About That Night

‘Yeah. Sorry. I was at the match and then went out to dinner with Sue.’ Her name hung in the air. Like a stale smell.

‘Oh.’ And behind that ‘oh’ was an entire avalanche of suppressed emotions: hurt, dismay, jealousy. Resignation.

‘Are you around later? Can I buy you lunch? After you’ve been to the police station?’

Elizabeth paused, but her heart began to beat faster. She desperately wanted some arms around her. She wanted someone to be there for her. But she tried to sound as casual as he did. ‘Yes, I think I can do that. Usual place?’

‘Yes. Usual place. One o’clock. Oh, and Elizabeth? Don’t confess. Even if they waterboard you.’

Elizabeth couldn’t help herself, she smiled. He still had the ability to do that, despite everything, to make her laugh.

‘Fuck off, Hutch.’

Chapter Four (#ulink_133f664a-2fd3-5188-ad46-d28fad8bec1e)

Elizabeth took the bus to Paddington Green Police Station. She liked the unusual sensation of sitting up top on a bus and watching London crawl beneath her. She had a car, a Volkswagen Beetle Convertible, which she drove furiously and much too fast. (She once drove Hutch down the Embankment and around Parliament Square and afterwards he said he needed a brandy and a lie-down.) But in the trauma of last night she’d left it parked at the production offices, where it was currently acquiring the undesirable accessory of a sticky plastic parking ticket. It was Elizabeth’s fourth ticket in six weeks and on each occasion she’d made up her mind that she would renew her acquaintance with Transport for London. Her family had strong links with public transport: one grandad had been a linesman on the railways, the other a bus conductor, all his life on the same route – the 38. As Elizabeth’s nan had said rather bitterly after he died, ‘Never got promoted. Never got to do the 176 or the 55. Never got to go up Park Lane, or down Piccadilly. Never got to be a driver, neither. Always the same bloody route. Every day of his life.’ But her grandad hadn’t sought promotion, he’d been perfectly happy with his lot. And Elizabeth thought there was much to be said for being happy with your lot. You never know when it might all disappear.

As the 73 chugged and chewed its way down Euston Road and through the early morning rush hour, it shaved some overhanging horse chestnut trees, showering the roof with pale white blooms that fluttered down past the window like the ghostly remains of a bridal bouquet. Hutch once took her for the night to one of those five-star hotels that turns your towels into origami animals and scatters petals across the bed (the bed was the size of a small continent) and in the middle of the night, Elizabeth found pale pink petals stuck between her thighs and in her armpits. Later, in the waterfall shower, she found another one between Hutch’s buttocks. It was there that Hutch first told her he loved her and promised that he would leave his wife.

And in turn, she had finally told him about Jamie, and about the wedding that wasn’t.

Her wedding day turned out to be a perfect pink Magnolia May morning, just as she’d imagined it would be. It had been just four weeks since Jamie’s surprise proposal. They’d decided there was no point in waiting – after all, they’d waited ten years. Jamie didn’t want the full pomp and ceremony of a church wedding and thought it a waste of money, and Elizabeth had convinced herself they were just getting the right piece of paper before having children. So she’d approached the production of her rushed wedding as if it was a last-minute live television programme. She came up with a strictly limited guest list, she wrote out a running order and she had an Excel spreadsheet on which she eked out their wedding budget. Their honeymoon was to be a two-day mini break in a Cotswolds spa hotel. She would be back in the office on Friday. They bought her a wedding ring in Hatton Garden for £35 and every so often she took it out of the little blue velvet box and tried it on her finger. She’d never worn rings and the wedding band felt tight and restrictive. She couldn’t stop staring at it.

On the way to the register office, sitting with her mum Maureen and her sister Vic in the back of a London black cab clutching a hand-tied bunch of daffodils and irises (Vic had insisted she take something blue), Elizabeth realised she hadn’t heard from Jamie since the previous afternoon. They’d spent the night before their wedding apart and she’d assumed he was just sticking to tradition. In the end, she’d texted him a jokey photo of a bride in an enormous meringue dress with a smiley emoji. But he hadn’t replied. They’d gone for more than twenty-four hours without speaking and she couldn’t remember a time in the last ten years when they had done that.

