have left fifteen minutes ago.
‘Jack,’ I say, ‘you’ll be late.’
My husband’s gaze doesn’t move, his eyes focused on the now-congealing bowls of porridge that I’ve yet to clear up. Sophie is staring at me, confused. Quickly, I pull my face into a smile and blow a kiss at Jack, making a loud smacking sound which makes the children laugh.
‘Say bye bye to Daddy!’ I say, and we all wave at him, two snowmen and a wife.
Turning away from him, I step outside, a child in each hand, and that’s when I see them: the flowers. They’re on the ground outside the Edwards house, lining the front of their lawn. Pink flowers, red flowers, yellow flowers, wrapped in cellophane, handwritten notes damp in the morning chill. Overseeing them all is a large teddy bear, grotesque and unseeing. Glassy eyes stare blankly into mine.
Quickly, I pull the children across the road, just as a blue van slows down in front of us and pulls up alongside the car I saw. Both are emblazoned with the words ITV News. I swallow. It hasn’t taken long.
‘Mummy?’ Sophie says, catching the expression on my face, but I quickly bend down and wrap her scarf around her even more tightly, re-do her zipper so that it’s right up to the chin, blocking her view of the Edwards’ front lawn. Finn isn’t concentrating, he’s fiddling with something in his pocket. I hurry them down the road towards the school, trying desperately not to look back over my shoulder. Our feet slide a little on the pavements; they should have gritted the roads again, it’s cold enough.
For the next ten minutes, I listen to Sophie chatter about her art class, soaking up her innocence, her total obliviousness to the fact that a dead teenager has been found not five minutes from where we’re standing. She loves art, it’s her favourite subject. Like mother, like daughter. On Mondays I wash her uniform in a hot spin; there is always paint on her shirt. I’d complain to the teacher, but I don’t want to draw attention to us. Not anymore. I saw the way the headteacher looked at me when I had to cancel the PTA dinner last month; the concern in her eyes, the questions about life at home. I guess walking into a door doesn’t quite cut it these days.
‘Jane!’ Sandra grabs my arm after I’ve waved goodbye to the children. She’s wearing a thick woollen scarf and too much mascara, and her nose is red in the cold. She leans close to me. ‘Have you seen the news vans? One drove right past our house this morning. That’ll be it now, it’ll be everywhere.’ She shivers, stamps her feet on the ground in an attempt to warm them up. ‘God, imagine, Ashdon on TV. Well, we’ve all seen the way they cover cases like this, they’re like vultures, aren’t they?’ She eyes me beadily. ‘Your house might be on the news too. Or at least in the frame.’
‘Sandra,’ I say to her, ‘don’t tell me you’re jealous of that.’
She looks admonished. I put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t think about it, not for now anyway. News coverage might help the police, help them catch whoever did it.’
‘You’re right,’ she says, her face brightening, ‘you’re right, Jane. God, I hope they catch him soon. Has your Harry heard anything more? The older ones must be devastated.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘Harry didn’t really know Clare very well.’ My throat tightens, ever so slightly.
‘Book club this week?’ Sandra says, changing the subject, and I pause, then nod.
‘We ought to keep going, keep a sense of normality,’ she says, ‘perhaps we could do it at yours? I’ve almost finished the Zadie Smith.’
Before I can answer, she’s waving her gloved fingers at me, then turning to go. I stare after her for a moment, watching her slightly stocky frame make its way across the tarmac, stopping to talk to other mothers on the way. The book club invitation will have made its way through half the town by the time she’s finished. Sandra knows everything about everyone, or she thinks she does, anyway.
I move away from the school, tucking the strands of hair that have escaped from my scarf back inside the soft grey material. It’s cashmere; Jack bought it for me last Christmas. For the one I love, it said on the gift tag. I put the tag in my bedside drawer, along with the dried rose he gave me when we first started dating, and the faded yellow boarding pass from our honeymoon in Thailand. I look at them sometimes, my little mementoes, to remind myself of his love. Sometimes it’s hard to remember. I didn’t put the hospital tag in there; I cut it off my wrist the day after the incident on the stairs and buried it in an old handbag, stuffed at the very back of our wardrobe. Some mementoes aren’t worth looking at.
I pull out my phone as I walk back down the high street, send Jack a text. Off to work. See you tonight. A pause. Love you. I keep it on vibrate, in case he replies, but although the little tick tells me he’s read it, the phone stays resolutely silent and still.
When I get into work five minutes later, Karen, my boss-stroke-colleague, is on the phone. Her voice is sombre and her face looks serious, but despite that, I feel it – the wash of freedom that comes when I am here, in this light-filled shop, away from my husband, away from the house. We’re a tiny little place, selling ceramics and cards mainly; I only took the job part-time because it gave me something to do. I used to work in advertising, back when I lived in London, before the children and Jack, and part of me has always craved that creativity. Sometimes I think of myself, sitting in a London boardroom, MacBook in front of me, and I don’t recognise myself at all. They say marriage and kids don’t have to change you: whoever said that is a liar. I’d say a broken rib changes a lot of things.
It wasn’t always like this in the beginning, Jack and I. When I met him, I was won over. Jack, for me, presented a life I never thought I could have: money, stability, the house and kids, all in one fell swoop. And for a while, it was perfect. Better than perfect. We were obsessed with each other; I was his little project, the girl he took on and made good. And like any good subject, I rose to the challenge. Made myself into the woman he wanted. Before long, you couldn’t even see the divide between who I was and who I am now. And if it’s up to me, I’ll keep it that way. No matter what.
That’s all I’m trying to do.
‘Morning!’ Karen mouths at me, still on the phone, and I wave my fingers at her, unwrap my scarf from around my neck and hang it on the peg. There’s a small studio-cum-office at the back where Karen and I work, and everything we make is placed at the front of the shop. Art as therapy; I thought something like this would help me deal with life at home and it does, sometimes. The kettle bubbles happily and I tune the radio as I get my teacup down from the shelf: a painted ceramic mug Sophie and Jack made me for Mother’s Day last year. Wobbly hearts adorn the sides and my own heart stretches.
I make coffee. When I first met Jack, he warned me off it, well they all did there, told me about what it does to your heart rate, your nervous system, your cortisone levels. But he breaks his own rules now. I can break them too.
‘Sorry about that, Jane,’ Karen says when she hangs up the phone. The shop belongs to her, and we rub along together, although I find it hard to get as stressed out about ceramics as she does. Most of our income comes from Jack, these days. Good old Jack, Jack the doctor, Jack the breadwinner. The old rhyme goes through my head, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. There’s nothing fairy tale about our marriage. But it’s what I wanted, I remind myself. What I still want, even now.
I settle down next to Karen, power up my computer. The screensaver flickers on: Finn and Sophie on the beach, Harry pulling a silly face behind them; our holiday in Cornwall last year that ended in one of the worst fights Jack and I have ever had. I can’t even remember what started
