The Honeymoon, page 18
‘Sorry?’ I ask.
‘I said, would you like me to arrange for you to do a urine sample?’
There are some clear plastic pots wrapped in sterile paper beside her desk. The disabled loo in the doctor’s surgery is hardly the nicest setting for such life-changing news but there’s no way I can wait.
‘Yes,’ I say, without a beat of hesitation.
44
Sophia
Monday 26 September
I take a deep breath and rap my knuckles against the uPVC door, crossing my fingers that someone is in.
And that they are willing to talk to me.
I lied and told Claudia I had a dentist’s appointment this morning. I know Mark made it clear that he’s worried about me digging into what happened to George, but I can’t help myself. It’s an itch I have to scratch, and I really hope that coming here will shed some light on things.
Before I left, I sent yet another email and left another voicemail chasing George’s autopsy. I desperately need clarification on exactly what his cause of death is being classed as, and what these suspicious marks on his body are.
I glance over my shoulder, unable to shake this sense of being watched. It’s ridiculous. There is literally no one else around on this quiet residential street full of squat bungalows and neat patches of front lawn.
I hover on the doorstep. There’s no reply so I try again, pressing my finger against the doorbell; it lets out a tight trill. My hand is lifted in the air, poised to knock once more, when I hear a woman on the other side of the glass telling me she’s coming.
There’s the scratch of keys as the door’s opened. Standing on the other side is Marie Connelly, Claire’s mother. After reading the interview Claire’s parents did with the local press, I had logged into iSearch to find their address.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ she asks, with a thin, reedy voice.
Thick, coarse grey hair falls from her crown to her ears; the rest hangs limply in mousy brown down to her shoulders. She’s wearing a thick jumper with embroidered flowers trailing over one shoulder. It looks as if she’s been crying. For a brief moment I wobble; perhaps I should apologise for disturbing her and leave. Put this story to bed and move on.
I swallow and fix on a bright smile. Sophia Spencer doesn’t give up.
‘Yes, hello. It’s Marie Connelly, isn’t it? My name is Sophia,’ I say softly. ‘I’m a journalist for the Sunday News. I appreciate you’ve been through a very difficult few months but I wondered if you could spare some time to talk to me about Claire?’
There’s every likelihood she’ll slam the door in my face, I’ve had it happen enough times and been called enough names under the sun on door-knocks like this. I had debated about going in with a different tack, acting as if I personally knew Claire – we’re about the same age, after all – but I decided not to. The only reason I have to hope that Marie’s not going to turn me away is that, since she spoke to the press once before, she might be willing to do it again.
Marie lifts a hand to her bare lips. ‘You want to talk about my Claire?’
I nod and show her my ID.
There’s a moment of hesitation before the door is held open for me. ‘Come on in.’
The heat hits me as I walk in, the orange imitation logs on the gas fire glowing inside the ornate marble-effect fireplace. Marie tells me to sit down and asks if I’d like a tea, wringing her hands together as if she’s apologising for something.
As she bustles about in the small kitchen leading off from the dated lounge, I pad across the pistachio-green carpet that has Hoover marks running across it, to take a closer look at the shrine in the corner of the room. Every inch of space beside the flat-screen TV is filled with Claire’s face. I’m looking at Erin’s double. The same warm smile, plump cheeks, similar dress sense. It’s unnerving.
Framed photos run up the wall next to the patio doors, which look out on to a small patch of lawn and an empty rotary washing line. They range from gap-toothed childhood grins to self-conscious smiles on her graduation day and stern-faced passport photos, that have been collaged together in a simple clip frame. A life before my eyes.
Then I see a face I recognise.
Jamie standing tall in a traditional wedding suit with a swirly-patterned waistcoat, his dark hair gelled over to one side, barely any grey, and smooth, close-shaven cheeks. Beside him his blushing bride, Claire, wearing a strapless princess dress and a veil that glistens with tiny diamanté teardrops that appear to fall mid-air. They couldn’t look happier.
