‘She had nowhere else to go. Her house is a crime scene. Her mother is dead…’
‘Murdered?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the police haven’t caught the killer?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You know nothing about this girl or her family. Does she even realise her mother is dead? She doesn’t look grief-stricken.’
‘You’re not being fair.’
‘Well, tell me, is she psychologically stable? You’re the expert. Is she going to flip out and hurt my baby?’
‘She would never hurt Emma.’
‘And you base that upon…?’
‘Twenty years experience as a psychologist.’
The last sentence is delivered with my own version of cold certainty. Julianne stops. When it comes to personality readings, I’m rarely wrong and she knows it.
Sitting on the bed, she tucks a pillow behind her and leans against the wall, playing the tasselled cord of her dressing gown. I crawl across the bed towards her.
‘Stop,’ she says, holding up her hand like a policeman directing traffic. ‘Don’t come any closer.’
I sit on my side of the bed. We can stare at each other in the mirror. It’s like watching a scene from a TV sitcom.
‘When I go away I don’t want things to change, Joe. I want to come home and find everything as I left it. I know that sounds selfish but I don’t want to miss anything.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Remember when you taught Emma to pedal her tricycle?’
‘Sure.’
‘She was so excited. It was all she wanted to talk about. You shared that moment with her. I missed it.’
‘That’s going to happen sometimes.’
‘I know and I don’t like it.’ She leans sideways resting her head on my shoulder. ‘What if I miss seeing Emma lose her first tooth or Charlie going on her first date? I don’t want things to change when I go away, Joe. I know it’s irrational and selfish and impossible. I want you to keep them exactly the same until I get home, so I can be here too.’
Julianne runs a finger along the side of my thigh. ‘I know your job is about helping people. And I know that mentally ill people are often stigmatised, but I don’t want Charlie and Emma exposed to damaged people and their damaged minds.’
‘I would never…’
‘I know, I know, but remember last time.’
‘Last time?’
‘You know what I mean.’
She’s talking about one of my former patients who tried to destroy me by taking away everything I loved- Julianne, Charlie, my career, my life.
‘This is completely different,’ I say.
‘I’m just warning you. I don’t want your work in this house.’
‘Darcy isn’t a danger. She’s a good kid.’
‘She’s doesn’t look like a kid,’ she says, turning to face me. The corners of her mouth are turned down. It is neither a smile nor an invitation to kiss. ‘Do you think she’s pretty?’
‘Only until you stepped off the train.’
Three a.m. The girls are asleep. I slip out of bed and close the office door before turning on the lamp. I could blame my medication again, but too many thoughts are tripping over each other in my mind.
This time I’m not thinking about Christine Wheeler or Darcy or reliving that moment on the bridge. My concerns are more personal. I keep reflecting on the lingerie and the hotel receipt. One thought leads to another. The late night phone calls when Julianne closes the office door. The overnight stays in London. The sudden changes in her diary that have kept her away from home…
I hate the cliches about marriages having ups and downs and changing over time. Julianne is a better person than I am. She is stronger emotionally and has more invested in holding this family together. Here’s another cliche- there’s a third person in our marriage. His name is Mr Parkinson and he took up residence four years ago.
The hotel receipt is pressed between the pages of a book. The Hotel Excelsior. Julianne said it was a short walk from the Spanish Steps and the Trevi Fountain. I dial the number. A woman answers, the night manager. She sounds young and tired. It’s four a.m. in Rome.
‘I want to query an invoice,’ I whisper, cupping my hand over the phone.
‘Yes, sir. When did you stay here, sir?’
‘No, it’s not for me. It’s for an employee.’
I think of a cover story. I’m an accountant calling from London. I’m doing an audit. I give her Julianne’s name and the dates of her stay.
‘Mrs O’Loughlin settled her account in full. She paid with her credit card.’
‘She was travelling with a business colleague.’
‘The name?’
Dirk. What is his last name? I can’t remember.
‘I just wanted to ask about a room service charge for breakfast… with champagne.’
‘Is Mrs O’Loughlin querying her bill?’ she asks.
‘Could there be a mistake?’
‘The room charges were shown to Mrs O’Loughlin when she settled her account.’
‘Under the circumstances, it seems rather a lot for one person. I mean, look at the order: bacon and eggs, smoked salmon, pancakes, pastries, strawberries, and champagne.’
‘Yes, sir, I have the details of the order.’
‘It’s a lot for one person.’
‘Yes, sir.’
She doesn’t seem to understand my point.
‘Who signed for it?’
‘Someone signed the docket when breakfast was delivered to the room.’
‘So you can’t tell me if Mrs O’Loughlin signed for it?’
‘Is she disputing the bill, sir?’
I lie. ‘She has no recollection of ordering that amount of food.’
There is a pause. ‘Would you like me to fax a copy of the signature, sir?’
‘Is it legible?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
Another phone is ringing in the background. The night manager is alone on the desk. She suggests I call later in the morning and talk to the hotel manager.
‘I’m sure he will be happy to reimburse Mrs O’Loughlin. The charges will be refunded to her credit card.’
I recognise the danger. Julianne will see the refund on her card statement.
‘No, it’s fine. Don’t bother.’
‘But if Mrs O’Loughlin feels she has been overcharged-.’
‘She may have been mistaken. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’
20
A dozen women have taken over a corner of the bar, pushing chairs and tables together on the edge of the dance floor. The bitch is dancing, grinding her hips like a pole dancer, her face flushed from laughter and too much wine. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking every man in the place is looking at her, desiring her, but her face is too hard and her body even harder.
Mercifully, it’s not youthful innocence that I am after. It is not purity. I want to wade in filth. I want to see the cracks in her make-up and stretch marks on her stomach. I want to see her body swing.
Someone shrieks with laughter. The middle-aged bride-to-be is so drunk she can barely stand. I think her name is Cathy and she’s late to the altar or going around for a second time. She bumps into some guy at a table, spilling his pint, and then apologises with all the sincerity of a whore’s kiss. Pity the poor bastard putting his prick in that!
Alice walks to the jukebox and studies the song titles beneath the glass. What sort of mother brings her pre-teen daughter to a hen night? She should be at home in bed. Instead she’s sulking, plump and sedentary, eating crisps and drinking lemonade.
‘You don’t like dancing?’ I ask.
Alice shakes her head.
‘Must be pretty boring if you don’t dance.’
She shrugs.
‘Your name is Alice, right?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I heard your mother say it. It’s a nice name. “Will you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail, “There’s a porpoise close behind us and he’s treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle- will you come and join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?” ’
‘That’s from Alice in Wonderland,’ she says.
‘Yes it is.’