The champagne cork cracks like a firework. Covering her ears, she shrinks away from the hotel bar, trying to remember why she’s there. A reception, yes a wedding reception; she went to the ladies’.
‘There you are! You disappeared. They’re taking the photographs now. Are you coming outside?’
She puts down the glass and turns. It’s him, it’s the husband she loves far too much. His jacket is missing, his aftershave’s strong.
Holding her breath, she listens. Pitter patter, pitter patter. ‘But it’s raining.’
Staring as though he knows, his eyebrows knit. ‘It stopped ages ago. Everyone else is outside. Are you coming?’
His tone is too loud, his waistcoat too bright.
He’s lying, he’s lying, she knows when he’s lying.
And the voice is still there; she can hear it quite clearly.
Pitter patter, pitter patter, listen to the rain!
Pitter patter, pitter patter, on the windowpane.
God, she hasn’t heard that rhyme for years. Not her mum, surely? Yes her mum, before she grew bad: holding her close, singing softly and stroking her hair. ‘My perfect little poppet. Such a very good girl!’
‘Hey dreamer, are you—’
She jerks at the sound. It’s her husband, still gazing, his eyes telling lies. She just needs a few moments to make herself perfect. ‘You go ahead. I need the loo. I’ll be out in a minute.’
She watches his strides, then straightens her dress. Oh God, what the hell? Marks on her skirt, splatters on the silk. Holding her breath, she crouches down to inspect them. They dilate, creep and grow as she stares. Surely not blood? It wasn’t her fault; she didn’t mean to hurt anybody.
After a moment she blinks. No, silly! Just water from the ladies’ tap. Or the spray of champagne! More likely the downfall. Pitter patter, pitter patter. She told him it was raining.
Her mind focusing, she breathes. Everything’s fine, it really is. The room key is in her handbag, she can go up and change. Not a problem, absolutely! If she hurries, she’ll be back before anyone notices. Like rabbit running! Run rabbit, run!
Removing her shoes, she darts up the stairs, counting each riser until she’s on the third floor. With a loud clatter and clang, she leaves the fire door behind, her feet smacking the carpet as she sprints to the room.
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run!
With the swipe of a card she’s in, almost giddy with purpose.
She sits on the bed and time slows. Sees her heels in her hand and tries to focus, to think. That’s right; she came inside for the toilet. Washed her hands at the sink, watched the water drip from her fingers to avoid looking at her face. The dress, yes the dress; she needs to change it.
Her breathing shallow and fast, she brushes her hair, lines her shoes neatly, takes off her jacket, then slips off her dress. ‘So I feel the benefit,’ she remembers. Her mum’s words. Like the rhyme, the lovely rhyme, before she went bad. Pitter patter, pitter patter. Listen to the rain. She looks to the window. There it is, the windowpane! And she can hear it, it’s raining.
Striding to the window, she feels the heat rising. She knew he was lying; she always knows when he lies. She has to tell him, she has to tell him. He has to know that she knows!
The sash window protests, but she pushes and tugs and eventually it relents, yawning wide enough for her to see him and shout.
‘Stop pretending! I know the truth! I know when you’re lying!’
He doesn’t turn, he doesn’t hear, so she climbs on the ledge, swaying for a moment as she straightens her legs. Closing her eyes, she stands tall. Feels the breeze, a lovely breeze. And the refreshing splatter of rain on her bare arms and belly.
Ah, there’s the voice again, soft and reassuring.
Pitter patter, pitter patter.
She leans forward to listen.
Listen to the …
But a shriek spoils the moment, too loud in her ears. She looks down and teeters.
‘Oh my God, look! There’s someone at that window. Oh my God, quick, someone help! I think she’s going to jump!’
Five Hours Earlier
Dan
Dan Maloney smiles wryly, a puff of air through his nose. ‘A church, another bloody Catholic church.’
Unsure if the words emerge out loud, he stares at the hoary building through the spattered windscreen. Its arched windows are dark, the only sign of life a single clump of early daffodils beside its black door.
The pelt of rain brings him back. It’s bouncing off the bonnet like crystal ball bearings. ‘Poor bastards,’ he says. ‘I thought it might ease off.’
‘Yeah.’
The tone of Geri’s voice makes him turn with a jolt. A small furrow mars her glowing face as she rubs her rounded belly. His baby’s in there. He’ll be a dad, a bloody dad! Six and a half months on and he’s still struggling to believe it.
Trying to breathe away the flash of terror, he smiles. ‘Little Nutshell playing up?’ he asks lightly.
‘Just an angry kick,’ she replies. The usual beam replaces the frown. ‘Yeah, I know. Poor Nick and Lisa. But I guess this is what you get in mid-January. Rain and more grey rain! Aberystwyth or Manchester, same difference.’ She leans across to straighten the white rose in his buttonhole.
