Rob licked his finger and flicked through the newspaper to find the right page. The first thing I saw was a photograph of Jake when he was younger, with an arm around an even younger girl’s shoulder.
“Who is that?” I whispered, trying my hardest to keep the tremulous note from my voice, but failing miserably.
“One of his students, apparently. They say he left his job in Bournemouth rather abruptly after the headteacher found out he chatted with several of the students on MSN Messenger and emailed them, too. They say they became Facebook friends.”
The blood drained from my face. I closed the newspaper, not wanting to look at that picture any longer. I felt lightheaded. Jake didn’t talk about his time in Bournemouth very often. In fact, he didn’t talk about his life outside of Bishoptown hardly at all. I knew he’d studied his PGCE in Bournemouth, and I knew he had worked at a school there, but that was about it. His family were from that part of the country too, but his parents had only visited us one Christmas, and I hadn’t thought much of it.
Though I had to admit, they’d seemed like odd people. They’d rolled up in their Land Rover dressed in the kind of attire that was more suited to a spot of pheasant shooting up at Wetherington House. But even though they were dressed in Wellington boots and Barbour jackets, each item of clothing was pristine, as if it were brand new. Even the Land Rover was gleaming.
Jake’s mother, Christine, had brought her own port to drink with the meal and not offered a drop to anyone else. She’d also pushed her turkey to the edge of her plate, and asked if there was any goose as an alternative. Jake’s father barely spoke all evening, except when he offered Jake a brandy in the lounge while the ‘ladies’ tidied away the plates. Christine had then asked whether I’d made the trifle for dessert or bought it from Tesco or ‘one of those places’, as if she didn’t even know what a supermarket was.
I’d known that Jake’s parents were rich, but I hadn’t expected them to be quite so snooty. Just like I’d known about Jake’s background in Bournemouth, but hadn’t known anything about why he had decided to move so far north. I’d always thought it was just that the opportunity arose, but it seemed odd that he’d moved quite so far away from home. Was he running from something?
What else didn’t I know about my husband?
“You didn’t know, did you?” Rob said. “He’s never mentioned any of this.”
“Of course I knew,” I snapped. “It’s all a load of rubbish.”
But Rob’s eyes narrowed. “What else has he lied to you about?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. He’s not a liar. Not like you.”
Rob’s cheeks flushed. “Don’t, Em, don’t bring that up. Not now.”
“I think it’s time to take Aiden home. You can stop by and visit him when you like.” I tucked the newspaper under my arm and waved through the door to the lounge for Aiden to leave.
“Are you sure, Em?” Rob moved towards the front door of the kitchen. We were in the private area of the B&B, behind reception.
“We’ve got to go.”
“Em, listen to me. Just hear me out. If you notice anything weird about him you have to say something. I know you’ll dismiss this as jealousy or whatever but it isn’t. I don’t trust that man, Emma. I never have.”
ChapterNineteen
Istopped at the Sainsbury’s on the way back from Rob’s and bought every newspaper I could find, avoiding familiar faces as I hurried from aisle to checkout. But as I ducked down and hurried out of the shop, I couldn’t resist looking back to see if any of the people milling around were talking about me. I spotted two people I knew—Carol, a barmaid at the Queen’s Head, whispering to Barbara, who lived on the hill down from the school. There they were, whispering behind cupped hands, nodding in my direction.
I fumbled with my car keys, remembering the exact same thing happening after the flood. It was all the same: the desperate rushes away from the shops, almost dropping my car keys or my house keys while trying to keep away from the whispering masses, the pitying looks. That was why I’d ignored every phone call from my colleagues at work. I’d listened to all the voicemails. Their bunch of flowers was still in its cellophane, dumped into a vase by Jake. I hadn’t thought to arrange it.
Since the story had broken we’d received a multitude of cards and presents, but I couldn’t deal with any of them. Instead, I asked Denise to take care of it, which suited me since it gave her a job to do that kept her from under my feet. She was the one who opened the cards and placed the ones that wished us well on the mantelpiece, and the crazy ones filled with death threats and other nastiness in the recycling. She was the one who stood by the bins before the bin men arrived to stop the press going through our rubbish to find a new angle to their story. That much I was grateful for. It allowed me to ignore it as much as I could.
But that was how I coped. I blocked the outside world away. When the flood hit Bishoptown and I thought Aiden had drowned, I’d learned that I couldn’t trust anyone. I lost friends over it. I’d mention a tiny detail to someone and the next day it’d be in the newspapers. It was better that I didn’t talk to anyone except immediate family. There was no way of knowing who would go to the media and sell our secrets.
I pulled into the drive and let Aiden out of the car. His steps were lighter since those precious moments of painting. Even the stiffness in his gait was improving. Though he still didn’t talk to me, I got the sense that he was starting to relax around me, which was real progress after what had happened with the police. When he walked, his shoulders were down, instead of hunched up. He was loosening up. He seemed taller, too, even though it had been barely a week since I’d first found out he was still alive. And, though there was little change in his demeanour, I had a feeling that he was beginning to relax around me, or maybe I was beginning to relax around him.
I waved to Denise, who was standing patiently outside the house for me to let her in. “Thought we could have a catch-up,” she said.
“Sure,” I replied. “Any news from the police station?”
“No,” she answered in what I felt was a clipped, sharp tone. Perhaps she was getting fed up of that question, or at least fed up of having to relay the same response.
After the bustle of Rob’s B&B, my house was quiet and still, so silent that when the floorboards creaked, I flinched. I took Aiden’s coat and hung it on the rack, shutting out the chill from the October wind. I had the newspapers tucked under one arm, and my handbag looped over the other. Once in the kitchen, I spread all the newspapers out over the table and opened them.
Denise pulled a stuffed bear out of a bag. “Do we want to keep this teddy?” she asked. “It came in with a bunch of fan mail. What do you reckon, Aiden?”
I glanced at my son, but he didn’t react to the stuffed bear with the glass eyes. It was a sweet toy, but far too young for him now that he’d grown up.
“Charity bag,” I said.
