Poppy must be protected from all of this. She is my responsibility. And if Tom is sent to prison, I’ll be the only one responsible for her. The thought horrifies me. I never imagined having to bring up our child alone. It wasn’t in the plan. Leaning on the counter, I hang my head. I remember Tom’s delight when I showed him the stick with the two blue lines. How he hugged me tightly, then panicked, pulling away, afraid he’d hurt the baby. I’d only been eight weeks pregnant then, but Tom’s need to look after our baby had been so strong right from the off, that I knew he was going to be a good dad. His idea to move out of London was born from his need to protect; his desire to ensure his child grew up in a safe area.
His excitement in his flat the day we boxed up our old lives to start our life in our dream house was contagious, and we got lost in the giddy anticipation of family life – deciding which things to keep; which to bag up for charity; which to take to the tip. I’d found some of Tom’s university stuff as we packed.
It was fate that we’d met. He’d gone to Leeds uni and studied Economics and Finance, while I’d studied English Literature at Southampton. It had seemed a lifetime ago, even then – that heady mix of experiencing independence and making an abundance of new friends. Learning almost took second place. I’d had a year out after graduation, gone to France to ski before securing my first recruitment job in London. I’d been there ever since. Meeting Tom that night in Bethnal Green, when I’d first felt that spark, was a moment of serendipity. I’d kept everything back then – receipts from Sager + Wilde as a keepsake of our first meeting, pressed roses he’d bought, silly gifts – even a plastic ring which he’d pretended was an engagement ring as a joke. Of course, I’d also had items from past relationships: a few photos, similar little keepsakes.
Tom isn’t one to keep things. All that sentimentality annoys him – he didn’t even have photos of his parents and he still doesn’t carry around photos of me and Poppy. He made a fuss about the things I had kept from my life before him. So it was uncharacteristic of him to have kept any of his uni stuff. He had insisted I pack a worn-looking sweatshirt that was clearly two sizes too small, and I had questioned his need for it. I was throwing away all of my old things – partly at his request, partly because I was keen to start afresh. I wasn’t taking any ghosts with me.
‘Hello – is anyone serving?’ One of my regulars interrupts my memories. I drag my hands down my face.
‘Yep, sorry, Amy.’ I take her drink order, then go to the front door and turn the sign to closed. Once the remaining customers have left, so will I. I need to pick Poppy up and have ‘the chat’ with Zoey, the teacher in charge at nursery. But before that, I feel the need to see Adam. I’m surprised he hasn’t called me to hear the outcome; it makes me think he already knows, and now, despite his initial support, he’s backed off. He’s probably changed his mind – who would want to be associated with the wife of a suspected murderer? Perhaps he had expected Tom to be released without charge, and now that isn’t the case, he’s not willing to put himself in the line of fire. The inevitable fire that’ll come my way.
Does he think I must’ve known too? Or that I at least should have?
Knowing how he always puts Jess first, I’m betting he wants nothing else to do with me. But I need to know for sure.
Chapter 35
BETH
Now
I reach Adam’s house and stand awkwardly as I wait for him to answer the door. I feel as though I’m opening myself up at my most vulnerable – if he turns me away, I can’t say how I’ll react. The door opens and Adam takes a step back when he sees it’s me, but it’s not to let me in. It’s shock at seeing me standing here. He recovers – I see him inhale deeply, and I give a simultaneous smile and shrug. My eyes and nose tingle with the onset of tears. He jolts forwards, sticks his head outside, and gives a furtive look up and down the road. I follow his eyes as he checks whether anyone is around.
Silently, he takes my elbow and pulls me inside, closing the door quickly.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I – I shouldn’t … have come,’ I say, my voice faltering. ‘I understand if you feel too uncomfortable, allowing the wife of a suspected murderer inside your home …’ I turn to leave, hurt by his reaction, but knowing it was inevitable.
‘No, no. You don’t have to go, Beth. I’m just concerned what people will think.’
‘Right. Course. But if you’re that worried, I should go. I don’t want to put you in an awkward position.’
‘I’m worried how it will look because I’m single and I’m letting a
