Her One Mistake(20)

Jack had looked at me with a dolefully blank expression. I knew I couldn’t expect my son to consider other children. Jack has a heart of gold, but he’s the last kid you give responsibility to.

“Molly.” I’d turned on my daughter. “She was running after you. Why didn’t you help her on? What did you do, literally race on after Jack and forget she was even there?” I knew I shouldn’t’ve transferred my guilt onto them, but still the words spilled out of my mouth.

Molly’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Mummy,” she’d cried.

I pulled her to me and said that no, I was sorry. This was not her fault. “I’m not saying you did anything wrong,” I’d told her, though of course I had implied it.

There was only one person whose fault this was. Who had lost themselves in texts and Facebook and maybe looked up occasionally but never enough to spot Alice. I knew deep down I hadn’t seen her tumble down the slide. It was only ever my two I’d spotted from the shade of the tent. Which meant, as Officer Fielding said, she most likely had never gotten on in the first place.

? ? ?

AS SOON AS Tom arrived, I kissed the children goodnight and told them I’d see them in the morning. Then I tried leaving the house before we could get into a conversation, but he stopped me before I got to the front door.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I shook my head, pressing my fingernails into my palms so I didn’t start crying. “Of course not, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It was the lead story on the news.” Tom rubbed his hands together uneasily. “To be expected, I suppose.”

“Yes, well, it would be. Something like this—” I stopped. “I really just need to go, Tom.”

He nodded, and I knew there was something else he wanted to tell me but I opened the front door, not wanting to give him the chance. “I just saw Chris Lawson as I was coming up the drive,” he said. “He told me they’d called off their party tonight.”

“I really couldn’t care less if they have or not.”

“No, I know, I’m just saying. They’re still your friends and neighbors. They want to support you.” I stepped out and onto the front lawn and he followed.

“Where are you going with this, Tom?”

“I just—” Tom paused and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in tufts. “Chris mentioned some things have been said on the internet. I don’t want you suddenly coming across them.”

“What kind of things?”

“Stupid people with nothing better to do, that’s all. Not your friends. Not anyone who knows you, Char.”

“What kind of things?” I asked again, feeling my throat burn with dread.

“Just . . .” He sighed ruefully. “What were you doing when she went missing? How come our kids are okay?”

I stepped back as if he’d slapped me.

“Oh, Charlotte,” he said, reaching out and taking hold of my arms.

“I can’t do this now,” I cried, jerking myself out of his grasp.

“I’m sorry.” Tom gaped at me remorsefully. “I should never have said anything.”

“Well it’s too late now, isn’t it?” I snapped, and ran to the car before he could utter another word.

? ? ?

I’D RARELY BEEN to Harriet’s house because she always preferred coming to mine. She’d often sit at my kitchen island and run her hands gently across its oak surface as if it were made of the most precious wood.

“Harriet, you don’t need to worry,” I’d said once, laughing as she carefully placed her coffee mug down, checking for rings under it when I hadn’t given her a coaster.

“Habit,” she’d murmured, smiling sheepishly.

“Well, I’m not worried about stains,” I’d told her. “The kids make plenty of those.” But still she would swipe her hand across the surface and tell me everything she loved about my home, while inside I was begging her to stop.

In contrast, Harriet’s house was small and unbearably dark. The first time I visited she had apologized for its lack of light, leading me quickly to the kitchen at the back.

“Don’t be silly, it’s lovely,” I’d told her. “I can’t believe you painted all this yourself.”

“Well, there isn’t much to paint, really. It’s not very big,” she had said. “Not like your beautiful home.”

The next time Harriet was at mine I found myself pointing out the chipped skirting board, the table that needed fixing, and the crack that ran along the length of the living room ceiling.

I made things up, too. Little harmless stories to show the perfect life she thought I had wasn’t really that perfect. I complained that Tom was always working too hard and I never saw him, how I hated my job some days and wished I could leave. I told her she was so lucky to be married to Brian, who was always home by 5:30 p.m. so they could have tea as a family.

I wasn’t lying when I told her dinner wasn’t an enjoyable experience in our house. None of the children liked the same food and most nights I ended up giving them fish fingers or pizza because they were the only meals none of them complained about. But I omitted that Tom only added to the suffering at mealtimes, so it was easier for me to endure them alone. I didn’t say that the idea of him walking in the door at five thirty every night without fail would actually be my idea of hell.