When You Are Mine(115)

I’ve been meaning to give you this. Someone took it out of the Fiat when we were spray-painting. Hope you didn’t miss it.



Unzipping the bag, I sort through my karate gear and find the missing white trainers that Fairbairn had fixated upon. Their absence proved my guilt, he said, convinced that I destroyed the shoes after fleeing the murder scene. But I hadn’t lied to him. The bag was in my Fiat, until someone unwittingly took it out.

I add more clothes, and collect my other suitcase.

‘Where are you going?’ asks Constance as I carry the bags downstairs.

‘Home.’

*

Someone is in the house. I sense it as soon as I cross the threshold and stand motionless in the hallway. I smell food cooking. When I drop my keys onto the table, Henry pokes his head from the kitchen. He’s wearing a frilly apron and has a smudge of tomato sauce on his chin.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

‘I’m making my world-famous spaghetti bolognese.’

‘It’s not actually world famous.’

He gives me a hurt look.

‘There are seven bolognese sauces that are better than yours and that’s just in Italy,’ I say.

‘So, mine makes the top ten.’

‘In London, in Clapham, in Marney Road, definitely top ten.’

He wraps his arms around me in a bearlike hug that makes me feel safe and warm and loved, and as I press my pelvis against his, I get a sign that perhaps life can be mended, or remade.

He whispers into my hair. ‘I’m sorry for those things I said.’

‘Does that mean you still love me?’

‘Always.’

‘And you want to marry me?’

‘I would marry you in a car, in a bar, on a log with a frog, with a bear on the stairs, here or there or anywhere.’

‘Did you know that when Dr Seuss wrote The Cat in the Hat there was a specific list of only three hundred and forty-eight words that he could use?’

Henry laces his fingers into mine. ‘I did not know that.’

‘And when he wrote Green Eggs and Ham, he won a bet with his publisher that he couldn’t use fifty words or less.’

‘I love that book.’ He nuzzles my neck. ‘How do you know stuff like that?’

‘I’m a sponge.’

He leads me to the table, which is set out with Tupperware containers ready to freeze the bolognese into portions.

‘What about Archie?’ I ask.

‘Roxanne won’t ask for full custody. She likes having me around.’

‘To torture?’

‘Exactly.’

My stomach rumbles. ‘Can we have some now? I haven’t eaten since some time yesterday.’

Henry boils water for the spaghetti and takes a block of parmesan from the fridge, setting it on a plate next to a grater. While I’m waiting for the pasta to cook, I tell him about finding Tempe’s body and the police dropping the charges against me.

I still don’t feel relieved. Instead, I have a nagging sense of having escaped rather than been vindicated. Henry listens and asks questions, refusing to badmouth Tempe, or criticise the police. He’s happy and I’m grateful, but something between us is impenetrably sad and I know it won’t be repaired over a bowl of bolognese.

That night, there’s no mention of Tempe’s death on the TV news. Suicides are rarely publicised unless the victim is someone famous, or the death is unusual. ‘No suspicious circumstances’ is the euphemism we use. Nothing to see here. Look the other way. Move on.

‘We have to let everybody know about the wedding,’ says Henry. ‘Tell them it’s off.’

‘It doesn’t have to be off.’

‘We don’t have a venue.’

‘We’ll think of somewhere.’





66


Henry can’t find his black shoes. He has a pair of Oxford brogues with thick soles that he only wears to weddings and funerals. A man can’t get married in brown shoes. I’m sure there is some rule or superstition about that.

The cars are due to arrive any minute. I’m not getting dressed until we reach the house, but my hair and make-up have been done by two lovely women that Carmen used when she got married.

For the first few days after Tempe’s death my phone didn’t stop. People I hadn’t spoken to in weeks suddenly wanted to call me. Some commiserated about the suicide of a friend, while others celebrated the dropping of charges against me. Most were fishing for details. A few didn’t know what to say. I accepted their good wishes but spent most of my time alone or with Henry. His love is like liquid that has poured into my life, filling every crack and hollow and empty space.

‘Found them,’ he yells. He’s perched on a chair, searching boxes at the top of his wardrobe.

The doorbell chimes. I think it might be Tony, come to pick me up. He’s early. Instead, I find a Lycra-clad courier on the doorstep. I sign for a large square package wrapped in brown paper and bubble-wrap. A solicitor’s name and address are stamped on the back.

I tear it open and find a picture frame that contains one of Tempe’s portraits of me. Done in astonishing detail, it looks like a black-and-white photograph, which is so life-like and beautiful it takes my breath away. On the back she has written: