‘Shush.’
‘Don’t shush me, Joe.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘Yes, I think I do. What you’re telling me is that our baby is being looked after by a teenager whose mother was murdered.’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘And she’s living in our house.’
‘She’s a good kid. She’s great with Emma.’
‘I don’t care. She has no training, no references. She should be at school.’
‘Shush.’
‘I said don’t shush me.’
‘She’s here.’
Her eyes snap up. Darcy is standing beside the car, rhythmically chewing gum. Emma is balancing on the bumper bar, perched between her arms.
‘Darcy, this is Julianne. Julianne, this is Darcy.’
Julianne gives her a fixed larger-than-life smile. ‘Hello.’
Darcy raises her hand a few inches in a nervous wave. ‘Did you have a nice trip?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Julianne takes Emma from her. ‘I’m sorry about your mother, Darcy. It’s an awful thing.’
‘What happened?’ asks Emma.
‘Nothing to concern you, sweetheart.’
We drive in silence. The only person talking is Emma, who asks and fields all the questions. Darcy has withdrawn into a bubble of silence and uncertainty. I don’t know what’s wrong with Julianne. It’s not like her to be so unwelcoming and intractable.
At the cottage Charlie comes running outside to greet us. She’s bursting with news for Julianne, most of it about Darcy, which she can’t tell because Darcy is standing next to her.
I carry the bags inside where Julianne moves from room to room, as though making an inspection. Maybe she expects to find the place a mess, with unwashed laundry, unmade beds and dirty dishes in the sink. Instead it’s spotless. For some reason this deepens her funk. She drinks two glasses of wine over dinner- a casserole prepared by Darcybut instead of relaxing, her lips tighten into narrow lines and her comments become sharp and accusatory.
‘I’ll give Emma a bath,’ Julianne says, turning towards the stairs. Darcy’s eyes meet mine, framing a question.
After the dishwasher is packed, I go up and find Julianne sitting on our bed. Her suitcase is open. She is sorting clothes. Why is she so annoyed at Darcy being here? It’s almost an ownership issue: a marking out of her territory or a defence of an existing claim. But that’s ridiculous. Darcy isn’t a threat.
I notice a bundle of black lace in her case. Lingerie. A camisole and knickers.
‘When did you buy these?’
‘Last week in Rome.’
‘You didn’t show me.’
‘I forgot.’
I drape the straps of the camisole over my forefingers. ‘I bet they look even better when you’re wearing them. Perhaps you can show me later.’
She takes the lingerie from me and tosses it in the washing basket. Who did she wear it for? Something snags in my chest- the same niggling sense of disquiet that I felt when I found the hotel receipt for a champagne breakfast.
Julianne doesn’t wear sexy lingerie. She says it’s uncomfortable and impractical. Whenever I’ve bought her something flimsy for Valentine’s Day she’s only worn it the once. She prefers her Marks amp; Spencer briefs, high cut, size twelve, black or white. What made her change her mind?
She bought the lingerie in Rome and took it to Moscow. I want to ask her why but I don’t know how to frame the question without it sounding jealous or worse.
The moment passes. Julianne turns away. Tiredness shows in her movements, her small steps and the slope of her shoulders.
I don’t accept the premise that there’s no smoke without fire, nor am I a believer in portents or auguries, but I cannot shake the discomfiting sense that a space is opening up between us. I want to put it down to tiredness. I tell myself that Julianne has been travelling a lot, being pulled in too many directions, taking on too much.
A month ago on her birthday I planned to cook her a special meal. I drove into Bristol and bought seafood at the fish markets. She phoned just after six to say that she was still in London. There was some sort of crisis, a missing funds transfer. She wouldn’t be home.
‘Where are you going to stay?’
‘In a hotel; the company will pay.’
‘You don’t have any clothes.’
‘I’ll make do.’
‘It’s your birthday.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.’
I ate a dozen oysters and threw the rest of the meal in the bin. Then I walked up the hill to the Fox amp; Badger and had three pints with Nigel and a Dutch tourist who knew more about the area than anyone in the bar.
There have been other moments. (I won’t call them signs.) Julianne was due to fly back from Madrid one Friday and I tried to call her mobile but couldn’t get through. I called her office instead. A secretary told me that Mrs O’Loughlin had been in London all day, having flown in the previous night.
When I finally found Julianne, she apologised, saying she’d meant to call me. I asked about the flights and she said I must have been mistaken. I have no reason to doubt her. We have been married for sixteen years and I can’t remember a single moment or event that caused me to question her commitment. At the same time, she’s still a mystery. When people ask me why I became a psychologist, I say, ‘Because of Julianne. I wanted to know what she was really thinking.’ It didn’t work. I still have no idea.
I watch her sorting through her clothes, aggressively opening drawers and pulling hangers from the rack.
‘Why are you so angry?’
She shakes her head.
‘Talk to me.’
The suitcase is slammed shut. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing, Joe? Just because you couldn’t save that woman on the bridge, we’re looking after her daughter.’
‘No.’
‘Well, why is she here?’
‘She had nowhere else to go. Her house is a crime scene. Her mother is dead…’
‘Murdered?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the police haven’t caught the killer?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You know nothing about this girl or her family. Does she even realise her mother is dead? She doesn’t look grief-stricken.’
‘You’re not being fair.’
‘Well, tell me, is she psychologically stable? You’re the expert. Is she going to flip out and hurt my baby?’
‘She would never hurt Emma.’
‘And you base that upon…?’
‘Twenty years experience as a psychologist.’
The last sentence is delivered with my own version of cold certainty. Julianne stops. When it comes to
