Her Perfect Family(61)

‘OK. Thanks. I’ll talk up the police support.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

Amanda stands.

‘Lovely view from here.’ Matthew turns to take in the panorama. ‘It’s a beautiful campus.’

‘Yes. How’s your daughter doing, by the way? I meant to ask.’

‘Oh, much better actually. The counsellor you recommended was really helpful. Thank you.’

‘I’m pleased to hear that.’

‘So do you normally take a break yourself? Over the summer? Do you have family? I never asked.’

‘No, not me. Married to the job.’ Amanda smiles.

Matthew sips at his coffee and raises his hand by way of farewell as Amanda makes her excuses and retreats. He watches her walk back across the terrace and takes in her smart navy suit and expensive handbag. He thinks fondly of Sally, who juggled part-time work with days in jeans with playdough under her fingernails. He hopes they’re having a good day today. Not too many worries for the jar.

And then as he turns, Matthew’s surprised to see a woman he recognises, checking her watch on the concourse below. He leans closer to the glass barrier to make sure he’s not mistaken. No. It’s definitely her. Wendy March. Another private investigator he’s come across at a couple of networking functions. She’s a very different kind of operator and he doesn’t much like her. Matthew frowns, wondering what the hell she’s doing on campus.

He stands, finishing his coffee, and is planning to head down to speak to Wendy as his phone rings. The display confirms it’s Amelie’s nursery school.

‘Matthew Hill.’

‘This is the school office. I’m sorry but we couldn’t get hold of your wife.’

‘Is Amelie OK?’ He can feel his heart racing.

‘Please don’t worry. She’s fine. She’s with a member of staff but there’s been an incident and I’m hoping you can come to collect her so we can explain properly. I’m afraid we’ve had to call the police—’





CHAPTER 44


THE MOTHER


I watch the two nurses giving Gemma her bed bath. Sometimes I help but just now they’re doing all the extras – checking her catheter and her feeding tube – so I’m letting them get on with it.

It was quite a shock at first, facing up to the day-to-day reality of Gemma’s care. In the movies a coma looks just like sleep. In the real world, there are these endless checks and the constant fear of bed sores. Physiotherapy.

The best times are when they bring the fetal monitor and we listen to the baby’s heart. Strong. Surreal. The strength of the rhythm reassures me and yet it’s still so hard to take in – a new life in the midst of all of this.

Today I watch them turn Gemma on to her left side, gently moving each arm in turn. Up. Down. Up. Down. Sometimes they ask if I want to take a break while they check everything. They mean – do you really want to be here while we clean her?

But I always stay. I saw her through all that as a baby. And she’s still my baby girl.

I can feel tears coming and so, to distract myself, I reach for Gemma’s laptop. I click through the files that have become so familiar and return to the essays, wondering just what it takes to get a first. Gemma always wrote so brilliantly.

There’s one on Hardy – Is Tess in Tess of the d’Urbervilles portrayed as being responsible for her own demise? I’ve always loved Hardy so I open the file and start reading. But a shiver goes instantly through me. Because it’s not an essay at all . . .

I don’t believe it. I am sitting on my bed, staring at the test stick with tears rolling down my face and I still don’t believe.

Two blue lines. Pregnant. How? HOW?

I read on, my mouth gaping. It’s Gemma talking. Like a diary. I’m so shocked I must let out some kind of strange noise because one of the nurses turns to me. ‘Are you OK, Mrs Hartley?’

‘I’m fine. Sorry. I’m fine.’

I’m not. I race through the paragraphs. My poor Gemma agonising over what to do about the pregnancy. I glance up at her in the bed and it’s so unbearable. To hear her voice through the screen of the laptop. So distressed.

And then I reach a paragraph which is like a knife.

Mum would never cope – it would literally kill her and I just can’t talk to her about this kind of thing.

I put my hand up to my mouth. It’s as if the room has changed shape. The distance between me and the bed distorted. Stretched. I feel almost faint.

I read on – the words like bellows on the fire of my failings. Gemma didn’t talk to me because Gemma couldn’t talk to me.

I didn’t let her. I was too closed. Too afraid.

I skim through the rest of the file. She mentions the father – the married man – but there’s no name. Why so careful? In her own computer? And why the fake title?

I finish the piece and feel for my phone in my pocket. Should I ring DI Sanders? I don’t understand how they missed this.

No. Not yet. I need to try to find a name. Something concrete. I need to see if it’s just the one piece. And, although I can hardly acknowledge it, I need to see what else she’s written about our family. About me.

I watch the nurses finishing their care. One of them marks up the charts before leaving. I thank them and as soon as Gemma and I are alone, the tears come. I cry for what feels like quite a long time and then I feel ashamed. Self-indulgent. What right do I have to tears?