The Bones of You (15 page)

21

I
n my hand, there’s a small white piece of paper with frayed edges where it’s been ripped from a larger sheet, the words on it printed clearly.

Even though it’s late, I call Angus, but it goes to voice mail. On impulse, I call Laura.

“You need to show the police, Kate. It might be linked.”

“Why send it to me, though?”

“It might just be rubbish. Some local nut who knows you’re friends with Jo, stirring up trouble.”

“Do people do that? Really?”

“Yes. They really do. You shouldn’t worry about it.”

The next day, I call Sergeant Beauman, who sends someone round to pick up the note, then go to see Jo, expecting her still to be reeling from hearing about Neal. Instead, I find her having a massive clear-out. What’s more, she’s taking delivery of a new carved oak bed.

“I’m redecorating,” she tells me after welcoming me with open arms. With her hair tied messily back, and wearing a checked shirt that swamps her, she looks about Grace’s age. And scared, but energized. “You understand, don’t you, Kate? About the bed?”

“God, yes, of course I do. Can I do anything to help?”

“You could take one of those downstairs.” She points to a row of smart matching suitcases. “They’re Neal’s clothes. I can’t bear to have them in here. They can go in the garage—at least for now.” Barely pausing for breath before she starts again. “I’ve been thinking about moving, and I still might, only we’ve moved so many times, Kate. I’m sick of it. Every time Neal fell out of favor with people. It was his answer to everything. New house, new people . . . Anyway, I can have the house how I want it now. How
I
want it!”

She’s elated, unable to stand still, her thoughts running too fast for me to keep up.

“Are you all right with him being released?”

“Not really.” Jo’s too quick, her eyes darting frantically, and I see then, she’s on a knife-edge. “But I have to believe he won’t come here. If he does, the police told me they’ll arrest him. He would hate that.”

“I wish I’d known how bad it was,” I tell her. “You should have said, Jo.”

She shrugs, pulling up her sleeves. “What I should have done was leave him. Years ago. I’ve wasted so much time. And once he’s in court, everyone will know what he’s really like. That he killed his own daughter.” Her voice wobbles as she deposits an armful of bed linens into a garbage bag. “I want nothing on my skin that’s touched
him.
”

“Over here, please,” she says as the men carrying her new bed survey the scene with an amusement that’s out of place, because nothing about this is remotely funny. It’s horribly, desperately sad. “By the window. Thank you. That’s perfect.
Oh God.
The curtains.”

She rips them down and stuffs them in the bag with the bed linens.

Holding the bag open, I try to help her. “I tried to call you . . . several times. Where were you?”

“I’m sorry, Kate. I was in such a state, I forgot my phone charger. I just drove until we found a B and B. I had to get away.”

As I carry the suitcases downstairs, I notice here, too, evidence of her catharsis. Already, there are new cushions, coordinated perfectly with the sofas. Therapeutic brochures on the coffee table, next to liberating pages of paint charts and fabric swatches.

“You wouldn’t believe how this helps,” she says, coming down the stairs behind me, empowered by what she’s doing, clearly relishing cutting Neal out of her life, as well as putting her own stamp on the house, not for one moment seeming to miss him. Too much so for me not to worry.

“Come on. I’ll put the kettle on. Actually, it’s nearly six. I’ll open a bottle.”

It’s five thirty, but if a glass of wine is what it takes to wind her down, I decide I’ll share one with her, because the manic way she’s behaving, I’m convinced she’s heading for a breakdown.

 

“It’s like she feels nothing for him,” I tell Angus when he calls me later that evening. I’d left Jo making inroads into the rest of the wine, getting her to promise also to eat supper. “Even though they’ve been together all this time, she’s simply cut him out of her life, just like that. I don’t believe anyone can do that—not without it catching up with them at some point.”

“She’s probably relieved,” he says. “You can understand why. Once the court hearing’s out of the way, it’ll be easier for her.” He pauses. “Just please don’t do anything to our house while I’m away. Are you still coming up here in a couple of weeks?”

“I hope so,” I tell him. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. I’d suggest you come earlier,” Angus says, sounding regretful, “only I really have to work this weekend.”

