She adored Steps and S Club Seven and their ridiculously catchy tunes and simple dance routines when she was a toddler but that was years ago. ‘I haven’t bought her a CD for years. It’s all MP3s and downloads these days, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you know what she likes?’
‘No idea.’ He shrugs. ‘Lady Gaga maybe? Jessie J? Doesn’t everyone under the age of sixteen worship her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Or you could check her iPod to see what her highest rated or most frequently played songs are.’
‘You can do that?’ I make a mental note to find Charlotte’s iPod.
‘Or maybe ask one of her friends?’
‘Yes, yes I could,’ I say but the suggestion makes me frown. There’s been an outpouring of teenaged concern on Charlotte’s Facebook page – lots of ‘luv u m8’ and ‘gt wl sn
Oli glances at his watch. ‘Shit. I didn’t realize the time. I’ve got to run. Next time I’m down I’ll pop in to see Charlotte.’ A shadow crosses his face. ‘Sorry I haven’t been there for her more. Life’s just been really—’
‘I know.’ I put a hand on his forearm. ‘You’ve got a lot on your plate. The best thing you can do right now is study hard and make us all proud.’
We walk in companionable silence down the stairs, across the hallway and into the kitchen where Milly, our hairy Houdini, is waiting for us, her tail thumping the tiles. I reach up to Oli for a goodbye hug and it strikes me for the umpteenth time how quickly time passes. It seems only yesterday that we shared our first hug and his arms embraced my knees instead of my shoulders.
‘I’ll tell your dad you called in,’ I say into his shoulder.
‘Cool.’ He kisses me on the top of my head then reaches down and scratches Milly behind her ears. ‘Be a good girl, Mrs Moo.’
‘Drive carefully!’ I shout after him as he lollops out of the kitchen and crosses the porch in two long strides. He raises a hand in acknowledgement and is gone.
I’m still standing at the kitchen window staring out into the front garden long after Oli’s little red Mini has pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the road. Our brief conversation in the study has cleared my mind and I suddenly feel ridiculous for searching Brian’s pockets. Other than some emotional detachment on his part, and a hunch on mine, I’ve got no reason to suspect that he might be cheating on me. Of course Charlotte’s accident was going to change the dynamics of our relationship – how could something so terrible not? They say leopards never change their spots but Brian was a broken man when I found out about the affair. He cried and said he was ‘no better than that monster you were with before you met me’ and swore he’d never hurt me again. And I believed him.
The shrill sound of a phone ringing slices through my thoughts and, before I know what I’m doing, I’ve shut Milly in the porch and I’m taking the steps to the landing as fast as I can. Brian’s private line rarely rings and only then when it’s something very important.
‘Hello?’ I’m gasping for breath by the time I burst into the study and snatch up the receiver.
‘Mrs Jackson?’ I recognize the voice immediately. It’s Mark Harris, Brian’s personal assistant.
‘Speaking.’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you Mrs Jackson but I was wondering if I could speak to your husband. I wouldn’t have disturbed you but his mobile’s off.’
‘Brian?’ I frown. ‘He’s on his way to work.’
‘Are you sure?’ There’s a clunk and the sound of papers being shuffled, then another clunk. ‘It says in the diary that he won’t be in until this afternoon.’
‘The diary must be wrong …’ I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. There has to be a rational explanation for the fact that my husband told me one thing and his PA another. ‘Brian definitely said he was going to work when he left this morning.’
‘Oh.’ Mark pauses. ‘Did they open early for him or something?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The hospital. He mentioned yesterday that he was going to see Charlotte this morning. I presumed that was why he couldn’t make it in until the afternoon.’
I sink into Brian’s black leather chair, the phone limp in my hand.
When we visited Charlotte yesterday evening, the consultant told us they’d be running more tests on her and we wouldn’t be able to visit until the afternoon at the earliest. He was very sorry but there would be no morning visits today.
‘Mrs Jackson?’ Mark’s voice is so faint it’s as though he’s a million miles away. ‘Mrs Jackson, is everything okay?’
I haven’t heard from James for three days and I’m starting to worry. He left the hotel room before me on Sunday morning because he had to go home and get changed before rehearsal and I haven’t heard a word from him since.
I keep running the time we spent together over and over in my head but I can’t find anything wrong. I did ramble on a bit over dinner about how excited I was that Maggie had given me the opportunity to design costumes for the Abberley Players and how the bar job meant I’d finally be able to ditch TEFL and sew in the daytime but I asked James plenty of questions too. And I didn’t smoke once. Not even with my coffee.
Sunday morning, before he left, he leaned over the bed and kissed me on the lips. He said he’d had the most amazing night of his life, that he couldn’t bear to leave me and he’d ring that evening.
Only he didn’t.
And he didn’t ring on Monday evening either.
By Tuesday night I was so stressed I called Hels. She talked me down off the ceiling and said there were all kinds of reasonable explanations why James hadn’t called and he’d ring when he got the chance. She told me to relax and get on with my life. That’s easy for her to say. She hasn’t been single for years. She can’t remember how torturous it is, sitting in, trying to watch a film but all the time staring at the phone, wondering if it’s working – then getting up to test it to find that it is.
Oh God. The phone is ringing right now . Please, please let it be him.
