Under Your Skin (28 page)

“There was a man outside my house today,” I tell Jack. “Just lurking. I don’t think we should pursue Tolek, or Christa. You know. There’s a killer out there. How close do we want to get?”

He laughs, as if I have made a joke. His focus has shifted, now
that the food is here. He peers at things before he eats them, flips a slice of beetroot over with his fork, and investigates its underbelly like a botanist.

“So let’s leave it and talk about other things,” I say, refilling our glasses. “A new subject, something different. Let’s pretend we are two normal people having supper. Cheer me up. Tell me about your family.”

He smiles, as if this is a nice thought, something he wouldn’t mind doing at all, and starts telling me about his sisters: the eldest is in marketing, based in Leeds; the second is a GP; the third lives with her family out in the country near his dad. Jack was “spoiled rotten” as a child, the longed-for son. His mother died three years ago—cancer—though his father found a new “fancy woman” within six months.

“Men usually do. We had a grief counselor on
Mornin’ All
. Widows, on average, take ten years to remarry. Men often remarry within the year.”

“Your father remarried?”

I think hard. Do I really want this in the finished article? “Off the record?”

“Off the record.”

“Dead.”

“That’s a bugger.”

I laugh. “Yes, it is a bugger.”

“What happened?”

I haven’t talked about this in years. I feel uneasy putting the two words
my
and
father
together; there is no relationship to refer to. I’ve never come clean in the press before, and is now really the time? Do I want to open this all up with Jack? Is it the kind of material I want him to collect, or use, or even idly mull over at the back of his mind? Will I start to cry? I take another glug of wine. “There isn’t much to say. He was a manic-depressive, and one wet November night he drove straight into a tree.”

“Accident, or . . . ?”

“My mother never used the word
suicide
but . . .”

I used to talk about my dead father late at night with boys when I was a teenager. I used to feel guilty then, too. It was like a trick I could play, a way to get close. Now, I have the disturbing sensation of something similar unfurling. I hadn’t meant this confession to be an invitation for intimacy. I should have been more careful.

“Tough on your mother, though, with a small child.”

“It was hard on her. She was the sort of woman who needed a man. Her life was full of tragic failures in that regard—a long line of them. Only one relationship lasted. With the booze.”

“Oh God, sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was her tragedy, not mine. I was always self-sufficient. Mature for my age, my teachers used to say. Some of them looked after me a bit. Friends’ parents, too.”

“Took you under their wing?”

“Made sure I applied to university and things. And actually, to her credit, during my childhood my mother did keep it together. It was only after I left that things went a bit . . . pear-shaped. But listen, I hate . . . I don’t normally . . . you know, people’s childhood! Old hat!”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“Nope. Used to long for a big family, but no. Just me. Typical only child.”

He says gently, “Simultaneously bullish and insecure?”

“Ah,” I say. “Direct line between alcoholic mother and ‘erratic driving.’ I get it now.”

“I think,” he says, his eyes crinkling. “I think I got you wrong.” He stares at me, the smile still there. I feel a shock in the air, a tiny moment of possibility. Perhaps it’s the wine, but it hasn’t been what I thought, all this: not a guilty disclosure but a release.

One of the women with the small children has looked across
at us twice. Her brow is furrowed, as if she is trying to study the picture above Jack’s head. Jack notices and makes a face. He pays the bill—holding it stiffly away from me like a tour guide’s flag above his head—and, before the woman can nudge any of her companions, we are out in the night.

The sky is clear, dotted with stars. Shouts float down from a party in an upstairs flat. A car cruises past with its music throbbing. Jack says he will walk me home. I am quietly grateful. We wander slowly up the road, past bikes and bins and litter-entangled front railings, houses where accountants and lawyers and teachers are sleeping, children in bunk beds, starfished babies in cots, families and young marrieds and students. A run of normalcy.

We don’t talk much. The wine has hit my head, the world is full of liquid movement. A sliver of moon slides low above a quivering skyline of trees. I shiver, but Jack doesn’t notice. He put his hand on the small of my back as we ran across the road, and I can still feel the shape of it.

We walk, hands in pockets, and after a few minutes, I say, “So, come on, tell me about your ex-wife. What did she do to make you so angry?”

