‘Look at you,’ she says to Emma. ‘How did you get so wet?’
‘We went fishing,’ says Charlie. ‘We didn’t catch anything.’
‘Except pneumonia,’ says Julianne, shooing them upstairs for a bath.
There is an abstract sort of intimacy in our conversations now. She is the same woman I married. Brown-haired. Beautiful. Barely forty. And I still love her in every way but the physical one where we exchange bodily fluids and wake up next to each other in the morning. Whenever I see her in the village I am still struck by wonder: what did she ever see in me and how could I have let her go?
‘You shouldn’t have let Emma get wet,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry. She was having fun.’
Gunsmoke is tearing through her garden, chasing a squirrel and trampling her spring flowers. I try to call him back. He stops, lifts his head, looks at me as though I am extremely wise and then takes off again.
‘Everything ready for Emma’s party?’ I ask.
‘They should be here soon.’
‘How many are coming?’
‘Six little girls from day care.’
Julianne’s hands are stuffed into the front pocket of an apron. Both of us know we could pass our time like this, chatting about storms or whether to clean the gutters or fertilise the garden. Neither of us has the vocabulary or the temperament to share what remains of our intimacy. Maybe this is a form of mourning.
‘Well, I’d better get Emma cleaned up,’ she says, wiping her hands.
‘OK. Tell the girls I’ll come and see them during the week.’
‘Charlie has exams.’
‘Maybe on the weekend.’
I smile a winning smile at her. I am not shaking. I turn and walk to the car, swinging my arms and holding my head up.
‘Hey, Joe,’ she calls. ‘You seem to be happier.’
I turn back to her. ‘You think so?’
‘You’re laughing more.’
‘I’m doing OK.’
Acknowledgements
This story was inspired by true events in two countries but not based upon either of them. It could not have been told without David Hunt and John Little who were invaluable in helping my research. Among the others who answered my questions and shared my excitement were Georgie and Nick Lucas, Nicki Kennedy and Sam Edenborough.
As always I am indebted to my editors and their teams, Stacy Creamer at Doubleday US and Ursula Mackenzie at Little, Brown UK, as well as to my agent Mark Lucas and all those at LAW.
For their continued hospitality I thank Richard, Emma, Mark and Sara and their respective broods. My own brood must also be acknowledged- Alex, Charlotte and Bella, who are growing up before my eyes despite my pleas for them to never change.
Last, but not least, I thank Vivien, my researcher, reviewer, reader, therapist, lover and wife. I have promised her that one day I’ll find the right words.
About Michael Robotham
Before writing full-time he was an investigative journalist in Britain, Australia and the US. He is the pseudonymous author of 10 best-selling non-fiction titles, involving prominent figures in the military, the arts, sport, and science. He lives in Sydney with his wife and 3 daughters.