One of Greg’s more regular email correspondents was a woman called Christine, the ex of an old friend, who he sometimes met up with; he wasn’t so careful with her. I flicked between her messages and his. She lamented approaching her thirty-sixth birthday and he said she was more attractive now than when they’d first met. She thanked him for taking a look at her boiler and he said it was nice to have an excuse to see her again. She said he was a very nice man, did he know that? And he replied that she must bring out the best in him. He was tanned after his holiday; she was radiant after hers. He was looking tired – was he overworking and was everything all right at home? He replied that she, on the other hand, was as fresh as ever and blue suited her.
‘But were things all right at home, Greg?’ I rubbed my eyes with my fists and glared at Christine’s solicitous notes, his flirtatious, evasive responses. ‘Come on, tell me.’
I moved to the sent messages, but the emails still didn’t tell me that. They told me he had ordered woodchip for the garden, grey paint for the kitchen, Omega 3 capsules for both of us; also a book on architecture and a new CD by Howling Bells, which I’d never heard of. Maybe he’d given it to someone as a present. Milena? Christine? I called up his music library and scrolled down, and there it innocently was.
I went downstairs. It was still grey outside, and soon enough it would be getting dark again. The lawn was covered with soggy leaves and the pear tree by the back wall dripped steadily. I hadn’t eaten since the Danish pastries that morning, so I made myself a piece of toast and Marmite and a cup of camomile tea and took it back to the computer. The phone rang and it was Gwen, with the number of their solicitor for me to call. I couldn’t remember the one Greg had used when we’d bought the house. Now there was so much to be sorted out. I wrote it on the notepad I found in the desk drawer and said I’d call her the following day.
Junkmail – but I found nothing apart from advertisements for Viagra, fake Rolex watches, amazing investment opportunities, guaranteed loans, unsecured credit and an invitation to the online casino, where everyone is king.
Trash. Greg was pretty efficient at getting rid of old messages and, anyway, they only went back a few weeks: obviously the ones older than these were deleted at an even deeper level, somewhere in the mysterious circuitry of the computer. I ploughed doggedly through them, feeling I was getting nowhere and simply wasting my time. There was a strange little message from Tania, in which she said she didn’t really understand his query and he should ask Joe about it.
I got the phone from our bedroom – my bedroom – and called Joe on the office number.
‘Yes?’ He sounded unusually curt.
‘It’s me. Is that the way you usually talk to clients?’
‘Ellie.’ His voice softened. ‘It’s one of those days. I was going to call you this evening. Tell me about the inquest. Are you all -’
‘Were there any problems with your business?’
‘How do you mean?’
I repeated the question, mentioning the email I’d found on Greg’s computer.
‘What date did you say?’
‘A week or so ago.’
There was a pause.
‘I’m scrolling through my mail and there’s nothing I can see from Greg about a worry.’
‘So, everything was OK?’
‘Depends what you mean. If you want me to bend your ear about clients who don’t pay up on time, don’t give us proper information and then complain, or dealing with the Revenue and the nightmare of bureaucracy… But that’s just business as usual and you’ve got problems of your own.’
‘All the work Greg had to do late at the office, that wasn’t because there were problems?’
‘Did he often work late?’ His tone was cautious, with an underlying note of sympathy.
I felt the blood flame into my cheeks. ‘That is, he came home late recently. Later than usual anyway.’
‘Did he seem stressed?’
‘No. At least, not really.’
‘Not really?’
‘You know, I keep thinking back and seeing things I didn’t notice at the time – or, at least, thinking I can see things. Maybe he was a bit preoccupied. Or maybe I’m making that up.’
There was a silence at the other end. I knew what Joe was thinking: that perhaps Greg was preoccupied because he was having an affair. I waited for him to say it, but he didn’t. Perhaps he was too respectful of my feelings.
‘If he was worried, though,’ I continued, ‘I think he would have told me. He wouldn’t have protected me. That’s not the kind of marriage we had. That I thought we had. We were in things together; we shared things.’
‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Greg would have told you.’
‘You mean about everything?’
Another silence.
‘Ellie, I’m finishing up here. Can I come round on my way home? I’ll bring a bottle of wine and we can talk this through.’
‘I won’t be here.’
I found her address in his old address book and decided to walk, even though she lived in Clerkenwell and probably wouldn’t be in anyway, and even though the drizzle outside was turning into a steady downpour. It didn’t feel like something I could express over the phone.
As I arrived, I saw her coming from the other direction, feeling in her bag for her door key. She was wearing a belted mac and a scarf tied round her head, and looked like a fifties film star in one of those classy black-and-white French movies.
‘Hello.’
I stood in front of her and she looked at me with narrowed, suspicious eyes, then gave an exaggerated little start. ‘Ellie? My God. I meant to get in touch. I’m so very, very sorry. He was such a lovely -’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course. You’re soaked.’
I looked down at myself. I was still wearing my inquest clothes and had forgotten to put on a jacket. It was true that I was cold and wet. I must have looked dreadful.
I followed Christine up the stairs and into a spacious kitchen-living room. She took off her mac and hung it over the back of a chair, pulled the scarf off her head and shook out her chestnut hair.
‘Do you live alone?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just at the moment.’ Then she offered me tea.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Or coffee, or a cold drink?’
‘Is that the boiler Greg fixed?’ I asked. ‘He never managed to get ours sorted.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Christine sat down opposite me, then stood up and filled the kettle but didn’t switch it on. She turned towards me. ‘Is there a particular reason you came?’
‘I wanted to ask you something.’
Her face took on the eager, helpful expression I’d become so familiar with since Greg’s death.
‘You were friendly with Greg.’
‘That’s right,’ said Christine. ‘I was devastated when I heard.’
‘Would you say you were close to him?’
‘It depends what you mean by close.’ Her tone was cautious now.
‘I read your emails to each other.’
‘Yes?’
‘He thought blue suited you.’ Her expression had changed: no longer eager but embarrassed. I pressed on. ‘How close?’
‘You mean…’ She stopped.
‘Yes.’
‘You poor thing,’ she said softly.
I stared at her. Shame flushed through me, leaving me clammy. I gripped the table with both hands. ‘You’re telling me there was nothing between you, then?’
‘We were friends.’
‘Even though you told him he was a very nice man and complimented him on his tan and asked him how things were at home, and he said you looked radiant?’
There was a nasty little silence, and then she said, ‘It didn’t mean anything.’
‘He never tried to make it go further?’ I felt abject, and also disgusted by myself.
She gazed at me with a pity that made me want to crawl under a stone.