‘Josh …’
But I can see the more I try and speak, the more riled up he’s getting. His face is red, his tie askew, the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up. He’s not a broad man but he’s tall, and fit, and so much stronger than me. And I feel it between us, this imbalance of physical power. If he wanted to hit me, to hurt me, he totally could. I shrink further into the sofa. He doesn’t seem to notice. He continues to rant. He’s not shouting, he never shouts, instead it just comes out like a stream of consciousness about how I’ve used him, how much I take him for granted, that I don’t care about him. That I’ve never cared. That I’m heartless, I’m cold. On and on and on he goes, his words penetrating the insecure part of me that is desperate to please and his words are like tiny little swords jabbing at my self-esteem.
‘You just don’t see it, do you?’ he continues. ‘You don’t see how you treat me. How you make me feel.’
‘I’m sorry if …’
‘No, you’re not. You’re not sorry at all. You’re fucking not …’
And then he does something he’s never done before, in the whole twelve years of our relationship. He slams his hand down hard on the table and I wince.
His face instantly floods with shame when he realizes what he’s done.
‘Oh, Ims. Shit. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He slumps down onto the sofa and puts hishead in his hands, all his anger dissipating. ‘Why do I feel like I’m losing you?’
I shuffle over so that I’m closer to him. ‘You’re not losing me. I’m sorry. I should have been honest about going to see Gabe. I didn’t think you’d approve, but I just wanted to find out a bit more about Dorothea and her life.’
He lifts his head up and looks at me through anguished eyes. ‘You’re not going to let this go, are you? Dorothea’s death?’
I shake my head. ‘It was arson, Josh. Dorothea was important to me once. To my mum. I need to know what happened to her.’ I need to know what the hidden sculpture means, I add silently.
He gives a resigned sigh.
And then we just sit there on the sofa in silence, the weight of all the unsaid words floating between us until Josh reaches over and turns on the TV. He doesn’t ask what I want to watch, instead he puts on aMatch of the Dayhe hasn’t yet seen. I get up and go down to the kitchen. I make myself a mint tea and then sit at the table, staring at my own gloomy reflection in the opaque patio doors. I try and picture the summer I stayed here: those sun-drenched days that felt like they went on forever, the open doors that made the garden feel part of the house, the dappled golden light that reflected on the ground in the woods where Harry and I used to hang out. And then my thoughts turn to Harry. There must be an explanation for why he was hanging aroundDennis’s house. I can’t bear to believe he would have tried to hurt Dennis.
I jump when my mobile rings on the table next to me. Alison’s number flashes up on screen. I haven’t spoken to her since I sent her that text and my hand hovers uncertainly. I consider answering it, telling her about Dorothea, the sculpture. I would love to ask her advice about Josh. It’s exhausting keeping his behaviour a secret from everyone. I miss her, I realize.
But then I remember our last conversation. Her keeping Dorothea away from me, going to see our dad in prison.
I reject the call.
35
Josh and I pussyfoot around each other like we’re performing a delicate dance. He’s obviously still annoyed at me, but I can tell he’s feeling guilty too at frightening me. Sometimes, when we are in front of the TV or I’m reading, I sense him watching me as though trying to work me out. When I meet his gaze he forces a smile and turns away.
When he’s at work on Tuesday I read more ofA Woman in Turmoil?While Solly is running up and down the lawn and kicking up mud in his wake, I sit with the patio doors open and flick to the chapter called ‘Everybody’s Talking about Bobby Falkner’.
Dorothea was a naïve seventeen-year-old when she first laid eyes on Bobby in the autumn of 1968. A broken bird thanks to her bully of a father. Only three years her senior, Bobby was a strapping, handsome man with a chiselled jaw and gelled-back golden-brown hair and an air of confidence that belied his age. All the ladies at the factory, Cadman’s Textiles, were in love with him by all accounts.
‘He was the best-looking man at Cadman’s by far,’ recalled Betty Lyons, now 78, who had worked with him on the factory floor. ‘We were all soft about him. He had this commanding way about him. Strong but fair. Yet he wasn’t a womanizer. No, he kept himself to himself. He was a chain-smoker, always lighting up in the office, very dapper in his slate-grey suits, and he liked a Scotch or two. We were jealous as hell because we could all see he saw something special in the young Dorothy Bird …’
I still can’t believe Dorothea was married. I continue reading.
‘… There was something very fragile about Dorothy. Very innocent. I remember she had these fine-boned hands. Not factory hands, like most of us had back then. She looked like she hadn’t seen a hard day’s work in her life. But then she’d only been a year or so out of school. She was beautiful too. That classy, understated beauty that the greats like Grace Kelly had. She didn’t come from money. None of us did. But Dorothy made her own clothes. She was a great seamstress. She always copied the latest looks. Anyway, it wasn’t long before she caught Bobby’s eye. We didn’t think it would last but they proved us all wrong. And they seemed very sweet together. Like something out of a Hollywood film. They courted for a few years, saved up money to buy their first little house and, well, they just adored eachother. There were rumours, of course, later, that cracks soon appeared in their marriage. My friend Carole said she once saw Dorothy with a nasty bruise on her arm. Apparently Bobby had a nasty temper, although I never witnessed it. He always seemed totally charming to me.’
Solly’s bark makes me look up from the book, my heart jumping. But he’s just rolling around on the grass, a rubber ball in his mouth. I re-read the last sentence.
Was Bobby abusive to Dorothea?
Is that why she was so understanding, so willing to help my mum? The Zippo lighter has to be his. Had he come to visit Dorothea after all these years? Could he have been the one to have killed her? A cold sensation sweeps over me. I need to tell DI Shirley.
I call her but it goes straight to voicemail, so I leave a message telling her about the biography and Robert Falkner’s existence.
Solly bounds up to me and nudges my knee with his nose. It’s time for his walk so I clip on his lead, lock up the patio doors and head out through the front door. The sun is out and the day feels spring-like. My eyes go to Mick and Sue’s house. I am still none the wiser about what has happened to Harry. I was half expecting a text from him at the very least, to explain why he’d been staking out Dennis’s house, and I’m disappointed that there has been nothing. I had so hoped against all the odds that Harry would turn out to be innocent, but now doubt has begun to creep in.
I try to imagine Harry dressed in leathers, riding his bike into people and attacking old men, but I can’t. I just can’t. And yet, how well do I know Harry, really? Sixteen years is a long time. He’s not the person I knew when I was fourteen.
I notice a curtain twitching in the downstairs window, and I move on, embarrassed. As I’m walking Solly over the fields my phone buzzes in my pocket.
