I know it, deep down, but it doesn’t stop me feeling guilty.
Jo’s voice softens. ‘Hon, this isn’t your problem. The likelihood of it being anything truly bad is very small. They could have been talking about anything.’
Relief washes over me at the thought of being let off the hook. Jo, the voice of reason, has given me permission not to feel guilty about this. Whatever the Morgans were talking about is between them and nothing to do with me. I have to stop feeling as if I’m expected to do the right thing all the time. The right thing in this case is to do nothing.
But you did nothing once before and look what happened.
I push away the intrusive thought. ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Now, go. You’ll be late for work. I’ve kept you talking long enough.’
‘At least you’ve got your mum coming to stay tomorrow. You can tell her all about it.’
I laugh because we both know my mum isn’t understanding. She wasn’t born with a sensitivity gene. ‘And Rufus will be back tonight,’ I say, relieved I won’t be in the house on my own. I’m even more creeped out after what happened last night. What if the man comes back?
I decide to take Phoenix for a walk before I leave for work, having recorded more sounds for Rufus. I haven’t even allowed myself to think about Charlie kissing another woman. I won’t be able to tell Mum when I see her tomorrow. Sometimes it feels as if she loves him more than me and she doesn’t understand why we split up. I would have thought – considering she kicked my father out when I was nine – that she’d be more sympathetic.
My father was an artist, which Mum had loved about him, until his lack of conventionality and stability started to frustrate her. He moved to Provence, but I still saw him regularly, and when he died eighteen months ago he left me some money. My mum had been shocked, believing him to be impoverished – ‘He didn’t even own his home!’ – and hinting that he’d never paid a penny for me after they split up. But I’d loved my dad with all my heart. I knew he was flawed: he smoked too much, loved his red wine, was irresponsible in so many ways (he gave me a joint at fifteen, which I’d hated, but my mum had neverforgiven him), and by the end had myriad health problems. I loved his spontaneity, his passion for life. It’s not a coincidence that I married a man with similar qualities. Mum likes to think she defies conformism by making her grandson call her Bess and dating a younger man, but that’s as far as her ‘free spirit’ stretches.
The street looks pretty in the sunshine, the trees full and vibrant, flowers bright and open despite no rain for weeks. I’m pleased Mum will be seeing it at its best. She can’t understand why I fled London all those years ago only to settle in Bristol. She thinks I should have married a lawyer and moved back to Rye, to the idyllic cottage where I grew up and where she still lives.
As I walk out of my front gate, Phoenix jostling ahead, pulling at his lead, my heart sinks. Marielle Morgan is walking towards me, pushing an old-fashioned pram. She has a bottle of water in the cup holder. She’s immaculately dressed as usual, this time in a linen A-line shirt dress in mint green and ivory sandals, her auburn hair perfectly set. As she approaches me she smiles. ‘Hi, Lena.’
I return the smile, letting the gate close behind me with a creak, and go to peer into the pram. I’ve always loved babies and Rufus accuses me of treating the dog like one, but before I can do so she reaches for the hood and pulls it down. ‘He’s sleeping,’ she says apologetically. ‘My daughter-in-law won’t be happy if he doesn’t get his allocated nap time. She’s doing Gina Ford.’
‘Oh, okay.’ I step back. ‘What’s his name?’
She hesitates and I get the strange sense she doesn’t want to tell me. But then she says, ‘Arthur.’ Her face lightsup. ‘He’s only seven weeks old. They sleep a lot at this age, don’t they?’
That wasn’t my experience of Rufus as a baby but, then, he did have reflux.
‘Did you … um … look after Arthur last night?’ I ask, thinking of the baby I’d heard crying in the early hours.
‘Yes. Babysitting duties. I love it, though.’ She laughs. ‘I’d have him all the time if it was up to me. Don’t think my son would like that, though, unfortunately.’
‘Ah, well, it’s nice for them to have a break.’
She glances towards the pram with a proud smile. ‘We don’t usually have him overnight. Heidi, my daughter-in-law, has gone back to work one day a week so I get to have him every Thursday at least.’
I’m surprised. ‘That’s a short maternity leave.’
‘Ah … no … well, yes.’ Her smile wavers. ‘I think she does it to get out of the house, have a break. She loves her job. She’s a librarian at the central library. She finds it peaceful.’
‘It’s good to keep her hand in,’ I say, thinking of how I’d have liked to do the same when Rufus was born, but it would have been hard around Charlie’s rehearsals and tours. ‘I love that library. We went there a lot when Rufus was little.’
‘Anyway,’ – she clutches the pram’s handle – ‘best be off before this one wakes up. Have a good day.’
‘You too.’
I watch as she continues down the street, the pram bouncing up and down jauntily.
As I walk around the park with Phoenix I can’t get the Morgans’ conversation out of my head. The more Iruminate on it, the more it morphs and warps in my mind, just as fear can cause a shadow on a wall to turn into a sinister face at dead of night.
You promised me you’d take her. I’ve got everything ready. The room …
I did wonder if they could have been talking about their grandchild. Now I know he’s a boy, who had they really meant?
8
On Saturday morning I hear my mum arrive before I see her. She has the kind of voice that carries. She’s nosy and will talk to anyone so I’m not surprised when I hear her chatting to someone outside.