He tips his head back and looks up at the sky. The wind ruffles the loose curls of his hair. He takes his hand out of his pocket to smooth it down. Still gazing up, he says, “Married at thirty-five, separated at thirty-nine. I wanted children. Lots of children. She didn’t. I thought fidelity was an important component of our union. She disagreed.”

“Can see how that might have created tension,” I say lightly, thinking how nice and refreshing to meet a man who wants lots of children.

“Then, of course, she got pregnant within six months of meeting someone else.”

“Typical.”

He makes a
hmp
noise, a laugh or a clearing of his throat. “So I’ve got a question for you. You don’t have to answer.”

“Okay.”

“You said you always longed for siblings, for a big family. So why didn’t you have more kids yourself? Why just one, why just Mills?”

I actually don’t answer at first. I’m registering the fact that he called Millie Mills, as if he knows her. He must
feel
as if he knows her. I continue along the path. When he catches up, I say, “I wanted more. I thought we would have lots of children. Three or four at least. And animals. Cats and dogs. Chickens.” I am waving my arms. “But life doesn’t always work out the way you want.”

“True, but . . . ?”

“My job—Philip felt it wouldn’t be fair, with us both working, that we would be spreading ourselves too thin.” I’m chanting all this. “That was how he put it,” I add. “And I love,
loved,
my job. Other priorities seemed important at just the wrong time. But I’m lucky: I’ve got Millie.
Mills.
”

“No dog? No cat?”

“Philip’s allergic.”

He laughs, and I do, too. “He’s allergic to all sorts of things,” I say. “Domestic animals, shellfish, pollen . . .” And life with me, I think, though I am not sure I say that out loud. Or maybe I do. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve told him so much now. He’s got his exposé, and maybe that’s fine.

We wander the last bit of the path without talking. Two figures, teenage boys, are hovering by the bench just ahead of us. They sidle away as we get close, seem to melt into the bushes. Only two glowing lights—the ends of their cigarettes, moving like fireflies—show they are still there.

We put them behind us and reach the alley. Jack touches the metal post that bars it from cyclists, hangs sideways from it, and says, “Don’t walk this late at night across the common on your own, will you?”

I shake my head.

“And you do lock up and everything?”

I nod, trying to sidle past the post, heading for my road. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

“Whoever did it . . . I mean, as you say, they haven’t been apprehended.”

“No one is going to kill me,” I say. He’s caught up with me. “ ‘Hodge shall not be shot.’ ” Dr. Johnson said it about his cat. It’s one of those obscure references Philip and I quote now and then.”

“Dr. Johnson?” Jack says. “A fine cat. A very fine cat.”

I stop and turn. It’s as if he sneaked into my mind and poked around. I laugh. “A familiarity with Boswell’s
Life of Johnson
? Jack Hayward, you are a man of many, many surprises.”

We have reached the end of the alley. I’m aware Jack has stopped, a dark shape against the ivy wall.

“Gaby?” he says.

The sky spins a little. I have that feeling you get when you look down into a puddle and see clouds moving and you don’t know what’s real and what isn’t.

“Gaby?” He moves an inch. Green tendrils catch in his hair. The throb of an engine: a police car, cruising, light spinning, slowing down when it passes my house. And before he says anything else, I run across the road toward the safety of home.

•   •   •

My eyes open.

Something has woken me. A shape by the bedroom door. An animal? A crouched body? No. My head sinks into the pillow. Relief. Nothing, just a black bin bag full of clothes.

And then the sound again. An abrupt bang, a rattle. I know what it is, this sound. It is the front door pushing against the security chain.

Could it be Philip, or did I leave the key in the lock again?

My legs are shaky, my head thick, my mouth dry. I stumble downstairs. The front door is open a crack. A hand is reaching through the gap, trying to reach the hook of the chain.

“Who is it?” I yell.

The door slowly closes. I shout, “Who is it? Who’s out there?”

A pause and then, a small voice, “It’s me. Marta.”

“Oh God.” I think about Jack, telling me to be careful. And for a second I consider not letting her in, but only for a second, because I know I can’t leave her out there, in the dark. I open the door. “You scared me half to death,” I say, tightening my dressing gown. “At this time of night! Come on, then.”