She was wearing the vintage lace garter Vic had laughingly given her the night before (something old) and it was chafing the soft skin on her inner thigh. Elizabeth had scratched it irritably several times already and now as she surreptitiously lifted the hem of her dress, she saw that the flesh around the garter was red and angry. Her dress was a vintage 1960s sleeveless shift and was the colour of apricots. She thought it would be a statement dress – look at me, I’m in a fun, flirty, fruity frock – but now she regretted it. The dress was creasing terribly in the traffic jam on the Euston Road. The plastic comb of flowers she’d tried to weave through her hair wouldn’t stay in place and was now hanging drunkenly by a thread around her ear. The daffodils started to droop. She noticed her left hand (no engagement ring) was resting on the cab door handle and that she’d clenched it tight, as if about to open the door.

‘What are you doing?’ her sister asked sharply and Elizabeth’s hand dropped, lamely, back to her lap. Vic had got married in a country church wearing a long cream silk dress that melted over her curves like liquid silver. She’d looked stunning. ‘Won’t be long now.’ Her sister had smiled brightly at her, as Elizabeth imagined Vic must smile at her clients before she led them into the dock to be sentenced. Of course they should have known the traffic would be terrible, it was a Wednesday afternoon. A woeful workday Wednesday. Who gets married on a Wednesday? Vic’s face softened when she saw Elizabeth’s brimming eyes.

‘Mum, tell you what. You keep the taxi. We’ll walk. I feel a bit sick and could do with some fresh air and it would be good for Elizabeth to get a quick breather.’ Vic was all lawyerly efficiency. She was wearing a smart navy blue coat dress. (‘It’ll always do for court afterwards,’ she had told Elizabeth on the phone after she’d bought it. At the time, Elizabeth had felt hurt, as if her wedding wasn’t excuse enough for her sister to buy a new shocking pink dress, but now she couldn’t help thinking how wise it was.) Vic had inherited their mum’s fairer skin and hair – although she’d dyed it so many times during her flirtation with the post-punk revival that Elizabeth could barely remember its original shade – and she had it cut short and pixie-like, a style that served her even better now, when she was almost in her forties and the mother of two small children, than when she’d flirted with The Libertines.

Elizabeth tumbled out of the cab trailing her posy of wilting daffodils as Vic led her firmly to one of the round tables nailed to the pavement outside the Globe pub on the Euston Road. The few hardened drinkers still on their feet turned to stare at them over their pints. Vic put her Hermès bag on the table and Elizabeth noticed a yellow lawyer’s pad poking out of the top, as if her sister might find time during her wedding to catch up on a bit of casework.

‘What’s up?’ Vic had said briskly.

‘I don’t know… It just doesn’t feel right…’

‘Look, Lizzie, it’s just last-minute nerves. It’s fine. It’s Jamie! You’ve known him for ever! Being married isn’t any different.’

Elizabeth had torn unconsciously at the daffodil petals. She raised her panic-stricken face. ‘Vic, I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel we’ve rushed into this wedding. It was so lovely, being with your boys at the birthday party and in that moment, when Jamie proposed, I wanted that life so badly. The life that you have, Vic. A domestic life. Babies. So I organised the wedding really quickly, I thought Jamie was right, we’d waited long enough. But oh God…’ Elizabeth looked desperately at her sister. ‘I panicked, Vic. I panicked about Forever. About it being Jamie, and no one else, ever again.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I met this man at a work party, just a few days after Jamie proposed. And, Vic, he was so unlike anyone else I’ve ever been with! He was funny, he made me laugh and he was so interested in me and my job – and I don’t know, just so different to Jamie! He made me feel so good about myself. I thought I could have one last fling, I thought it wouldn’t matter. But of course it does matter – and I’ve felt so guilty ever since. But Vic, I can’t stop thinking about him!’

‘Oh, Lizzie! But it’s just the once? Just this one time?’

‘Yes. You know there’s never been anyone else, Vic. I’ve been longing to find the moment to tell Jamie, but the days seemed to race past and I couldn’t find the right moment. And every time we confirmed another detail of this wedding, I didn’t see how I could tell him! But now it feels like we’ll be starting our marriage all wrong.’

‘Oh, hon.’ Vic hugged her. ‘Look, Lizzie, let’s try and be practical. There are ten people waiting in that building over there for you to turn up like a blushing bride. And one of them is Jamie. Jamie, the boyfriend you’ve been with since uni. Jamie, who’s trying to save the world and who’s good and kind. You do want to marry him, right?’ There was a long pause. ‘Hello?’

Elizabeth looked at her sister in desperation. ‘Yes, I do. But oh, Vic, it feels so final! And I’ve only had sex with seven people! I keep thinking – is that enough to last me a lifetime?’

‘Well, I’m not sure it’s all about the maths, Lizzie. But I bet lots of brides go through this. I’m sure it’s really usual to panic about committing yourself to one man, for better or worse. Look, I’ll do whatever you want, but are you sure now is the time to tell Jamie? You made a mistake and you regret it. Maybe he never needs to know? Or maybe you can tell him, in time. But now? I’m not sure.’

