What Lies Between Us(78)

I never work when she is here, even at weekends, and only take breaks for lunch. It means that by the end of each day, my legs and arms ache from spending it on all fours, crouching and chipping away at the wall with such a tiny object. I hope it’ll be worth it.

My lump has been aching more than ever lately, and I don’t know if it’s because I have pulled a muscle while working or if something more sinister is happening. I don’t want to admit it to myself but I think it’s likely to be the latter. Because in the bath this morning, I found a second lump, this time under my left armpit. I am trying to remain calm about it because panicking won’t do me any good. But its discovery has given me an added determination to continue with my plan.

My daughter has made her position perfectly clear. She would rather watch me die a drawn-out excruciating death shackled to this house than help me. She is crueller, more spiteful and vengeful than I have given her credit for. And it brings to my surface a resentment of her that I didn’t think it possible to possess. If I want to get out of here, I must do it myself.

Now, I stand back and look at what I’ve accomplished. I’ve cut away less than a square inch. It’s hardly up to the excavation standards of The Great Escape, but I’m not senile enough to think I’m going to burrow my way out of here. No, my goal is to clear enough of the soundproofing that when her friend next comes to the house, he can hear me shouting for help through the gap I’ve etched away. My life is in the hands of a stranger who doesn’t yet know I exist.





CHAPTER 67





NINA


My skin is already cold to the touch and the falling drizzle isn’t helping. It sticks to my cheeks and mats my hair. But I don’t look for shelter. Instead I remain where I am. I just need a few more minutes. Then I’ll be ready.

The house ahead is located at the end of a horseshoe-shaped gravel driveway. I count half a dozen cars parked bumper to bumper in front of the three-storey property. I’m assuming it was once a manor house and at some point in its history, it was broken up into three separate homes. They’re still an enviable size.

I pull the hood of my coat up over my head. I want to feel warm again, and the inside of that home looks so inviting from out here in the darkness. From inside those thick stone walls I can hear the faint sound of music playing. I look at my phone. It’s only just gone 8 p.m. and the party sounds as if it’s in full swing already.

It’s a sixtieth birthday celebration and there are banners in colourful lettering hanging from the double entrance doors. Occasionally someone passes the window wearing a paper hat or carrying a drink. Headlights illuminate the garden and I move to one side as a vehicle parks on the grass verge. Three people leave the car; two adults and a boy. I have a Sliding Doors moment and wonder, if things had been different, could they have been me, Jon and Dylan? To have had that life.

Once they’re a few feet ahead, I take a deep breath and follow them. My handbag hangs from my shoulder and I clutch a sparkly silver bag in the other. The scale of this party leaves me embarrassed by the bottle of supermarket Prosecco I’m bringing to it.

I can’t wait to go inside and see Dylan. ‘Dylan,’ I say aloud. I still enjoy how it sounds when it trips from my tongue. It warms me in the cold air. I’ve decided I’m not calling him Bobby any more, despite his requests. It’s not the name I gave him; it’s not the one on his birth certificate. I don’t care if he or the rest of the world refers to him by his nickname because the rest of the world didn’t give birth to him. And neither did the woman inside that house who calls herself his mother. I reserve the right to call him what I want because I am Dylan’s mum.

I’m convinced it’s her fault that I haven’t seen him in the last three weeks. Since our misunderstanding over dinner at my house, our catch-ups have ground to a sudden halt. His texts have also been less frequent. On the coach up here, I went through my phone and counted them. For every six I send, I receive one reply, and that’s often brief and without sentiment. I toyed with confronting him about it so that he’s aware of how much it’s upset me, but I decided against it. It physically hurts not to be around him more often. I don’t sleep well, I’ve stopped swimming and I’ve gone back to my unhealthy eating habits. Our separation is making me increasingly resentful of Maggie, too. That’s why I’m here tonight, to get things out in the open and put it all right. To get my son back for a second time.

I try and picture Dylan’s face when he sees I’m here at his family home. I really think he’ll appreciate the effort I’ve gone to. I haven’t been invited as such, and I’m not daft, I know that I’ll be the last person he’ll be expecting to see at his mum’s party. In fact it’s an occasion I only discovered by chance a few weeks before our falling out. He was standing in a long queue waiting to pay the cashier at a petrol station while I waited inside his car. I went through his phone, flicking through his emails like most parents do, when I discovered one he had sent to a male friend inviting him to the party. I took a picture of the message with my own phone.

It was only when I returned home and reread the email that I noticed it contrasted with how he texts and emails me. It was littered with emojis and signed off with two kisses. It was almost flirtatious. I googled the recipient’s name and found a handsome blond lad, Noah Bailey, on Instagram. There was a heaviness in my chest when I saw the number of photographs of him and Dylan together. They were clearly in a relationship and had even holidayed in Edinburgh, a trip that my son hadn’t seen fit to mention to me.