The Girl I Used to Be(56)

She gave a little smile. “Oh, that’s okay. I like a lot of space.”

“But living here on your own,” I said. “It’s a lovely apartment, but it’s more suitable for a couple, isn’t it?”

The difference in her was minimal, but I saw it. She stayed still, looking out of the window, and it was only because I was so fired up that I could see that her hands, which were touching the windowsill, now gripped it.

I took one step closer to her and watched as the tiny blond hairs on her arms prickled to attention.

“I know,” I said.

She jumped then and turned. “Know what?” Her voice was brave and strong; there was no sign of the nerves that had hit her earlier. She moved away from the window and gathered up the clipboard and laser measure that we’d brought with us, holding them against her chest.

I moved closer to her. “How long have you known him for?”

“Who?” Her voice was uncertain then, and she swallowed hard after she spoke.

“You know who.”

She said nothing. I could hear her breathing, short, shallow breaths that made her face pink and damp.

“David Sanderson.”

She looked at me, her face defiant. Cool, almost. “I don’t know anyone called David Sanderson.”

She was probably telling the truth. I’d realized a while ago that that it was unlikely he’d used his real name.

“I think you do. I don’t know what he’s really called, but I know you know him.”

She stayed very still and so did I, both so aware of each other, aware of every move. I wasn’t going to be the one who broke that silence.

She caved. “How do you know?”

“I saw him going into your apartment.” The tension hit me and I gave a huge sigh. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? We manage that property. The chances of my discovering that you knew him were always high.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I waited. It had worked before and I knew it would work again.

“It’s my business who I live with.”

My stomach lurched. So he was living there. Ever since I’d seen him, I’d tried to persuade myself that maybe it was all innocent, that she’d only just met him and had lent him her key for some reason. Even now, I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“I’m really worried for you, Rachel.”

She looked scornful. “Why?”

“I don’t think you realize what you’re involved with. Your boyfriend . . .”

She cut in. “He’s not my boyfriend.” She looked at me straight in the face then, and it was clear he gave her courage. “He’s my husband. We’re married.”





FORTY-ONE


    RACHEL


Last year

I’VE KNOWN DAVID for years; he was one of my brother’s oldest friends, but I hadn’t been expecting him to turn up at my mum’s funeral.

It was held in late October on such a gray, bleak day. My mother had distanced herself from so many of her friends over the years, and I hadn’t had the nerve to get in touch with them at the end. When I say distanced herself, I really mean she’d phoned them up and screamed at them in the middle of the night, so I was reluctant to call them then.

The end of her life dragged out for over a year. A year when I wasn’t able to work, wasn’t able to do anything except look after her. Not that she was grateful, mind. I’d take her to hospital appointments where I’d hear mums talking about their daughters. “I couldn’t have asked for a better daughter,” they’d say. “She’s been such a comfort to me.” I would sit stone-faced when they’d talk like that. My mother had enough sense of propriety to pay lip service at times, though. Once I’d heard her saying she wouldn’t have been able to cope without me. I was amazed, both by the sentiment and the idea that she was coping.

So her funeral was poorly attended. My dad wasn’t there; that would have been one way to get my mother back from the grave. There was just me and a couple of neighbors who’d seen the ambulance come to the house and who’d called round later, when they saw I was home. She’d died in the ambulance, exerting her will right to the end. She’d been determined not to go into a hospital or hospice, but to die at home. When I’d found her unconscious one morning I called for emergency help, thinking she’d be furious when she came to, but that didn’t happen. Ten minutes into the journey to Arrowe Park, she gave up the fight altogether.

I sat in the front row of the chapel at the crematorium, and our neighbors came to sit with me. An elderly cousin of my mum’s turned up; she gave me a sympathetic look and touched my arm, but she hadn’t been there when I needed her, so I was polite, but that was it.

The short service had just started when I heard the door to the chapel open. I wasn’t expecting anyone else, but then, I didn’t know what to expect. The only other funeral I’d been to had been quiet, too. I was torn between looking at the minister and turning around to see who was there. The latter instinct won.

David stood in the doorway. I knew him instantly, though I hadn’t seen him for more than ten years. He was taller than I remembered and broader now, his hair still black and wavy. He turned to close the door, then walked up the aisle toward me. For a moment I felt dizzy, as though my brother was there beside him, just as he always was.