‘Cake?’ Marie asks, carefully setting down a tray holding a teapot, two china cups on saucers and slices of Victoria sponge on matching side plates, complete with shiny cake forks and serviettes folded into sharp triangles.
I steer my eyes away from the photographs and shrug off my jacket. ‘Erm, sure. Thank you.’
‘I only made it yesterday, so it’s still fresh. I like to bake on Sundays, you see. I need to fill the time somehow. Weekends are ever so long.’
She wears her grief as heavy as her patterned sweater.
‘So, you want to hear some more about my lovely Claire?’ Her watery eyes blink as she pours out the steaming tea. ‘So many people don’t even want to say her name around me any more. They worry I can’t handle it, so they change the subject, thinking it’s easier.’ She sniffs. ‘It might be, for them.’
‘I imagine people don’t know what to say.’
‘Saying something is better than saying nothing. They act like she never existed – let me tell you how hard that is.’ Her voice is soft but there’s a fierceness to it.
‘Was she your only child?’ I sit on the large cream leather sofa opposite her, moving a bundle of knitting to one side.
Marie nods. ‘Sugar?’
‘No, thank you.’
I take the cup, wincing at how sore her nails look. All of them bitten down to the quick. On her wrist is an Apple watch with a pale baby-pink strap. The screen is covered in cracks, like spider’s legs spreading across the glass. She notices me looking.
‘This was Claire’s. It doesn’t work of course but it helps me to feel a little closer to her.’ She sniffs slowly. ‘Sorry, back to what you were asking. Yes. Our Claire was a miracle. Richard and I had been told a baby wasn’t meant to be, but then one day, out of the blue, I felt a bit off so the doctors did a test. Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather when it came back positive. I mean, I was forty-one. This might not sound like much now, but back then I certainly was the grandma at the school gates. I didn’t care, though. People could talk all they wanted. We were thrilled to finally have the missing piece of the puzzle in our lives.’
My heart pulls in my chest.
‘Have you got children?’
I shake my head.
‘I wished she and Jamie – that’s my son-in-law – had sped things up a bit, but maybe it was for the best. They ended up getting divorced.’ She mouths this last word. ‘Of course, a nice chap like that, it was never going to be long until someone else snapped him up.’
‘Oh?’
‘He recently got married again. We have to say it was a bit of a shock for us. By all accounts it was a whirlwind.’
‘That must have been tough for you,’ I say.
‘I just hope he’s happy, that’s all. He’s such a wonderful chap. Ever so kind. Would do anything for anyone.’
There’s an order of service from Claire’s funeral on the mantelpiece; she died on the fourth of July. Jamie and Erin got married on the third of September, the same date as us. He’d barely had time to deal with the loss of his ex-wife before he was saying ‘I do’ to a new one.
I use the delicate cake fork to break off a small piece of sponge. ‘This is delicious, by the way.’
Marie smiles and pats down her trousers. ‘Thank you.’
I swallow. ‘I hope you don’t find this an upsetting question, but can you tell me what happened to Claire?’
This is what I’m desperate to find out. As if she’s reading my mind, I feel the bright eyes of the happy-go-lucky girl bear down upon me. I stutter slightly under her gaze.
‘I-I read that Claire had an accidental fall—’
‘Well, that depends who you talk to.’
This throws me. ‘Oh . . . I thought the police were treating it as an accidental death?’
‘Of course they are. Less paperwork that way.’ She draws herself up. ‘It may have been an accident, but that doesn’t mean someone’s not responsible.’
I frown. A shiver runs through me at the look on Marie’s face. ‘Sorry?’