“It’s fine. I should probably work, too.” And I would if I wasn’t so preoccupied with Jo.

“How’s Rachael?” he asks, picking up on my restlessness. “Why don’t you plan a girls’ night?”

“I haven’t seen her. She’s tied up with work and the boys.”

“Well, why don’t you go and see Grace?” he suggests. “Get away from there for a bit. A change of scene would do you good.”

I know what he’s really saying. It’s his unvoiced reminder to me not to get too drawn into Jo’s problems. He may be right. And the thought of seeing Grace is irresistible.

22

O
nly when she’s caught unawares do the cracks show. Jo’s expression when Delphine asks about the school trip to Paris. The pile of bills mounting up, on the side, unopened. A call from a police counselor that leaves her unduly flustered.

“I’m fine. I just need some space,” she says snippily. “I wish they’d get off my back.”

All pointing to how vulnerable she feels.

She makes no mention of money, and I don’t ask. Then, with her work on the house finished, the last wall painted, the last piece of new furniture in its place, her mood of euphoria collapses.

“It’s beautiful, Jo. You’ve done a great job with it.”

“Thank you. Better, isn’t it?”

I look around at the walls, painted a different neutral shade from before, with new curtains hanging, furniture shifted slightly. All that aside, it’s disturbingly reminiscent of how it used to look. Immaculate. Too tidy. It’s the same upstairs, a glamorous interiors photo shoot rather than a family home.

“I love it,” I tell her. “So now that it’s done, what next?”

She looks puzzled.

“I was thinking about the course you started. It was going well, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” She sounds unsure. “After all this business with Neal, I—I can’t think that far ahead.”

And though she hides it well, I see a change. After that, every time I see her, her world closes in a little more, until it’s shrink-wrapped around her. She shows me new china or the latest high-tech gadget. And then she has absolutely nothing else to say.

“Jo?” I have to ask her one day, as we sit there, barely speaking. “You’re not yourself. What is it?”

“I don’t know,” she says, looking at me blankly. “I thought with Neal gone from here, the house decorated, I’d feel good. But I don’t, Kate. I feel terrible. Every day it gets worse. And I don’t know what to do. . . .”

“You’ve been through so much,” I say, worried she’s on the verge of another breakdown. Under her make-up, her skin is gray, and there are dark circles under her eyes, as though even when she sleeps, she doesn’t rest. “Seriously. Maybe you should talk to someone. A professional, Jo. Don’t you think it might help?”

For a moment she looks as though she’s tempted, but then she rallies. Laughs a brittle laugh. “There are people far worse off than I am, Kate. Honestly. I’ll be fine.”

But I know she isn’t, and as I drive home, I’m preoccupied. I know enough to realize that stress can creep up on you and hit you when you least expect it. I’m guessing that’s what’s happening to her again. In which case, she really does need some help. I decide to call her and try to convince her, but when I get home, I’m distracted by another of those envelopes and, when I open it, another note.

23

I
leave the note at the police station for Sergeant Beauman, then turn up my music and set off for Bristol, with each passing mile feeling my heart lift as I think about the weekend with Grace.

As if she knows, when I get there, she’s sitting outside, waiting for me.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here!” It’s true. As well as giving us time together, being miles from home gives me a changed perspective on Jo and her problems.

Grace’s eyes sparkle at me. “I know, Mum. I’m glad, too. I thought we could go to this Italian tonight, if you like? It isn’t expensive.”

I notice the nod to her impoverished student status.

“Don’t worry about that, Grace. My treat! This is great, though,” I add as we walk into her dormitory. “I love what you’ve done with your room.”

The empty space we abandoned her to all those months back is no more. What’s here reminds me of her room at home, only with unfamiliar pictures on the walls, photos of friends I’ve yet to meet. And flowers. Grace’s cheeks flush pink as she catches me looking at them.

I raise a questioning eyebrow.

“Mu-um! Okay.” She rolls her eyes. “They’re from a boy. He’s called Ned, and he’s cool. You’ll really like him.”

Ned.
I haven’t met a Ned before. I wonder if he’s good to her, what he looks like.

“Here.” She thrusts her phone under my nose. “This is him.”

