenty minutes. I sigh and stare at the crammed cabinet. What is this really going to achieve?
A better life for you
, says the voice inside my head that torments me with the rights and wrongs of what I’m doing. It hasn’t shut up from the moment I answered Claudia’s advert.

Professional working parents seek experienced, kind, loving nanny to look after four-year-old twin boys and soon-to-be-born baby girl. Own room and bathroom in beautiful family home in Edgbaston. Light domestic chores but no cleaning. Use of car and weekends off. Must have formal training and exemplary references. Immediate start.

How perfect, I remember thinking when I first saw the advert. What an absolutely uncanny, sent-from-the-heavens, amazingly-timed opportunity, and it had landed in front of me almost as if I’d been hand-picked for the job. Again, I laugh at the irony. It’s not as if I really want to do what I’m doing. In fact, I have little choice –
no
choice – in the matter. There are some things in life that you just have to get on with, and I came to realise this the day I moved out of Cecelia’s flat, which happened to be the same day I moved in here. Out of one fire pit and right into another.

Still, I console myself, at least I’m doing something worthwhile and avoiding the cutting edge of Cecelia’s cruel tongue when I can’t provide her with what she so desperately wants.

I stuff the file back in its slot and pull out another. ‘Life Insurance’, the label reads. I raise my eyebrows.
Useful
, I think.
Hope they have plenty
.

Half an hour later and I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, just as if it’s any old tea break in any old job. I stare out of the kitchen window and down the well-kept garden. The trees are gnarled and winter-craggy against the dull, low sky and the grass is a greeny-grey smudge of summer’s forgotten fun. I suddenly feel very alone, very scared and very like giving up. I touch the phone in my pocket – my line to everything safe and familiar, my line to Cecelia. I wonder if she is thinking the same, tracing a finger over the keys of her phone that could so easily tap out a message to me. What is she thinking at this precise moment? Does she even realise that I’m doing all this for her? Does she hate me? Will she ever want to see me again? The thought that she won’t makes me go cold inside. It also makes me return to the study and begin searching through files again. I must surely be close to something useful by now.

The file marked ‘Gardening’ surprises me. It’s the same drab shade of beige as the rest of the folders in the cabinet but a lot thicker, more stuffed full of papers than the others. So much so that it takes a good pull to remove it from its file hanger. When it comes out, I see that its contents have nothing to do with gardening at all. If I was expecting to read about the latest in ride-on mower technology in sales brochures gathered at the garden centre, or tree-lopping services and block-paving quotes, then I couldn’t have been more wrong. The Gardening file contains yet another file, a tattier one, that is simply labelled ‘Trust’.

My heart races behind my ribs. My ears strain to hear the sounds of anyone coming home – the noise of a car drawing into the drive, the slam of the door, someone’s key in the lock. In the distance I hear the rise and fall of a siren scream as it races to a far-off emergency, and in my head I hear the sound of my own breath as it forces its way in and out of my lungs.

I open the folder and take out the first document. I speed-read it and then take a photograph. I do the same with the rest of the contents. It takes me an hour and a half to complete the task. Even when everything is put back neatly in its place, when the study is locked and I’m back in my room, my heart doesn’t stop its ridiculous dance in my chest. I can’t stop thinking about what it means. But, mostly, I can’t stop thinking about Cecelia.

GRACE WAS STARING
at the carpet and picking her thumbnail. Her foot rubbed back and forth until Lorraine told her to stop. She took no notice and continued more vigorously until she was kicking the leg of the coffee table with her toes and banging the base of the sofa with her heel. Her cheeks grew red and her bottom lip began a virtually undetectable quiver, bringing her to the edge of tears.

‘Well, how kind of you to call in,’ Lorraine said sourly. She hadn’t meant to take that tone but her hopes of Grace returning for good had been crushed after her daughter rang the doorbell –
rang the doorbell!
– and announced she’d just popped back to get a couple of things.

‘Darling . . .’ Adam began.

Grace said nothing. They had coaxed her into the living room and got her to sit down. But the sigh, the tightly folded arms, the pout and the sharp stare at the ceiling did more than suggest that she would rather be anywhere else.

‘Stop kicking, Grace, you’ll hurt your foot,’ Lorraine said, probably too harshly.

Grace finally straightened and sat still.

‘Your mother’s right,’ Adam added pointlessly. ‘Grace, you have to talk to us. How can we help you if you won’t even speak about it?’