‘Claire was having such a run of bad luck. I know the strain of the marriage breaking up wasn’t easy, no matter how brave a face she wore or how often she told us it was amicable.’ Marie sniffs. ‘She was made redundant, too, right at the same time. But it was losing Pepper . . . that’s the name of her cat. Was. He died. It was all terribly ghastly: run over. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back, as it were. I have my suspicions about who did it, too.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘I can’t be one hundred per cent sure, of course. Richard, my husband, tells me off for hypothesising. But when you’re retired, you have a lot more time to think. It’s not always helpful, I suppose. But someone was responsible for her downfall. She was driven to take those pills – antidepressants – and she mixed them with alcohol in order to block out all the tough things going on in her life. I wish she’d told us she was struggling so much. We could have helped.’ Marie pulls out a tissue tucked inside her sleeve to wipe her nose. ‘We’ll never forgive them.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The person who did this to Claire, the one who killed her beloved Pepper. They have blood on their hands.’
A shot of adrenaline fires up inside of me. ‘What do you mean? Who did this?’
Her mouth is set in a steely line. ‘Claire’s stalker.’
45
Erin
Every pregnancy test is positive.
A lot of things start to make sense – the headaches, dizziness, mood swings, fatigue – even my heart has been beating faster thanks to the extra hormones and sudden increase in the volume of blood circulating around my body. Not to mention my heightened senses – that would explain the dripping in the house – why I can hear it but not Jamie. It’s all because I’m pregnant.
Despite being in a total daze, I decide I’m going to wait to break this life-changing news. I can’t just blurt it out. I want it to be special. This is about us turning a corner, a fresh start. I know that he wants a baby just as much as I do. It will bind us together. We will be a proper little family.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say as I get into Jamie’s car.
‘Everything OK?’ he asks, quickly putting his phone away.
I press my lips together and simply nod.
‘What did the doctor say?’
‘She just gave me some pills to help with my anxiety. I need to pick up the prescription in a few days’ time,’ I lie. It rolls off my tongue effortlessly.
He runs the steering wheel through his hands. I wish he would hold on to it properly in the ten-to-two position – we’ve got precious cargo on board now. For the first time in a long time there’s a fire inside me and I can’t help but smile.
The entire way home I stare out of the window, planning how to tell Jamie our news. It needs to be special. I’ll cook a nice dinner, get dressed up. Oh, no, maybe we can go out! For the first time I think I can breathe again. Jamie must be right – we’d know if they had anything on us by now.
Back home, I stand in front of the kettle and ask him if he wants a tea or coffee, amazed at how I’m able to act so normal in front of him when all I can think is I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant.
When he doesn’t reply, I ask him again.
He snaps his neck up from his phone screen. ‘Huh? No, nothing. I need to go.’
‘What? Now?’ I try to bite down the disappointment.
He’s distracted, fingers flying across his screen. ‘Something’s come up. In fact, I need to go away for a few days,’ he says, before hurrying up the stairs.
‘What? What do you mean, you need to go away?’
The exposed wood groans under my feet as I follow him. I’ve asked him before about checking the top step. He says it’s fine, but to me it feels as if it’s gone spongy, as though it’s rotting under my bare feet. It’s different from the other steps. I won’t nag him about it now, though. Not today. Nothing can ruin today.
‘Jamie?’ I try again.
He’s rifling through the chest of drawers, pulling out items of clothing. Boxers, jumpers, two pairs of jeans, a couple of polo shirts, three crumpled smart shirts. He mutters under his breath that he hopes this place has an iron he can borrow, grumbling that it hasn’t been done before. His tie is askew and there are sweat patches under each armpit.
The idyllic pregnancy announcement that I had in mind suddenly dissolves before my eyes.
‘Jamie! What’s going on?’
He huffs. ‘There’s a work conference in London. Someone messed up with adding my name to the list of attendees so now it’s all last-minute.’
I don’t believe him.
‘Jamie . . .’ I try again, my voice a little stronger despite the growing panic that he’s hiding something, something big, something that I need to be aware of, as his wife. As the mother of his child. ‘Is this linked to what the police wanted?’
He doesn’t answer me.
