I make tea, I sit with my book. An hour passes, two. Hugh comes downstairs, showered now, ready for work, then a little while later, Connor.
‘Hi, Mum,’ he says. He’s dressed, wearing his uniform, the grey jumper, the white shirt with a maroon tie. I watch as he gets himself a bowl of cereal, pours himself some juice. He’s looking older every day, I think.
‘Are you all right, darling?’ I say, and he replies, ‘Yep,’ with a friendly shrug, as if there’s no reason at all he might not be.
Maybe he really is fine, but I doubt it. He’s stopped crying now, but if anything that’s more worrying. The only time he ever talks about Kate’s death is to ask if there’s ‘any news’, by which he means, ‘Have they got them yet?’ I’d felt angry at first – it’s all he can focus on – but now I see that it’s the only prism through which he can process his grief. After all, he’s just turned fourteen. How else is he supposed to respond?
He sits down with his breakfast and I watch as he begins to eat.
The counsellor we’ve taken him to says all this is normal. He’s doing as well as can be expected, working through his grief in his own way, and we should try not to worry. But how can I not? He won’t talk to me. He’s slipping away. Now, I need him to know how much I love him, that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him, but it’s almost as if he’s decided he no longer cares.
I clear my throat. ‘It’s okay, if you want to talk.’
‘I’m fine.’ He eats his cereal quickly as I make myself a coffee. For a moment I’m back with Kate, it’s her getting ready for school, not her son, but then a moment later Connor is standing, gathering his things. Don’t go, I want to say. Sit with me. Talk to me. But of course I can’t. ‘See you later!’ I say, and before I know it he’s almost out of the door. From nowhere comes an almost overwhelming urge to hug him.
I would have done, once, yet now I don’t. These days he’s as likely as not to respond to a hug with indifference, as if what I’m doing is of no concern to him, and today I couldn’t bear that. ‘Love you!’ I shout instead, and he says, ‘Bye, Mum!’ as he leaves. It’s almost enough.
He’s growing up. I know that. He’s becoming a man; it would be a tough time even if he didn’t have Kate’s death to wrestle with. I have to remember that, no matter what happens, how hard it gets, how distant he becomes, he’s in pain. I might feel like I’ve already failed him a million times but still I have to look after him, to protect him, like I looked after and protected his mother when she was a child.
I turn away from the window. I’m photographing a family next week – a colleague of Adrienne’s, her husband, her two little girls – and I need to think about that. It’s the first time I’ve felt able to work since Kate died and I want it to go well. Plus, I have a dinner party to prepare. Things must get done.
Chapter Seven
I call Adrienne to get her friend’s details. I want to make arrangements. I have my studio at the bottom of the garden in which I keep my tripods and lights, a couple of backdrops I can suspend from the ceiling. I have a desk there, though usually I do my editing on my laptop in the house, at the kitchen table, or in the living room. ‘It would be good if they could come to me,’ I say. ‘It’ll make it easier.’
She can hear the lack of enthusiasm in my voice.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘You can tell.’
‘Of course. Talk to me.’
I don’t want to, but I can’t work out why. Is it because I’m worried she’ll just tell me to leave things alone, to stop meddling, to stop worrying?
‘I looked through Kate’s things. The stuff Anna gave to me.’
‘Darling—’
‘I found her login details. For the website she was using.’
‘For what?’
‘Meeting men. There was a list of names. Of people she was talking to – or meeting, I guess.’
‘Have you given them to the police?’
‘Hugh said they already had them.’
‘Good. Then there’s nothing more you can do.’
But there is, though.
‘I could log on. As her, I mean. I have her password. I could find out if there was anyone else.’
For a long time she’s silent.
‘Adrienne?’
‘Wouldn’t the police have done that?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they don’t realize what encountrz.com is? Or that Jasper1234 is her password? I thought I could go online and just look at her chat history. See if there are any other names on there.’
‘I don’t know… it sounds risky.’
Her reservation strengthens my resolve.
‘I’m just talking about getting a list of names.’
There’s a long pause, as if she’s trying to weigh something up. The wisdom of me having something to do, perhaps, versus the chance, the likelihood, it will just lead to more disappointment.
After all, she’s right. In all probability the police have done all this already.
‘I suppose it can’t hurt,’ she says. ‘As long as you’re only talking about getting the list. But why not double-check with them first?’
Suddenly I’m not sure it’s a good idea at all. A list of names. What would the police even do with it?
‘I probably won’t even bother.’
She sighs. ‘Just be careful, Julia. Whatever you do. And keep in touch.’
I spend the afternoon shopping, cooking. For a while I lose myself in the rhythm of the recipe. Just for a moment. But the evening gets off to a bad start. Connor announces that he’s doing homework and wants to eat in his room, which means that Hugh and I bicker about whether we should let him. Tensions fester, and things don’t pick up until our guests arrive.
After that the evening follows its usual pattern, yet the atmosphere is undeniably different. Kate’s death casts its now-familiar shadow – Paddy mentions it almost as soon as they arrive, and they both say how sorry they are – but it’s more than that. I’m detached, I can’t engage. They talk a lot about Geneva, where Hugh’s been invited to deliver a keynote speech at a conference next week. Maria’s going to present her work, too, and even though I’ve been there I don’t contribute. I feel outside of it all, observing from a great distance. I watch as Hugh pours wine and nod as they all sip it appreciatively, I eat the beef Wellington I’ve cooked and accept their compliments graciously, but it’s an act, I’m pretending to be a normal person. It’s not me.
When we’ve finished Paddy says he’d like to pop outside for a cigarette. ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ I say.
‘Filthy habit,’ he says, ‘but…’ He shrugs his shoulders. I tell him we’re happy for him to smoke in the house near one of the open windows but Maria protests.
‘No way! Make him go outside!’
He pretends to be upset, but it’s good-natured, humorous. He takes his cigarettes out of his jacket and looks at me. ‘Keep me company?’
I say I will. Hugh looks at me but says nothing. We go outside, closing the patio door behind us. It’s almost dark, still warm. We sit on the wall, at the edge of the pool of light that shines from the kitchen; behind us sits my studio. He holds a cigarette out to me. ‘You don’t, do you?’
I take it. ‘Very occasionally,’ I say. He lights his cigarette and hands me the lighter. I inhale deeply, feeling the draw of the smoke, the instant hit. We sit in silence for a moment, then he asks me how I’m coping.
‘Really, I mean.’
I swallow hard. ‘It’s tough. You know…’
‘I do. My brother died. Years ago. Cancer. He was older than me…’