Elizabeth nodded, numbly, and Vic was suddenly businesslike again. She found herself being propelled along the Euston Road towards Marylebone Town Hall. Large splashes of rain began to stain the apricot dress. Vic ran up the wide stone steps, half dragging Elizabeth behind her. At the town hall doors, she turned suddenly and said, ‘Who was it?’

‘What?’ Elizabeth was almost breathless. She tried to smooth down the damp creases in her dress.

‘Who was it? That you slept with?’

Elizabeth bit her lip. ‘Harry Hutchinson.’

‘Harry…? Wait. You mean Hutch? The guy who does that late night football show?’

‘Yes. And Vic, he’s married!’

‘Oh, Lizzie,’ was all that Vic said as she pushed open the doors to the town hall.

Elizabeth took two quick brisk turns around the block to pull herself together before walking into Paddington Green Police Station. The only time she’d been in a police station before was when she had to take in proof of her insurance after she’d been caught doing 89 mph down the A12 and sent on a National Speed Awareness Course (‘As if you need to be taught about speed, Miss Clumsy,’ Hutch had said consolingly, as she threw herself on to his bed, clutching a new copy of The Highway Code.) She was greeted by DS Rafik, the young sweating sergeant who’d been in the dressing room the night before. His eyes were like two brightly polished buttons in the fleshy cushion of his face. He walked quickly, despite the extra pounds, and she had to half run to keep up with him, down the bland, windowless corridors, doors all closed, walls devoid of any kind of decoration. She found herself babbling nervously. ‘You could do with some pictures. Maybe a cartoon or two. You know, something to help innocent members of the public, like me, who have to come in and give statements feel more at home.’

‘I hope your home isn’t anything like this.’ The sergeant opened the door to an office with two desks crammed together underneath a barred window. An uncovered light bulb was hanging from a ceiling rose. Someone had put a cactus plant on one of the desks, which simply added to the general feeling of dismal discomfort.

‘Wow!’ said Elizabeth. ‘Did you get your inspiration for interior design from Guantánamo Bay?’

A pink flush crept upwards from the folds of the sergeant’s neck, but he stopped himself from smiling. He moved a pile of folders from a hard-backed chair, dropping some papers as he did so, and flustered, gestured for Elizabeth to sit on it. He offered her a coffee, pointing apologetically at a kettle on the window sill and a box of Nescafé sachets.

Elizabeth grimaced. ‘No chance of a skinny double shot latte, I suppose? Maybe a basket of muffins? Haven’t you got a runner?’

He looked at her, bemused. She shrugged off her raincoat. ‘I’m sorry. I think I’m making terrible jokes because I’m nervous.’

He nodded, but before he could speak the door opened again and banged into Elizabeth’s chair. It was Detective Inspector Watson. She smelled strongly of apples. Her blonde hair was loosely swept up into a knot and fastened with a surprisingly girly pink scrunchie. She was wearing black trousers and a shirt the colour of cornflowers. Her arms were toned and tanned. She wore no make-up and, fresh-faced, looked younger than she had last night. Elizabeth guessed they must be about the same age.

‘Hello, DI Karen Watson. Sorry, not much room.’ The detective inspector went to sit at the remaining desk, the one with the cactus. She flipped open a notebook, picked up a pen, inspected it, and then lobbed it across the room, where it tipped neatly into a waiting wastepaper basket. She picked up another pen, inspected it again and wrote something on the open page. Finally, she looked up.

‘Good shot,’ offered Elizabeth.

‘County netball team. Wing attack.’ DI Karen Watson leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk.

‘Still plays,’ added the sergeant proudly.

‘Tuesdays only,’ the DI said pointedly.

Elizabeth found herself saying, ‘What’s wrong with Saturdays? Or Sundays? I’ve heard weekends are good for sport.’

The DI looked at her sharply. ‘Well, you see, the women I play with mostly have husbands, some of them have kids, and so they can’t play netball at the weekend. Tuesday is their only opportunity to get out of the house.’

‘Gosh,’ said Elizabeth, genuinely struck. ‘And they spend their only evenings off playing netball? When they could be necking sauvignon blanc in the wine bar? That’s dedication.’

‘Ah, well you see, most of us don’t drink,’ the DI said, and the implication was clear.

Elizabeth shifted in her seat. She realised that the volunteering of some personal information by the detective must be a well-rehearsed ploy. She noticed DI Karen Watson’s body was taut, wired, finely tuned.