When You Are Mine(112)

He placed Moby in her own small round bowl.

‘That was our fault,’ he said. ‘You can choose some new fish.’

‘What’s going to happen to her?’ I asked.

‘She’ll be staying by herself.’

‘Won’t she get lonely?’

‘She’s happier that way.’

Henry called Tempe a cuckoo, but I think she’s more like that Siamese fighting fish, who has forced every other fish out of the tank except me. She sought me out. She manipulated me. And now, she thinks we are tethered by a secret, bonded by spilled blood, friends for life.

I am curled up on my bed, clutching a ragdoll called Hermione that I haven’t played with since I was a child. I found it on a shelf in a small unused bedroom, along with a pile of books from my childhood: Matilda. The Secret Garden. The Hobbit. I thought my mother was the keeper of my childhood mementos, but she must have surrendered these, or Daddy took them without her knowledge.

Hermione is made of wool with beige limbs and a knobbly bald head and crosses for eyes. She has such a blank expression that I envy her ambivalence as I wallow drunkenly on the sheets, and the room spins each time I close my eyes. I am grimy and sweat-stained and used up and angry, but I shall strike another match tomorrow and hope it lights a new day.





64


Summer has come to pound on my eyelids because I was too drunk to close the curtains. Fumbling in a bedside drawer, I search for paracetamol, every movement a fresh assault. Pills swallowed, I cover my head with the duvet, wanting the sun to go away and the seagulls to stop fighting.

Time passes. I crawl out of bed and shower, leaning against the tiles, letting the water wash over me, wishing it could take away more than dirt. I have lost Henry. I have lost my career. I have been charged with murder. I am clinging to the wreckage.

Making my way downstairs, I find Constance mopping the parquetry floor of the library. She’s wearing tailored slacks and a fitted cotton blouse.

‘What happened?’

‘A spillage.’

‘It was probably me,’ I say. ‘I’ll clean it up.’

‘I’m here now.’ She dips the mop into the bucket and squeezes out the excess water.

‘Don’t you have Molly to do that?’ I ask.

‘I can mop a floor.’ She pushes the bucket with her foot. ‘I know you all call me the duchess behind my back, but whatever money my family once had was gambled away before I was born.’

‘Where’s Daddy?’

‘I thought you might know.’

‘Me?’

‘He left late last night after you went to bed. He asked Tony to bring the car and they drove off.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘I guess. He left his phone behind, which is strange.’

Water sloshes over her sandal.

‘Bugger,’ she says quietly. ‘He’s not been himself lately. I blamed his heart, but I think he’s worried about you.’

Her statement barely registers. My mind is putting together the pieces of last night. Snippets of conversation. Words exchanged. It’s like watching fragments of a montage shift and reform to create a new picture. He asked me if Tempe had killed Darren Goodall. I didn’t say yes. I nodded. God help her.

I’m moving, searching for my mobile. I must have left it in the library last night. I find it on the drinks cabinet. I have a dozen text messages. Only one from Tempe.

I didn’t mean to hurt you, but everything I did was out of love. I hope I can make things right. Remember me. Goodbye.



I try to call her, but it goes straight to her voicemail.

‘Where are you going?’ asks Constance as I dash up the stairs.

I search for my car keys and then realise that I don’t have any. My Fiat is at the garage and the police have impounded the VW. Moments later, I’m running across the lawn towards the old stable block where large sliding doors secure the garage. The Range Rover is missing. There are three other cars parked side by side, all expensive and beautifully maintained.

Tony has a small tea-room in one corner of the stables, behind a wall of tools. The car keys are hanging on a corkboard above the desk. I choose the Alfa Romeo, which must belong to Constance because the driver’s seat is pushed forward and I can smell her perfume.

The engine rumbles rather than purrs, but I give it no time to warm up. Swinging out of the garage, I accelerate down the gravel drive, pausing as the electronic gates open. Minutes later, I’m heading north along Hawley Road towards Dartford, overtaking where possible. The smell of late summer fills the car and strands of mist are handing over the river like wisps of smoke. A single sculler is moving across the water, creating ripples that widen in his wake.

My phone is on my lap. I try Tempe again but hear the same pre-recorded greeting. I leave her a message: It’s me. If you can hear me, pick up the phone. I pause, hoping to hear her voice. I try again, demanding she answer. Pick up the fucking phone, Tempe. Answer me.

I keep trying her as I drive east along the A2, through Bexleyheath and Eltham and Forest Hill and Dulwich Park. Twenty miles. Fifty minutes. It feels longer. Outside her ugly red-brick block, I double-park and run up the steps, pushing my thumb on the intercom. Tempe doesn’t answer. I press all of the buzzers, hoping someone will let me inside. The door unlocks. I push it open. I’m halfway up the stairs when a woman screams. It’s not coming from Tempe’s flat, but lower down. The basement has a communal laundry and a utilities room. I follow the sound, letting gravity carry me down the stairs.