The Girls Who Disappeared(59)

Still, the phone rings and rings. I picture him sitting up watching football or some documentary on TV, his mobile on the arm of the sofa, seeing my name flashing up and ignoring it. But just when I think it will ring out or go to voicemail I hear his voice at the other end of the line, gruff, familiar, and my heart tugs.

‘Jenna? Is everything okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I just … I thought we should have a chat.’

‘What? Now?’

‘It’s been four months, Gav. I’ve given you your space but I need to know. I can’t keep on in this – this kind of limbo.’

‘Have you been drinking?’ I hear the touch of disapproval in his voice.

‘Only a few glasses. I’m working. I’m not on a jolly.’

There’s an awkward pause. Then he says, ‘We do need to chat. You’re right. Maybe when you get back we should talk. Are you back Friday?’

‘I hope so, yes.’

‘You hope so?’ He has that same irritability in his voice, like every word I utter annoys him. Now I think about it that’s the way he’s been with me for a while – months before he announced he needed a break.

I swallow. ‘Well, it’s a bit complicated, really. The story I’m covering has taken a bit of a turn. A man has been murdered.’

‘What?’

‘A local man. I don’t know if it’s linked but he was involved in the case I’m working on so it could be important. Anyway, Friday should still be fine. I’m just thinking out loud.’ I miss talking to him, about work, about our ambitions and dreams. He doesn’t even know much about the podcast, how big a deal it is for me to be allowed to do it, to go from writing press releases part-time to undertaking something like this, being taken seriously for probably the first time since I went on maternity leave back in 2008.

But then my job always did take a back seat to his. It was understandable, him being the bigger earner, but he never knew how small it made me feel at times, how unimportant. He never appreciated how much I had to juggle, and when I complained he’d throw in a comment like ‘Well, you wanted to go back to work.’ As if our son was my responsibility, not his, and that it was down to me and me alone to make a success of working and raising a child.

‘Right. Well, I hope you’re being careful,’ he says curtly, and I wonder how it got to this. How we’d got to this. What had happened to us, to the fun, young, free-and-easy couple we once were before resentment started to set in, the bickering about who did the most around the house, who was busier, more stressed, like it was a competition? Where were the couple who laughed at the same jokes, who snuggled in front of the TV to watch reruns of Frasier, who went to gigs together? Where was the man who used to love me so much that when I was pregnant he treated me like a princess and wouldn’t let me lift a finger, as if I was made of precious stone? Where had the warm, loving, kind, fun Gavin gone? The man talking to me now is like a stranger. Had the cracks started to show after we had Finn? Had I transferred all the love I’d bestowed on Gavin to my son instead? Had our love been slowly draining away, like a leaky tap, for the last ten years?

A tear seeps down my cheek and the heaviness on my chest intensifies so much that I can’t speak for a few seconds. I move the phone away from my ear and suppress a sob. I don’t want him to know I’m crying.

‘… can discuss all this when we see each other face to face,’ he’s saying, when I return the phone to my ear.

‘Yep,’ I say, trying to sound brisk.

‘And if you’re delayed on Friday I need to know. I’m …’ He sounds uncomfortable. ‘Well, I’ve made plans on Saturday.’ I think about the woman’s laugh I heard. But I can’t bring myself to ask him because I’m too scared of the answer.

‘Mum can look after Finn for the weekend if I’m stuck here, don’t worry, but I think I’ll be home on Friday.’

‘Right, well, Gloria’s done a lot for us.’

More than your own mother, I want to say, but don’t. The subject of his parents and the fact I’ve always felt they looked down on me has been a contentious issue over the years so I’ve avoided it. And the truth is, I don’t care if Sidney and Cassandra like me or not. I just wish they were better grandparents to Finn. As it is they spend all their time with Gavin’s sister, Marcie, and her three kids, only seeing Finn on special occasions and for the odd Sunday lunch at their big, pristine house where Finn and I feel too scared to touch anything. Saying that, though, I do like Marcie and her adorable children, and if we end up splitting I hope she’ll still want to be my friend.

‘Are you still there?’

Gavin’s been talking and I’ve zoned out. I blink, trying to gather my thoughts. ‘I’m still here,’ I say quietly.

He sighs. And then he says softly, ‘I’m sorry, Jen.’

‘For what?’

‘For all of this. For the disruption. For splitting our family up.’

The tears are back. The end of a marriage – because that is what it is, I can’t delude myself any more – feels like a death. ‘I’m sorry too.’

‘People change,’ he says. ‘I’ve changed.’

‘I know. Me too.’ And perhaps that’s the problem: we don’t much like the person the other has changed into.