‘Jamie!’ I snap. Or rather, scream. I don’t realise how loud I am until he literally jumps and throws a hand to his chest.
‘Erin!’ His eyes meet mine. ‘Don’t do that!’
‘I need to know where you’re going. For how long? Can I come with you?’ The questions tumble out.
He gives a slight shake of his head and comes to sit next to me, abandoning the messy pile of clothes strewn inside the overnight case. He glances at his watch as if this is going to take up time he doesn’t have.
‘It’s a work thing, babe. I have to be away for four nights. It’s at a hotel in Fulham. I’ll leave you the address and phone number. You’ll be more than fine here.’
The thought of spending four nights here, alone, feels like I’m being punished for something.
‘Is this because of the police?’ I ask again. ‘That complaint?’
A look flashes across his face before he quickly shakes his head. ‘No, that’s all sorted now.’ He pulls me closer and presses a kiss on to my skin. ‘I told you I’d make it go away, and I have.’
46
Sophia
I can’t ask Marie anything else, as the door to the lounge is suddenly flung open. A tall man with a full head of dark grey hair and rimless glasses, pushed right up against the bridge of his large nose, strides in. He holds out a veiny hand for me to shake. The grip is firm, but I’m most taken aback by how cool it is in this sauna of a house.
‘This is Richard, Claire’s dad,’ Marie explains.
‘Sorry, I was just upstairs on a call. I would have come down sooner if I’d known we had guests,’ Richard says, giving his wife a look I can’t quite read.
‘This is Sophie. She’s a journalist who wanted to talk about Claire.’ Marie’s eyes flick to the shrine as if Claire were standing there herself. I don’t correct her for getting my name wrong.
Richard pulls himself taller. ‘Hmm. Well, thanks for popping round, but if you don’t mind, we’ve got that thing that we’re running late for.’ He is polite but firm. ‘Don’t we, darling?’
Marie looks blank for a second. ‘Oh, yes, so sorry. It completely slipped my mind.’ She lets out a flutter of laughter and wrings her hands together.
‘I’ll show you out, Sophie,’ Richard says, opening the door to the wide hallway.
‘Hang on! Let me get this wrapped up for you.’ Marie takes my plate with the unfinished cake. She dashes off to the kitchen before I can say another word.
Richard shakes his head slightly once she’s gone. ‘Sorry, she’s a little all over the place. She’s still not come to terms with what happened.’
‘Please don’t apologise. I can’t imagine what you’ve both been through.’ I pause. ‘Marie was telling me about Claire’s stalker and I was wondering what you—’
‘Claire didn’t have a stalker,’ he interrupts me. ‘Not in the traditional sense of the word. I wish Marie wouldn’t throw that term around.’ He tenses his jaw. ‘It was just someone who was getting a little too friendly on Claire’s social media, that sort of thing. She only mentioned it in passing the last time we saw her. Even she thought it was no big deal.’
‘Do you know who it was, this person?’
‘No. She had a lot of . . . what do you call them? Followers. So it could have been anyone.’
‘Did the police not look into it?’
‘Of course we mentioned it, but the officers didn’t seem the least bit concerned, and their reaction just backed up my opinion. There’s nothing to look into. It was just a tragic accident.’ Richard clears his throat. ‘She was a complicated girl, our Claire. Life had a habit of getting on top of her at times.’
‘But Marie said—’
‘Marie is still processing everything. We all are. But trying to put the blame elsewhere isn’t going to bring our Claire back.’ His voice trembles as he finishes this sentence.
‘Here you go!’ Marie returns, handing me a cling-film-wrapped slice of cake. ‘I’ll only eat it otherwise,’ she says, patting her stomach.
I wonder how often she used to send her own daughter off with a packed lunch. The same thought has clearly entered her mind, because she swallows, and busies herself with running a finger across the pristine hall window. ‘Gosh, I need to polish in here.’
I see Richard pulling himself a little taller beside her. ‘We really must be getting on now.’