“Sorry. I was out at that bar. I needed to come back.”

Her hair is pulled tight in a high ponytail, and she is wearing a startling amount of makeup: black eyeliner and heavy foundation. She is taller than usual, too, in tight jeans and clumpy heels.

I look at my watch. It’s 1:15
AM
. “So you’ve been out on the razzle?”

“The what?”

“Have you been somewhere nice?”

“Yes. To that bar you told me about, Doom.”

“Oh, yes. Was it jolly?” Oh Lord. I’m doing that thing again.

I go into the kitchen and I am surprised to hear her follow me. I put on the kettle. I am ragingly awake now. When Millie is older, will she and I meet in the kitchen for cups of tea late at night? Will I be the sort of mother she can confide in?

Marta has sat down somewhat unsteadily at the table.

“You okay?” I ask her carefully. “Do you need something to eat? There isn’t much, it just being me.” I open the fridge. “Some eggs. A lot of carrots.”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m not hungry.”

I make tea, trying to feel calm. I wasn’t expecting her back. I
sit down at the table, clutching mugs and milk. Should I ask her about the post office receipts? Would this be a good moment or a very bad one? Should I wait until we aren’t alone? “So you had an enjoyable time?”

She shrugs. “My friend, she is a silly girl.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes. She talked to some boys who were not nice and I tell her we have to go, and when she wouldn’t come, I leave her there.”

“Oh dear,” I say again. “You mean you left her on her own in the bar?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think she’ll be all right?”

“I don’t care. And if she’s not, it’s her fault.”

“Oh. Okay. Gosh.”

“So I walk home.”

“Marta, you must be careful. I told you that. Someone could have followed you.”

“I kept to the main road. My friend she find her own way back to Colliers Wood. I never see her again.”

“Well, good thing you came back,” I say after I have let this sunk in. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about something.”

She turns to me. In the light from the side lamp, her face is full of shadows. “Yes?”

I sigh. I am not sure whether it’s because I think I should have the conversation, or because I think I shouldn’t, or whether it’s just for the long, dull sleepless night that lies ahead.

“It’s a bit awkward.”

“Yes?” she says quickly. Her eyes look heavy. She is scared. She thinks I’m going to fire her. I feel a caving, a little internal subsidence, which I register as pity.

“Actually, it’s nothing really,” I say. “Time for bed.”

I was wrong. The sleep I sink into is so catatonically self-effacing it wipes, for the first few moments of waking, everything before it.

It’s the phone that rouses me. What’s that? Where am I? Who am I? Twenty seconds of confusion.

“Did I wake you?” Jack says.

“Yes,” I say.

“Sorry. Did you sleep well?” A note in his voice I’m not quite sure of: tenderness or reproach.

“I did, actually. Probably the wine.”

“God, yes. I had a skinful last night—those French carafes, deceptive. Can hardly remember getting home.”

He’s letting us off the hook. “Me, too,” I say. “All a bit of a blur.”

He takes a deep breath. “Can you meet me?”

He names a place: Spencer Park, a triangle of private houses backing onto four acres of communal garden not far from my house. I have never been in, though we were once invited to a party there by some hedge-fund contact of Philip’s. Rumor has it there are tennis courts, and a rose garden, a walk lined with rhododendrons. Maybe even a swimming pool surrounded by figs, though that might just be talk.

“Why there?” I ask, tentatively.

“That would be telling.”

He’s keeping it back like a treat, like Millie with the toffee layer in a Twix.

“I don’t know, Jack,” I say. “You know, what I said last night. I meant it. I’m not sure we should carry on with this. We’ve met Christa, and I feel better that we’ve done that. But PC Morrow has got it in hand. We’re just playing detectives. It’s too dangerous.”

“You don’t understand! I’ve got Tolek!” He punches his name out like a clenched fist. “Christa has just rung. I was wrong about her. She
has
cleared the way. And it’s because of you. She said she liked you and you are swept up in ‘a miscarriage of justice’: I think she got that phrase off the telly. She wants to help. Tolek has been working at Spencer Park for the last few months, on a house refit. She’ll translate. He’s hanging around today, waiting for a crane, has time to kill. This is what we wanted, isn’t it?”