Let Me Lie(42)

‘It’s not for want of trying.’

‘There’s no rush, Uncle Billy. We’ve got a baby together – that’s more of a commitment than a wedding ring.’

‘I tell you what,’ Billy says. ‘I reckon a big wedding’s just what this family needs, after everything that’s happened.’ His lips are stained purple from the red wine. ‘I’ll pay for it.’

‘We don’t want your money, Bill.’

Laura sees my face and jumps in. ‘You’d best get yourself on Tinder, Billy, if you’re that desperate for a wedding. We’ll be your bridesmaids, won’t we, Anna?’

I shoot her a grateful glance.

‘Nice idea, but I don’t think there’s much of a market for overweight car salesmen past their prime.’

‘Oh, come on, Uncle Billy – you’re quite the eligible bachelor. Nice house, good business, own teeth … They are your own teeth, aren’t they?’

I leave them laughing, and start stacking the dishwasher.

The first time Mark proposed was the night I told him I was pregnant. I said no. He didn’t have to do that.

‘It’s not about having to – I want to. I want to be with you. Don’t you want to be with me?’

I skirted the question. I did – of course I did – but I wanted him to want me for my sake, not for our baby’s.

He asked twice while I was pregnant, and again just after Ella was born. I almost said yes that time, lying in a post-birth glow, filled with drugs and the euphoria of having created the tiny life that lay sleeping in my arms.

‘Soon,’ I promised.

Like most women, I’ve imagined my wedding. The identity of the groom has changed over the years – from six-year-old Joey Matthews when I was in primary school, through a series of unsuitable boyfriends, to a couple of almost suitable ones – but the congregation has remained constant. Friends. Billy. Laura.

Mum and Dad.

When I think about marrying Mark, all I can think about is who won’t be there to see it.

It’s late by the time Billy and Laura leave. I walk out with them and wave them off, glad of the cold air to clear my wine-filled head. I wrap my arms around myself and stand on the pavement, looking back at the house. I think about Mark’s suggestion that we sell up and start afresh, and even though I know he’s right, the very thought of leaving Oak View hurts.

I glance next door. There are lights on downstairs and one on what I assume must be the middle landing. The pink planning notice Billy saw is fixed to the gate with plastic cable ties, tiny print explaining the process for lodging a complaint. I suppose there’ll be a consultation period, an address for people to write to, should they object to the plans.

I can’t help but feel there are more important fights to have than whether Robert Drake’s extension will block light to our kitchen. Unlike my parents, who seemed at times to thrive on confrontation, the idea of entering into a dispute with a neighbour fills me with dread. Perhaps it’s being an only child, with no sibling warfare to toughen me up, but the hint of an argument is more likely to push me to tears than fire me up for retaliation.

I’m just walking back to the house when there’s a loud crash, and the sound of breaking glass. The night air is disorientating; I can’t tell where it came from. As I open the front door I catch a glimpse of Mark, running upstairs. Seconds later he calls out. I run up the stairs.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’

There’s a gust of cold air in Ella’s nursery, and the open curtains blow into the room, the glass behind them shattered. I let out a cry.

Mark points at her cot. It’s covered in shards of glass that glint in the glow from the overhead light, and in the centre of the mattress is a brick. An elastic band holds a sheet of paper in place.

Gingerly, Mark picks up the brick.

‘Fingerprints!’ I remember.

He holds the paper by a single corner, and twists his head to read the typed message.

No police. Stop before you get hurt.





TWENTY-THREE


MURRAY


Anna Johnson looked tired. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and although she smiled politely when she opened the door, she had none of the determination Murray had seen in her the previous day. She showed him through to the kitchen, where Mark Hemmings was clearing the table from breakfast.

Murray found the dynamic interesting. Despite Anna’s obvious strength, when the couple were together she seemed to let Mark take charge. Murray wondered if this was by choice, or by design. Was it Mark who called the shots in this relationship? Had he really lied about not knowing Caroline Johnson?

‘I’m sorry – am I interrupting?’

‘Not at all. We’re a bit late getting going today, after last night.’

‘Last night?’ There were several wine glasses upturned on the draining board. Murray smiled, wanting to diffuse the tension he didn’t fully understand. ‘Ah – a good time had by all?’ He looked at Anna and then Mark, and his smile faded. Anna was glaring at him, her mouth open.

‘A good time? What the—’

Mark crossed the room and put an arm around Anna. ‘It’s okay.’ He addressed Murray. ‘Someone threw a brick through our daughter’s window, with a note wrapped around it. It could have killed her.’