‘I can’t eat any more,’ she announced apologetically.
‘There’s some stuff in your fridge, I checked. I’ll warm it up for you later. Chops, that kind of thing.’
‘I can’t eat anything, Jackie, I told you. Anyway, you can’t stay here all the time. Dave gets home at about six, doesn’t he?’
‘Dave is on a training course for a couple of nights in Southampton. I’ve got nothing to rush back for, anyway.’
That word again.
‘If you want me to stay the night with you I will,’ Jackie said.
‘I appreciate it, really, but I’ve got to face things sooner or later.’
‘It’s only the day after, Donna; be fair to yourself. Don’t try to be
‘I’ll be okay.’
‘I’ll stay until the doctor’s been, how’s that?’
Donna smiled and nodded, watching Jackie pick up the tray and head for the door. She heard her footfalls on the stairs and lay down, eyes closed for long moments.
Was he? Was he really working?
Donna opened her eyes, felt the moisture there.
Had it been an affair?
Somehow she had to find out.
It was about seven-thirty when Jackie finally left. She had tried to encourage Donna to eat something, using a combination of threats and cajolements. The two women had ended up smiling at each other across the kitchen table. Both of them knew that there was no relief in that smile, however; no hint of a respite from the suffering Donna felt.
The doctor had prescribed a mild dosage of Valium, just 2mg, the minimum dose, but Donna was wary of the drug and said she’d only take it if she found she had no option.
Alone in the house now, seated at the kitchen table dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt several sizes too big, she stared at the bottle reproachfully and ran a hand through her hair. She had showered and washed her hair after Jackie had left, standing beneath the spray for more than twenty minutes, as if the powerful jets of water could wash away some of her grief.
She’d sat in the sitting-room and tried to watch television but the images on the screen did not register in her mind. She had flicked aimlessly from channel to channel before switching the set off and turning on the stereo instead. It didn’t seem to matter what she did as long as she didn’t have to put up with the silence. In the kitchen she had switched on the ghetto-blaster, but every tape she selected seemed to bring different memories. If she played one of Chris’s tapes it made her think of him. If she played one of her own then the words she normally sang along to quite happily had added poignancy. He always used to joke with her about her choice of music, telling her the sad love songs she was so fond of would make her depressed. They never had. Until now.
She sat alone and silent in the kitchen, tapping the lid of the valium bottle, wondering if she should take just one.
It
She shook her head. Tranquillizers helped to alleviate symptoms of stress and suffering; they didn’t remove the cause.
She got to her feet and padded barefoot from the kitchen back towards the stairs, climbing them slowly.
The phone rang again but she ignored it, allowing the message to be taken by the answering machine. The green light was already flashing three times but Donna had no inclination to learn the identity of the callers just yet. As she reached the top of the stairs she heard the click as the machine recorded the latest call and stored it.
The house was silent again as she wandered down the corridor that led off the landing to her husband’s office.
It was cold inside there, colder than the rest of the house, she thought, but realized that this was merely fanciful supposition. She touched the radiator and found it was hot. She switched on the desk lamp and sat down behind the typewriter, running her fingers over the black keys as if it were a musical instrument.
There was a framed picture of her husband on the wall to the left of the desk, from a photo shoot he’d done in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors for the launch of his last book. It showed him standing beside the guillotine, pointing up at the blade and smiling.
Donna stared at the photo, her eyes filling with tears. She fought them back and glanced around at the other things on his desk. It was organised chaos. File trays were marked with white sticky labels, each one supposedly home, according to the legend on the sticker, to various documents.
CONTRACTS
RESEARCH AND NOTES
FAN MAIL
She picked a letter from the top of the tray and glanced at it. It was the usual thing.
Ward received a lot of fan mail and was always grateful for it. The readers, he used to tell her, paid their mortgage.
Donna slid open one of the drawers and peered in. More notepads, more envelopes. Elastic bands, paper clips, Tipp-Ex.
A letter.
She pulled it out and spread it out on the desk, scanning it through tired eyes.
Dear Suzanne.
Donna stiffened, sucked in a shallow breath.
Suzanne.
One part of her wanted to read the letter; the other part told her not to continue.
‘Dear Suzanne,’ she read aloud. ‘Just a quick note to tell you that everything is taken care of.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I hope you are well and I will see you next Thursday. Love, Chris.’
Donna closed her eyes for a moment, her body shaking. Then she looked at the letter again. There was no date on it.
She snatched at the letter and balled it up, crushing it between her hands, finally hurling it across the room with a despairing grunt. Tears were coursing down her cheeks. She glared across at the photo of her husband on the wall.
He smiled back at her.
‘You fucking bastard,’ she roared at the photo.
She didn’t know whether her tears were of pain or anger.
And it didn’t really seem to matter any more.
Donna hadn’t expected so much coverage in the papers.
