I look at my watch. The digital display reads 0010. Ten past midnight-oh, my God. My stomach and heart lurch in tandem, as if someone’s tied a thick rope around them and pulled hard. That’s when I remember: Mark. I fainted on the street, and he helped me. Not Mark, I correct myself. Mark Bretherick is somebody different.
‘Mark,’ I shout, because my voice is working more efficiently than my body. I know I can’t move quickly enough.
I haul my heavy, tingly legs over the side of the bed and see that it’s not a bed, it’s some kind of high bench with white towels draped over it all the way along. ‘Mark,’ I yell again. What else am I supposed to call him? The door is open. Why can’t he hear me? Ten past midnight. Nick will have got a phone call from nursery after I failed to turn up. By now he’ll be frantic.
I need my phone. My bag is on the other side of the room, by the small convex window. I shuffle off the bench and try to stand up. Why was I lying on white towels? I wobble, try to perch on the bench again and fall. ‘Ow!’ I groan, face down on the stripy carpet. Yellow, green, orange. Dizzy, I manage to roll on to my back. I stare at the light, a transparent bulb inside a bell-shaped pink glass lampshade.
It comes to me suddenly: I’m in his house. Not-Mark’s house. He brought me home.
I haul myself forward and up on to my knees. ‘Mark! Mark, are you there?’ I call out, but my voice has lost its power. My handbag might as well be a hundred miles away. A wave of nausea sweeps over me. I think about the ginger cat’s head, the blood around its ragged neck, and have to put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from vomiting.
On all fours, I count to twenty and gulp in air until the sick feeling passes. There are balls of fluff on the carpet. Like on ours at home, after we replaced the red that was everywhere with a more soothing grey-green. This carpet is new. Yellow, green, rust, taupe. And orange, like the cat’s head. Stripes. Chosen by a woman, surely.
‘Sally?’ He is here: the man I spent a week with last year. The man from my adventure. He smiles hesitantly before coming into the room, as if reluctant to trespass on my territory. His red-brown hair is wet, three small curls plastered to his forehead. I recognise the red sweater he’s wearing; he wore it at Seddon Hall. I don’t buy that whole redheads-can’t-wear-red philosophy: that’s what he said. He’s holding a glass of water. ‘Here, have a sip of this. You’ll feel better.’
‘My kids…’ I start to say.
‘It’s okay.’ He helps me to my feet, supports me when he sees that I’m about to fall. ‘Nick picked them up from nursery. They’re fine.’
I gulp the water. It’s gone too quickly. I’m still thirsty. ‘You…’ He spoke to Nick. I close my eyes, see bursts of light that are quickly swallowed by blackness. ‘Who are you?’ I feel as if everything that’s precious to me is slipping away. I can’t let it go.
‘You need to lie down,’ he says. ‘We’ll talk later.’ He picks me up, carries me towards the bench.
‘I need to phone Nick,’ I say. ‘My head’s pounding. I need something to eat.’
‘I’ll bring you some food. And a pillow too-that’ll make you more comfortable.’ He makes a strange noise, as if he’s choking. ‘Sally, how did you get in such a state? What happened to your face? What’s… do you know what’s wrong with you?’
‘Who are you?’ I ask again, terrified because I can’t answer his question. I have no idea why I feel so bad, so weak. ‘Bring me my phone. Now,’ I say as firmly as I can.
‘You need to rest…’
‘I need to speak to my family!’ Adrenalin sets my brain spinning. ‘Who are you? Tell me! Did you leave a dead cat by my car?’
‘Did I what? You’re not making sense. Lie down. Take deep breaths.’
It’s easy to let myself fall back. For once, the deep breaths seem to work. I feel more solid, more aware. Aware that I’m starving. I’ve got to get something inside my stomach soon or my brain will shut down completely.
‘Lucy and Geraldine Bretherick,’ I whisper. ‘Dead.’
‘I know,’ he says.
‘You’re not Mark.’
‘No.’
I open my eyes, but he is looking away. Embarrassed.
‘You lied.’
He sighs. ‘Sally, you’re not strong enough to have this conversation now. Let me get you some food. Just lie here and rest, okay?’
‘I need to talk to Nick.’
‘After you’ve eaten.’
‘No, I…’ I try to sit up and nearly fall off the bench. He is walking towards the door, and has to run to catch me. My eyes are heavy and sore; I need to close them. I think a question in my mind: Are you sure Nick said the children were all right? I’ve used up my capacity for movement and speech. I’m being pulled away from myself. I struggle to stay in the room with the man who told me he was Mark Bretherick, but I’m too slow. My resistance breaks up, fades and flattens into calm.
From far away, I hear his voice. Soothing, like notes in a piece of music. ‘Do you remember what you said to me at Seddon Hall? You were talking about how drained and used up you felt at the end of every day, days spent struggling to attend to your family’s needs at the same time as giving a hundred and fifty per cent to your work, racing round like a maniac trying to pack it all in. Do you remember? And you said-it stuck in my mind-you said the hardest thing is being so exhausted you could collapse and at the same time having to pretend you’re not tired at all. Having to pretend you’re fine and cheerful and full of energy so that Nick doesn’t give you a hard time.’
Did I tell him that? It’s something I would normally only confide in my women friends, the ones with children. But it’s true. I want to explain, but my voice won’t start. Nick would worry if he knew how difficult I find my life, only because he cares about me. ‘Why don’t you go part-time?’ he would say. ‘Three days a week, or, even better, two.’ He said that once after Zoe was born, before I’d learned I had to pretend to be zinging with energy right up until bedtime and, more often than not, after bedtime as well. ‘I could cut down my hours too,’ he added hopefully. ‘We could both spend more time at home, relaxing as a family.’ I said no, refused even to discuss it because that would have meant telling the truth: I love my work too much. I don’t want to do even a tiny bit less, even if carrying on the way I am means I’ll wear myself down until there’s nothing left of me. I’ll take the chance. And the idea of Nick cutting down his hours and his salary in order to relax more sent chills down my spine.
‘Your body is telling you you’re not ready to go home,’ the voice continues softly. ‘Listen to it. Remember what you said, about the hardest part of going home after a work trip?’
But I haven’t been on a work trip. My mouth still won’t work. I can’t argue.
‘You’re ready to drop; all you want to do is walk through the front door, go straight to bed and stay there for twenty-four hours. But Zoe and Jake have missed you, and Nick has been on duty alone in your absence, so you have to take over. You have to spring into action like an entertainer at a children’s party, and Nick has to be allowed to have the rest of the day off, cycling, or meeting his mates at the pub. And because you feel guilty, because you often go away overnight and Nick never does, you put a brave face on it. You dread going home after every trip because you know you’re going to have to do even more work than usual to make up for the inconvenience of your having been away-as if you owe the family that extra effort, like some sort of penance.’
Is he still in the room? He’s saying words, but they are my words. They’re what I say when I’m at my lowest ebb. Not what I really think, not how I truly feel. No. It’s not like that. Stop.