towards Finn’s smiling one, her cartwheel practised nightly in preparation for Danny’s return, momentarily stopped me dead. Bile rose in my throat. I went to the kitchen sink, splashed cold water over my face and drank two glasses more. Then I returned to my study and picked up the phone and pressed the button three times.
‘Stamford Central 2243.’ There was a pause. ‘Chief Inspector Frank Baird, please. Well, get him then.’
Baird arrived in less than half an hour, Angeloglou with him. They both looked agitated, solemn. They could hardly meet my eye. My fidgety mind suddenly fixed on the contrast between them. Baird large, his suit tight under the arms, red hair across a large head. Angeloglou was neater, his tie pulled all the way up against his collar, a full head of dark curls. How did he brush it? They seemed newly wary of me. I was transformed from a professional person to a jilted woman. And although they didn’t say it, they both clearly thought Danny was little short of criminal, running off with Finn. There wasn’t much I could say to them, the story was simple enough. Any fool could understand it. Angeloglou wrote some things down in a notebook, they read the letters that the two of them had left behind, and together we went to Finn’s bedroom and stared into the wardrobe. One shirt was left hanging among the clatter of empty hangers; no underwear; no shoes; nothing. The room had been left quite tidy, one twist of tissue in the waste-paper basket and the duvet folded back. I was quite tart with Baird. I’m afraid, but I think that he understood. Just before he left he stood in the doorway, twisting the plain wedding ring on his thick finger, flushed with embarrassment.
‘Miss Laschen…’
‘Doctor Laschen.’
‘Doctor Laschen, I’m…’
‘Don’t say anything,’ I said. ‘But thanks, anyway.’
I still had thirty minutes left until Elsie came. I tidied the kitchen, wiped clean the table and opened the window, because outside it had turned into a balmy spring day. I picked four orange tulips from my garden and put them in the living room. I ran into Elsie’s room and made her bed, turned down the sheet on it and put her balding teddy on the pillow. Then I rummaged in the kitchen cupboards for her supper. Sonic the Hedgehog spaghetti shapes; she loved those. And I’d bought that ice-cream at the supermarket. I brushed my teeth in the bathroom and stared at the staring face that looked back at me out of the mirror. I smiled at myself and myself obediently smiled back.
Elsie ate her Sonic shapes, and her ice-cream, and had Pocahontas bubbles in her bath. Then we played a rather forlorn game of charades and I read her three books. Then she said, ‘Where’s Fing?’
What had I agreed with myself to say?
‘She’s not here at the moment.’ No, that wasn’t it. ‘Finn’s gone away, my darling. She was only ever going to stay here for a bit. She has her own life to lead.’
‘But she didn’t say goodbye.’
‘She told me to say goodbye for her,’ I lied. ‘She sent a kiss.’ I kissed Elsie’s baffled brow and the shiny softness of her hair. ‘And a hug.’ I hugged Elsie, feeling her stubborn shoulders beneath my nervous hands.
‘But where’s she gone?’
‘Well, actually’ – a terrible brightness in my voice – ‘she’s gone to stay with Danny for a bit. So that’s nice, isn’t it?’
‘But Danny’s
‘Ah, my love, we’re each other’s anyway.’
‘Mummy, that’s too
After Elsie had gone to sleep, I had a long bath. As I lay in the hot water I thought of Danny and Finn. I imagined them. Her smooth young body engulfed by his strong one; the arrow of dark hair on his chest; her tender breasts. I imagined their legs, hers so pale and his so hairy and muscled, tangled on my bed; Danny’s emphatic feet, the second toe much longer than the big one, hooked under her acquiescent calf. Had he looked at her with the same gravity with which he used to look at me? Of course he had. They loved each other, didn’t they, that’s what Finn had said? They must have said it to each other too. How could I have not seen? Even now I didn’t see it properly: when I looked back over the weeks it was as if a darkness had suddenly dropped over the string of days. Had they fucked in this house, muffling their sighs? They must have, in this house, in the place I had made for them by my trust. By my blindness. We must have sat together all three, and all the time I thought I was the centre and all the time I was on the outside, while they looked at each other, sent electric pulses rippling across the spaces between them, touched feet under the table, sent messages between the lines. Had he groaned when he came into her, that tearing sound of grief? In my mind I saw them, him rearing up above her, sweat on his straining back, her smiling into his frowning, effortful face. I washed vigorously, massaged shampoo into my scalp and, although I felt tired, I felt terribly awake. When I looked in the mirror afterwards, my ghastly red hair plastered down on my scalp, I fingered the slight bags under my eyes, ran a hand down the dry skin of my face. I looked like an ageing crow.
Then I dressed in an old track suit and made a fire, rolling newspapers into tight balls, chucking empty envelopes and loo rolls and cereal packets among the logs until it was blazing with a quick heat that would soon die away. There was a knock at the door.
‘Sam.’
Michael Daley stood on the doorstep with his arms held open: theatrical, tragic, ridiculous. What did he expect me to do? Walk into them? He looked the way I felt. Pale and shocked.
‘Well, Michael, what a surprise. I wonder what brings you here?’ I said sardonically.
‘Sam, don’t go cold on me. I’ve just spent an hour with that policeman, Baird. I’m so sorry, I can’t believe it, but I’m so sorry. And I feel responsible. I want to know if there’s anything, anything at all, that I can do. I’m on my way to London, but I had to stop in and see you.’
To my horror, I felt tears stinging my eyes. If I started crying I’d not stop. Oh God, I didn’t want Michael Daley to see me crying. I had to concentrate.
‘What’s in London?’
‘Nothing important. I’m flying to Belfast for a conference. Fund-holding. A nightmare. I’m sorry…’ His voice died away. I half-turned towards the house and then felt his hands on my shoulders, holding me steady. He smelled of cigarettes and wine. His pupils were dilated.
‘You don’t need to be brave with me, Sam,’ he said.
‘Oh yes I do,’ I snapped, shaking him off.
But he cupped my chin in one hand and traced a tear with the other. We stared at each other for a long moment. What did he want from me?
‘Good-night, Michael,’ I said and closed the door.
Twenty-Three
I don’t get dumped. I dump. I don’t get humiliated. That’s for other people. When I was growing up it was always me who sat down with the boy and looked him in the eye – or when I couldn’t be bothered, rang him up – and told him that it was time we stopped seeing each other and all that. It was for my boyfriends, my ex- boyfriends, to go red and feel hurt and rejected. And I’ve never had insomnia. Even in the worst times, or at least until I moved to the country, I slept undisturbed. But in the middle of the night after it, after Danny and Finn had gone, I found myself awake, my skin prickling, my mind humming, like an electric motor that had been left on and was running uselessly, burning itself out. I felt a familiar pressure against my right arm. Not Danny. Elsie, heaving gently, fast asleep. She must have climbed up into the bed without waking me. I kissed her hair and her nose. With a loose flap of duvet I wiped her forehead where a hot tear had fallen. I looked around at the window. The curtains were dark. I couldn’t see my watch. I couldn’t see the dial of the clock-radio and if I moved I would wake Elsie and she wouldn’t go back to sleep.