A kind, boyish face looks back at me. A little older than Grace, maybe? If he’s important to her, I’m sure I’ll get to meet him.

“Is he coming out with us?”

“God, no. I might see him after, though. It depends.”

Her social life yielding to allow us a few precious hours together before snapping her back into its midst.

“Party?”

She nods. “But it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to, Mum.”

“You go. I’ll be happy with an early night.”

Grace shows me round the campus, chattering about the clubs she’s joined and the movies she’s seen. Then we drive into town and find the B and B I’ve booked, which is clean and homely, with a soft bed and a rooftop view punctuated by chimney stacks. Then we walk through the streets to the restaurant she’s chosen, with its stripped wood and bare bricks. We eat pasta and drink red wine, and after filling her in about Jo and Neal, suddenly weary, I change the subject. I want to forget about them, everything I’ve left behind, just for a while.

I’ve booked my room for the weekend, fully aware that Grace will have her own life to lead, but needing the change of scene, glad that there are no visitors, no intrusions. That I can spend time with Grace, or just explore the shops, be lazy, please myself.

 

The following morning, on a whim, I book myself in for a manicure with a pretty, very made-up girl called Mollie, who tuts about my hands and says she’s never seen anything like them.

“Let me guess.” She stares at them. “Horses?”

I nod, slightly taken aback.

“And gardening. I know. I’ll put this lovely cream on them. You won’t recognize them when I’ve finished, and it’s got all these cool ingredients, like calendula to soothe the skin and almond oil. . . .”

I tell her I’ve never had a manicure before, then let her get on, sitting back, half listening to the idle chitchat around me, about holidays and reality TV shows, until one sentence jerks me back to the moment.

“You know that TV reporter bloke that killed his daughter?” says a gossipy voice. “Well, seems like his wife’s done herself in. . . .”

“Excuse me?” I spin round, yanking my hand from Mollie’s. “Could you repeat what you just said?”

“Joanna what’s-her-name. It was on the news, love.”

I turn back to Mollie, numb. “Sorry. I need to make a call.” Pulling out my phone, searching for Laura’s number, noticing Mollie’s puzzled face. “She’s my friend.”

 

The timing is ironic—or is it? Guiltily, I wonder, if I’d been there, if Jo had known I was just a couple of miles down the road, instead of a couple of hours away, would it have happened? And with Neal no longer around, who’s taking care of Delphine?

I make my excuses to Grace, feeling horribly guilty about that, too, that I’m letting her down. In spite of her assurances that it’s fine, that she understands, that we’d had a lovely evening and now she was free to go to yet another party she’d been invited to without worrying about leaving me alone, the guilt lingers.

“I could have gone with you,” I tease her, seeing the flicker of alarm in her face before she giggles.

“You’d hate it, Mum. All that spilt beer and smoking. You hate cigarettes. And drunk teenagers . . .”

“Yes, but I might have met Ned,” I point out.

“If you really want to meet him, I’ll bring him home. For Easter. If we’re still together, that is.”

I think of Easter. Spring. Grace. Maybe now, Ned . . . Vibrant, beautiful things, full of life and hope. Then Jo, tortured and fragile, unconscious but stable, according to the nurse I spoke to. And, of course, in all this, there’s Delphine.

It’s late afternoon when I reach the hospital, where it seems the entire world has turned out to visit their loved ones. The extortionately priced car park has no spaces, and after being sent on a wild-goose chase through corridors heavy with the cloying scent of disinfectant, I at last find the right floor and the right set of swing doors, only to be confronted by the ward sister.

“I’m sorry, but Mrs. Anderson’s not allowed visitors.” She says it most imperiously.

“I don’t think you understand,” I try to explain. “I’m her closest friend—especially since she’s been on her own. I don’t think she’d be pleased if she knew about this.”

Trying to ignore the fact that I’ve cut short my weekend with my daughter, that I’m hungry, worried. How Jo has no one else who cares enough to be here.

The sister ignores me, writing something on one of the charts spread in front of her before turning her back on me. I wait, studying the board that tells me exactly where she is, and when the sister strides away out of sight, I slip into Jo’s room.