The high cupboard above the fridge hangs open, the dark green paint chipped on the inside. A carton of juice sits on the countertop, its lid missing. Below the washing machine, a pile of laundry sits unwashed. All things that would have annoyed her before.Before.
Felipe follows her gaze.
“The washing machine stopped working again. A guy is coming to look, but not until next week.”
“I’ll take the washing to the laundrette,” she says dully. “Put it in my brown holdall and leave it in my car. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
Felipe nods emphatically, pleased, no doubt, that she’s talking about normal things like chores. He fills a glass with water and places it in front of her.
“Where were you?” he tries again.
“Out for a walk.”
“You didn’t answer my messages…I was worried.”
She turns to look at him. “What, that I’d do something to myself?”
He shakes his head. And she gets it now. “That I’d do something to her?”
A nod. There’s a look in his eyes that she hasn’t seen since her worst days as an addict. It’s not just worry. It’s fear.
“Promise me you’ll stay away from her.”
She thinks about the house. The side gate with the sliding bolt. The ease with which anyone—anyone—could slip a hand through the slats and slip the bolt across. The baby, lying on the playmat. The sisters, chatting in the garden like one of them didn’t just kill someone. Chatting about a documentary on diving and buying sunglasses.
Then the unexpected opportunity. The irresistible chance when they went inside. Venetia quite liked the sense that the baby had no idea whatshe was doing. Squinting at the sudden sunlight, unaware of burning skin. Unable to understand the change of circumstance, unable to move itself back under the shade. Confused, not fearful. Babies are very trusting. She imagines Susan’s reaction on finding she’s somehow left her own baby out in the sun, and a shiver of pleasure runs through her.
49
Celeste
Tuesday
Celeste slides a bottle of Albariño from the wine fridge and pours herself a glass. Then 180ml into a jug—is that the correct amount? She re-checks her cookbook. Yes, 180ml for the white wine cream sauce. She’s heard on the grapevine that she supposedly has a personal chef. As if anyone has a personal chef. It’s South Dublin, not LA. She doesn’t do anything to disabuse people of the idea. It amuses her. But the truth is, she likes cooking. It’s therapy after a long day at work. Relaxing. Or at least, as relaxing as anything that’s not alcohol or prescription medication can be. And shelikesto spend time in her kitchen, contrary to what people might expect. After all, she spent enough time and money designing it and arranging the renovation. She sits on a high-backed chair at the island to sip her wine and admire her work—the navy cupboards, the oak floors, the gold-leaf lamps hanging from the ceiling. The marble island and the Stanley range. She had visualized it and she had made it happen. Because that’s the kind of person Celeste Geary is. The sauce bubbles on the stove top and she slips off the chair to go to the pantry for garlic. Back at the kitchen counter, she peels off two cloves, then reachesto the knife block for her sharpest vegetable knife, but it’s not there. It’s not in the drawer, it’s not on the draining board and it’s not in the dishwasher. There are a million explanations for the missing knife, but Celeste’s mind goes to just one.
• • •
Upstairs, Nika is in her bedroom, brushing her hair at her dressing table. Celeste knocks on the open door and steps inside, eyes scanning surfaces quickly but discreetly. In the mirror, Nika watches. “Are you looking for something?”
“The lint roller,” Celeste says smoothly. “It’s not in the drawer in the kitchen.”
“I’ve got my own one, I don’t use the one in the kitchen.” A shrug and a smile. “Want me to help you look?”
“No, it’s fine.” Celeste hovers by the bed, then smooths a patch of duvet and sits.
Nika’s eyebrows arch. “Are you OK, Mum?”
On some level, Celeste knows that this isn’t right. That other mothers and daughters must sit on each other’s beds and chat. But she doesn’t dwell on that now; there are more urgent concerns. She’s read enough about self-harm to know that missing knives are a red flag, and she’s not going to relax till she finds it.
“I’m fine. AreyouOK?”
She notices again the dark circles under Nika’s eyes. “Are you sleeping all right?”
Nika opens her mouth then closes it again. She tilts her head. Is she surprised, confused? Or hiding something?
“You know you can always talk to me.”
A small smile now. A smile that might meanwe both know that’s not true.
