“I have an American passport. I want to call the US Embassy.”
The policeman gives a rumbling chuckle.
“Why do people like you criticize America until you’re in trouble and then all of a sudden you become patriots?”
BOOK TWO
A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.
1
For the past five days Elizabeth North has woken early and reached across the sheets to the space where her husband used to be. Each time her fingers have relayed the message and her eyes have stayed closed. Missing. Lost. Misplaced. She won’t go any darker in her thoughts than this. Instead she picks up her mobile phone from the bedside table and checks it again.
North has never been away this long-not since Rowan was born, not since they married. Five days. No calls or notes or text messages. No warning.
He should be waking up next to her in his Jermyn Street pajamas with his messed up hair and his morning breath. The selfish bastard! Why isn’t he here with his family?
Elizabeth swings her feet to the floor and pauses, perched on the edge of the mattress, caught between getting out of bed or curling up and crying. She cups her pregnancy in both hands. She has to pee. Claudia is pressing on her bladder.
It’s a girl, according to the ultrasound. Both she and North had said they didn’t care, but secretly they did. Elizabeth’s grandmother was called Claudia, which was one of six possible names they considered until they began using Claudia all the time and it just sort of stuck.
Rowan had complained, of course. Four-year-old boys want baby brothers and don’t understand why swaps aren’t possible; a change of order just like when they get Friday night takeaway from the Bombay Palace on The Green and want extra poppadoms.
Now he’s getting used to the idea. Yesterday morning he brought his trains into Elizabeth’s bed because he wanted to show them to Claudia. He pushed them up and over Elizabeth’s stomach, through the mountain pass of her breasts, making the sound effects.
“Don’t move, Mummy.”
“But it tickles.”
Then he frowned. “I’m worried, Mummy.”
“Why’s that?”
“What if Claudia doesn’t like me?”
“She’s going to love you.”
The baby’s room is only half done. Elizabeth is supposed to be making new curtains but has only finished measuring the windows and buying the fabric. She started with great plans for creating the perfect little girl’s room-an echo of her own childhood-but nothing ever turns out quite like she imagines. She’s not a finisher, that’s her problem.
Making her way to the bathroom, she sits on the toilet and stares at herself in the mirror, frowning. She hasn’t gained much weight in her face and her extremities, but God has seen fit to give her a huge arse, balancing out her belly.
Downstairs she can hear Polina unloading the dishwasher and filling the kettle. Polina is the nanny and she comes from one of those “istan” countries that Elizabeth can never remember because they all sound so similar.
Rowan is downstairs too. He and Polina tend to have very earnest, grown-up discussions about trains and superheroes and aspects of the world that puzzle him. Why do his fingers go wrinkly in the bath? How does he know when to wake up? Why can’t he remember being born? Who would win out of Batman and Spiderman? Important questions when you’re four years old.
One day in the park he asked Elizabeth if he could go and kick a ball with some of the older boys. “Those boys look a bit rough,” she told him and Rowan said, “If I can find a smooth one, can I play with him?”
She should write these things down. One day she’ll forget them and she’ll have lost a precious memory like a first word or a first smile.
Back in the bedroom she opens the curtains and watches the sun struggle up beyond the rooftops. It’s a view that normally soothes Elizabeth-the grass, the trees, the slice of moon suspended above the spire of St. Mary’s Church-but today she feels nothing but irritation and foreboding. What if something terrible has happened? North might be hurt. He could be lying in a ditch or unconscious in a hospital. He could have lost his memory or be in a coma.
Squeezing into her maternity trousers, Elizabeth brushes her hair, puts on lip balm and goes downstairs to confront another day. Polina has made Rowan a boiled egg and put it in a ceramic eggcup shaped like a train. His buttered toast soldiers are lined up on either side of the cup. He marches them along the spoon, dunking them in the soft yolk. When Elizabeth boils eggs they are either too runny or too hard. Polina has told her the timings but Elizabeth can never seem to get them right.
Kissing Rowan’s head, she lingers with her nose in his hair, which smells of apple shampoo.
“Did Daddy come home?”
“Not yet.”
“You said today.”
“Maybe.”
“Where is he?”
“Working.”
“At the bank?”
“Yes.”
Through the window she can see Polina hanging washing on the line. She’s wearing tight jeans and a blouse that looks too small for her. Her straight short black hair in a pixie cut and narrow neck make her look like a Russian gymnast or a child who has run away to the circus.
Elizabeth inherited her from her sister-in-law, although she could never understand why Inga had been so insistent. Yes, she’d been looking for a new nanny, but wouldn’t normally have chosen someone as pretty as Polina. It was something her mother had always told her-never hire pretty cleaners or nannies. Why put temptation in your husband’s way?
There were plenty of women, including some of Elizabeth’s own girlfriends, who would happily have slipped into North’s bed if she let the sheets grow cold. These were the same women who complained about their own husband’s sexual demands or their inattentiveness-getting either too much sex or not enough. That’s why Elizabeth made a conscious effort in that department, even during her pregnancy when she was “fugly,” as she called it. It was a maintenance thing: 1) Change batteries in the smoke alarms. 2) Check the air in the tires. 3) Have sex with North…
“Can I watch TV, Mummy?” asks Rowan.
“Have you finished your egg?”
“I only like the runny stuff.”
“That’s called the yolk.”
Elizabeth lifts him down from the chair and turns on the TV in the lounge. Polina has come inside, her cheeks pink with the cold.
“Good morning,” she says, “did you sleep well?” Her English sounds as if she is reading it from a phrase book.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Can I get you breakfast?”
“I can sort myself out.”
Polina begins clearing up Rowan’s crumbs. Composting the eggshell. Wiping the table. Elizabeth puts two crumpets in the toaster and feels Claudia moving again. What sort of husband leaves his wife a month before their baby is due? That’s not something North would do. He’s a sticker, a keeper, one of the good guys.
For weeks he’s been out-of-sorts, working late, leaving home early, stressed, secretive. She thought he might be having an affair. Then she discounted the possibility. Then she convinced herself. That was in the space of a few days. She hired a private detective. What a terrible wife! Faithless. Suspicious.
Twice she canceled her appointment, the guilt gnawing away inside her like a rat in a wicker cage. I’m being paranoid, she told herself. It’s the pregnancy. The hormones. Then she changed her mind and called him again.
Elizabeth smothers the crumpets with honey. Polina has gone to make the beds. She’s been spring-cleaning these past few days, clearing out the cupboards and drawers, airing old clothes and moving junk to the attic. Routines are important for everyone when a husband disappears.