The Love of My Life(32)

Ruby stops to investigate a bright drift of gutweed. She pokes her toe at the green slime, bristling with disgust and pleasure. ‘Is this seaweed?’ she asks, even though she knows.

‘It is,’ I confirm. ‘Ulva intestinalis. Which means gutweed. Weed that lives in the tummy of people called Ruby.’

Ruby snatches her toe away, squealing.

I watch her jump across to a spray of tiny black pebbles, dragging my sleeve across my eyes before she notices my tears. I don’t want this, I think, furiously. I don’t want to be thrown back and forth between two lives. I want to be normal. Like the family we passed in the car park, unloading spades and windbreaks from their campervan.

But Leo is at work in London, trying to believe I am having an innocent beach holiday with Ruby. And I am soon to welcome Jeremy Rothschild into a house in which my daughter sleeps.

Tiny wavelets are defeated by the rising shore. Out on the sandbar, a group of Arctic tern screech and lift off into the briny air.





Chapter Eighteen


EMMA


Jeremy knocks a little after 8.30, by which time Ruby is in a deep sleep. He stands on the cobbles outside, surrounded by tubs of geraniums, looking intently at my face.

Desperation loops and coils inside me as I move aside to let him in. His jacket brushes my arm as he passes, and I flatten myself against the wall to stop it happening again.

I’ve planned a speech, but I can’t remember a single word.

‘Through here?’ he asks, pleasantly enough. I nod, trying not to attach meaning to his tone. He’s been very clear in his messages: he has something he needs to discuss with me, something Janice-related. I cannot allow myself to hope for more.

The Rothschilds have a house on the main street. It’s one of the bigger ones, with an arch through which horse-drawn carriages once passed. They call it ‘the cottage’, which has always made me laugh.

‘Please do take a seat,’ I say. Jeremy is too big for this rental sitting room, with its low ceilings and tiny wingback armchairs. But he’s always been too big for every space we’ve shared, I think, watching him settle. Too big, too smart, too well-resourced: I stand no better chance trying to win him over than the politicians he takes down every morning.

Just before he arrived I put a teapot in the sitting room to avoid an awkward wait by the kettle. My father taught me that. ‘If it’s going to be difficult, prepare the backside off it,’ he used to say. He thought the line was funny. I was never sure about Dad’s sense of humour, but the men in his commando units found him hilarious.‘Best Padre in the business,’ one of them said to me. ‘Always there for us. Total legend.’ I’d smiled, as if pleased, but I ached for the closeness these men had with my father.

‘How have you been?’ I ask. I pour him a cup of tea.

When I look up, his eyes have filled with tears. He seems unable to speak. He gestures with his hands, a sort of apology, and I put the teapot down and hand him a tissue. He tries to take a deep breath but an ugly sound comes out of his throat, and then he covers his face with his hands.

He sits in front of me and sobs. My fitness band tells me my pulse is at a near-death 178 bpm.

‘Forgive me,’ he says, eventually. ‘Forgive me.’

I go over to crouch down in front of him. ‘Oh, Jeremy.’ I give him more tissues. ‘I’ve been so worried about you all. I can’t imagine how terrifying this must be.’

He says nothing, but the tears continue to fall.

‘What’s happened?’ I ask, gently. ‘Why has she left?’

Eventually, he blots at his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I knew the answer to that question,’ he says. ‘But I appreciate that you’ve been worrying too.’

‘Of course I have.’

He straightens up, smiling briefly at me, and I go back to my side of the coffee table. It’s not comfortable being this close to him.

‘She had been very anxious,’ he admits, eventually. ‘It had been getting worse since Charlie left for university last autumn. But I’m not convinced anxiety’s the reason.’

I wait for him to carry on.

‘Are you sure you’ve not been in touch with her?’ he asks.

‘Jeremy, we’ve been over this. I’d have everything to lose, calling your wife. Why are you still asking?’

He sighs. ‘I’m asking because she’s written to you.’

I stare at him. ‘Who? Janice?’

He nods.

‘So – so she’s alive?’

‘Yes. Or at least she was three days ago. She sent us a letter.’

‘Jeremy! I – oh, wow! Thank God!’

He nods, slowly. ‘It’s definitely from her, but she doesn’t sound good. Oddly conversational. But detached, you know? As if she’d taken too much medication.’

‘What did she say?’

He pauses. I’m surprised he’s told me even this much. He’s always kept Janice well out of my reach: the times we met after my cancer diagnosis four years ago, he wouldn’t even use her name.

‘She said she’s alive. Apologised for disappearing. Said she needs to be alone at the moment.’

I wait.

‘It was a relief, of course. A huge relief. But it’s very worrying. To just walk out on her life, then wait two weeks before writing to us – and even then, to sound like she’s just updating some distant relatives . . . That’s not her. She can’t be well.’