couldn’t let it end there. ‘I wanted to ask you a couple of things. To help Tom.’
His spectacle case had slid down the side of the sofa and he bent to fumble for it. ‘What’s that?’
‘Well, I’ve always wondered about who could have supplied me with the speed. It must have been someone at the wedding, you see.’ It was difficult to talk to him while he was pulling out the case, then opening it and rubbing at the sunglass lenses, and I was very aware I was holding him up. ‘You and Emily knew everyone there, so I wanted to know if there was anyone you could think of?’
He’d put the sunglasses on again and was looking more like the stylish guy I’d seen outside the house. ‘It’s a long while ago, Clare, and if any of our friends did have a habit we didn’t know about it. And to be frank I wouldn’t want to give you their names if I did. Can you imagine how they’d feel if you turned up asking questions like that? And the chances of them telling you if they did supply you are zilch I’d say. Besides it was more likely someone from the catering company.’ He leaned close and kissed me, his cheek just a little stubbly. ‘Let it drop, sweetheart. Tom’ll forget about it once he gets used to you being around and starts enjoying having a mum again.’
After I’d seen him out I closed my front door and leaned my head against it. I’d made a complete hash of that and I knew I should have waited until I’d thought out what to say more carefully. I microwaved a pasta meal and ate it at the kitchen table, wondering how I’d got myself into this when I should be focusing on making a new life for Tom and me.
The day, and the sleepless night before it, had drained me completely and I wasn’t even tempted to turn on the TV. Instead, I threw off my clothes, pulled the curtains to shut out the glow of fading sunlight and climbed into bed.
The pillow was smooth and cool but I was wide awake again, my mind racing. I turned on the bedside light and picked up the photo frame. Steve and my boys smiled at me. The eight-year-old Tommy in the picture was still more real to me than the awkward teenager I was trying to get to know. And Toby – the gap where he’d just lost a tooth making his grin cheekier than ever. My dear little boy would never be a teenager, never grow up, because of me and I could never look at his face without that agonised throb. ‘I’m sorry, Toby,’ I whispered.
My husband was standing behind the boys, smiling his wide, white smile. One hand was on Toby’s shoulder, the other pushing strands of fair hair away from his own face. Little Tommy leaned back against him. ‘Oh, Steve…’
I smoothed their dear faces with a fingertip, then pressed the photo to my chest. But it was only plastic and glass and it gave no comfort.
It must have been close to midnight when the phone rang. Still half asleep I grabbed it. ‘Alice?’ There was some noise in the background, but no one spoke and then the line went dead. I lay down, but couldn’t rest. What if Alice was calling from a hospital to tell me Tom was ill or hurt? I groped for my mobile and texted her.
Did you ring me? Is everything OK?
Her reply came through almost at once.
Didn’t ring, all’s well here. I’m in bed but call if you need to talk XXX.
I sent back:
Thanks I’m fine – goodnight XXX
I slept well for once and woke on Sunday knowing I’d dreamed of my family. They had been happy dreams: the kind of dreams I’d had in the early days after the accident – the cruellest ones of all. In the first waking moments you lie warm and comfortable, knowing everything is all right, everyone is alive and well. It takes a few minutes to remember that the happy dreams are the fantasy and it’s the nightmare that’s real.
The weather had taken a turn for the worse and as I lay listening to the rain I felt the loneliness twist inside me, worse even than it had been in the first days in prison when I was in too much shock to feel anything.
My mood today reminded me more of when I was a teenager. By the time I was fourteen I was barely speaking to Mum or Dad and no one at school seemed to like me. Emily was miles away and Alice was too young to confide in. I knew I was adopted, my Romanian birth mother hadn’t wanted me, and I was pretty sure my adoptive parents wished they had never taken me on either. I spent whole days lying in bed paralysed with misery. When I did get up I would wander the streets alone, walking myself into exhaustion.
It was on one of these tramps when I took shelter from a chill drizzle in a bus shelter. Although it was close to Beldon House, I couldn’t face going home to Mum’s silences and pursed lips. Out in the country like this, with no bus due for an hour or more, the last thing I expected was for anyone to join me, but the girl who did looked around my age and was so chatty it took only minutes to feel we were friends.
She offered me a drink. It was vodka, and I’d never had more than a sip or two of wine before, but although it tasted like sour fire and made me gasp and cough, I kept pace with her as we passed the bottle back and forth. Her name was Lizzie, and she had dyed yellow hair and eyelashes heavy with black mascara. Her nails were bitten to the quick, there were scars on her thin pale arms, and I thought she was the most glamorous creature I’d ever seen. She told me she had run away from three foster homes and now she was looking out for herself. She’d been staying with some friends in the village, but was having to move on. ‘They got fed up with me. People usually do,’ she said, with a throaty laugh. We swapped mobile numbers and when she got on the bus I longed to go with her.
I didn’t dare that time, but after the next row at home I met up with Lizzie in Tonbridge and stayed the night at the squat where she was living. I went home, very defiant, late next evening, opening the front door to be met by Dad in the hall. He looked so angry I was terrified but hid it with a toss of the head as I pushed past him, heading for the stairs.
He grabbed my arm, ‘Oh no you don’t, young lady. I want an explanation.’
He was a big man with a loud voice, but he had never raised his hand to me or to Alice. I could see, though, that he was tempted to hit me when I curled my lips and met his eyes.
‘What?’
He took an enormous breath. ‘I suppose you realise we had to call the police? You’ve made your mother ill and Alice hasn’t stopped crying. We thought you’d had an accident or been abducted.’
I pulled my arm away. ‘Well I’m back now, so you can all relax.’ Then I headed upstairs with a look I hoped was loaded with contempt.
I expected him to follow me, but he didn’t and he was at work when I got up next day. Mum was ill in bed and Alice was at school. No one seemed to care what I did. So I packed a rucksack and walked out. The first of many times.
It didn’t take long to lose touch with Lizzie, but by then I’d met Gaz. I kidded myself it was love and we headed for London. Gaz disappeared after a couple of weeks and I went home for a bit, but the pattern was set. Gradually, I was staying away for longer and longer, moving from squat to squat, sometimes sleeping in parks or even shop doorways. It’s amazing where you can sleep if you’re drunk or wasted enough.
I got picked up by the police and taken home a few times, but left again after a couple of days. My parents must have squared it somehow with school. Maybe
