‘You’re so kind,’ he says, smiling, as he steps over the threshold.
‘Will you be all right?’ I feel bad leaving him alone. He looks so frail.
He nods and tries to say something, which starts another fit of coughing. When it’s eased he manages, ‘Got my son and daughter-in-law staying. Don’t worry about me.’
I’m just about to walk away when he grabs my arm. ‘You seem like a nice lady,’ he adds, surveying me with his watery blue eyes. ‘I know a lot of the folk around ’ere aren’t happy with you Londoners moving into that big house, but you’re all right.’
I stare at him, speechless, for a few seconds. ‘I’m – I’m actually from Cardiff originally.’ Can’t he tell by my accent? I know it’s softened over the years but everyone in London can tell I’m Welsh. Except my friend Ingrid, who thought I was from the Midlands when she first met me.
‘Dad!’ a man’s voice calls from inside the house.
Mr Collins grimaces, his eyes twinkling. ‘Got to go, but thank you, young lady.’ He closes the door before I can say anything else.
Feeling despondent, I let myself out of the gate. I know not everybody’s been particularly friendly, but I didn’t think us being here was that big a deal.
As I walk the few yards home I sense again that I’m being watched. I spin around to see Lydia Ford, alone in her front garden, staring at me. I give a friendly wave, but she turns away, ignoring me completely.
16
I stand outside our bedroom door. It’s closed. I’ve asked Adrian to keep it open. He knows how I feel about it. My tongue seems too big for my mouth. I can hear the reassuring tapping of a keyboard.It’s okay.
Will I ever be able to open a door without my heart racing? Without thefearof what I might find?
Like how I found Adrian.
The image will be fixed in my memory for ever, like a gruesome painting you try to avoid but can’t because you have to walk past it every day. I’d thought he was dead. And if I hadn’t arrived home when I did, he would have been. I’d left him in bed that morning when I went to do the school run. The sun was streaming through the curtains and he’d been sound asleep. Or so I’d thought. I’d been worried about him for weeks, urging him to go to the doctor. He’d changed: my happy outgoing husband had gone into himself, was constantly irritable and snappy. Where once he’d arrive at the office extra early so he’d be home in time to see the kids before I put them to bed, he’d come home later and later, as though he was avoiding us. When I tried to talk to him about it he refused to be drawn. At first I thought maybe there was someone else. That he didn’t love me any more. He became distant. Every time I tried to be affectionate he pushed me away, which was so unusual for Adrian, the demonstrative one of us. When I tried to talk to him about it, he flew into a temper and threw one of the kitchen chairs at a wall, snapping a leg. Deep down I knew it wasn’t an affair. Then Julia put a name to it and I forced him to see his GP.
Adrian played it down, of course, not wanting a fuss. The GP suggested counselling.
When I got home from the school run that day, the door to the bedroom had been closed. I hadn’t been too worried, more annoyed that he was still in bed. But when I pushed the door open it was hard to budge, as though there was a force behind it.
And then I saw what it was. Adrian had hanged himself with the belt from his dressing-gown.
He said it had been a cry for help. He hadn’t intended to kill himself: he’d known I’d come home and find him. But it haunted me. What if I’d popped to Sainsbury’s or met a friend for coffee? I’d have lost him.
And now he’s happier than he’s been in ages, no longer having to do the job he hates. No longer under pressure. And – for the most part – I’m happy to take the burden. To make things as easy for him as possible. Because every day I worry that something will send him over the edge again. And I can’t let that happen. I can’t lose him.
I push the door open and call the girls. They come running from their room, Evie clutching that horrible china doll. I don’t know why she thinks it’s magical. Perhaps because it’s old.
‘Can you write Nana’s card?’ I ask them, as I leap on to the bed and frantically start wrapping the presents. The Sellotape keeps sticking to my fingers.
The girls lie on the floor to write the card. Amelia doodles all over the envelope.
Adrian swivels in his chair. There are three dirty mugs on his desk. One has a faint pink lipstick mark on the rim. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you hadn’t bought a present? I could have popped out and got something. I went for a run earlier.’
My head snaps up. ‘You went for a run? When Mum and I were rushed off our feet sorting out breakfasts?’
‘Sorry. I didn’t think.’
No, you never do. I swallow the words. I know I’m just feeling stressed because it’s all so new. We’re still finding our feet. And I’m happy that it’s so busy on our opening weekend – even if half of the guests are family.
Amelia takes the present from me, and I gather up the mugs. ‘Whose is this?’ I ask, lifting up the lipstick-marked one.
He turns and frowns. ‘Selena’s.’
‘Selena’s?’
He clears his throat, which he always does when he’s stalling for time. ‘Yes. Earlier, she came up to check I was okay. I think she might have been looking for you.’ He doesn’t meet my eye. Instead he goes back to his laptop and begins tapping at the keys again.
