Then She Vanishes(10)
We hadn’t planned on moving to Bristol, so close to where I grew up. But when Rory’s sister, Aoife, was offered a promotion at a pharmaceutical company in Amsterdam, she said we could live here and pay enough rent to cover her mortgage, which is next to nothing as she bought the flat twelve years ago. Her idea was a Godsend and benefited both of us. A place to run away to. Away from London, the Tribune and all that went wrong there. We’ve lived here for nearly a year now but the flat still doesn’t feel like home. Everywhere you look there are signs of Aoife and her life: photos of her and her friends on the white walls, the French-style bed that she bought from an expensive boutique, the charcoal linen L-shaped sofa that I’m terrified of messing up. Home is Rory’s flat in Streatham where I spent most nights towards the end, desperate to get away from my annoying housemates. Despite my reservations I’m grateful to Aoife. I had to take a pay cut going from national to local news so the cheap rent has helped us financially, especially as Rory is supply-teaching while looking for a full-time job. Rory gave up a lot for me, and when we decided to leave London for good he’d shyly asked if I’d like to move in with him, properly.
As soon as he spots me, he leaves the kitchen area to grab the remote control and turn off the TV. He knows I hate football.
‘Don’t do that because of me,’ I say, going over to him and planting a quick kiss on his lips.
He laughs. ‘You know I only watch it so my brothers don’t beat me to a pulp.’
‘Well, you do need to sound like you know what they’re talking about,’ I reply, mock-serious.
‘You’re right there. It’s research.’
It’s our in-joke. Rory pretends he needs to learn how to be an alpha male, like his brothers, when really we both know he loves football.
He chuckles to himself as he returns to his cooking and I dart into the bedroom on the pretence of drying my wet hair. But really I want to look out of our bedroom window. From here I have views of the street I’ve just walked down and I pull back the roller blind to get a better look. A young couple are weaving across the cobbles, laughing too loudly, arm in arm and obviously holding each other up. Across the road from us, a derelict building is going through the planning process: it’ll be converted into apartments. Is that a figure I see loitering in the doorway? I press my face to the glass but, no, it’s just a trick of the light. There’s nothing to be afraid of.
I comb through my damp hair, then go and find Rory in the kitchen, happy now I know there’s no threat, just my imagination running away with me. ‘Thanks for making dinner,’ I say to him. I don’t need to add again. He’s always the one cooking. He says he enjoys it and finds it relaxing, even though it looks like a bomb has hit the kitchen after he’s finished with it. I survey it now: a dirty spoon left on the black granite worktop, dishes and cups filling the sink. He usually leaves all the clearing up to me. I don’t mind – I’d rather stack the dishwasher than cook any day. Jack jokes that if I married Rory the cooking would soon stop, that it’s his way of lulling me into a false sense of security. But I don’t believe him. Rory’s too honest.
He brushes back my hair so that he’s looking at me. Really looking. He has these brilliant blue eyes and when he stares into mine I almost squirm because it’s as though he can read my mind, as though he knows every evil thought I’ve ever had, or the horrible dark things I’ve done, like the real reason we had to leave London last year. Or the guilt I carry about what I did that summer of 1994.
‘What’s going on, Jessie?’ he says now. He’s the only one who’s allowed to call me that. The way he pronounces it in his sexy Irish accent gives me a little thrill. ‘Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?’
I move away from him to pick up a spatula and dump it in the sink. He’s still studying me when I turn around. ‘It’s just work.’
‘I thought it would be better now. Local news. Twice-weekly deadlines instead of daily, you know?’
‘It is better. Or, rather, it was …’
He frowns. ‘But?’
Something sizzles and hisses. ‘Shit, it’s the food,’ says Rory, darting to the hob and turning the heat down. His dark hair flops in front of his face as he picks up the wooden spoon and stirs the mince. I hop up onto the counter to watch him. He turned thirty-five last month but there is no sign of ageing, no softening of his chiselled jaw, or extra fat on his lean frame. He still looks boyish.
He pours in his legendary homemade sauce that his mother taught him how to make. He once told me that growing up as a geeky, skinny kid in the countryside of County Cork he preferred learning to cook with his mum to climbing trees like his brothers. Aoife, the only girl, preferred the tree-climbing, so it was only Rory, out of all of Rowena’s children, who learned any culinary skills.
‘So,’ says Rory, once the mince is back under control. ‘What happened today? I thought you liked working for Ted.’ He gently moves my legs aside so he can get to the cupboard for a pan.
I jump off the counter and switch on the kettle. ‘I had to go to Tilby. To doorstep the mother of a woman who killed two people.’
‘Oh, yeah, I heard about that on the news. Pretty shocking. Especially for Tilby.’ He pours spaghetti into a saucepan of cold water.
‘Well, it turns out that I went to school with the killer.’