The Perfect Family Page 9

  “It’s fine. Really, Max. I don’t want any.” I just wanted him to stop drawing attention to me. If Max didn’t back off, Dom was going to blow a fuse. In my direction.

  “Shame,” Max said, picking up the cards and starting to shuffle them again.

  “What’s a shame is that I’m so busy I have to do business on a Saturday,” Dom said, “but I don’t suppose that occurs to anyone.” As I placed the French press on the table, he pushed the plunger down with force, coffee seeping through the lid and on to the white tablecloth. “Damn. Clumsy . . . Just mop it up, OK?” He flicked a glance up at me and I reached quickly for the kitchen sponge.

  “I thought you were looking for a new golf bag tomorrow. You didn’t mention a meeting,” I said quietly, dabbing at the steaming brown patch.

  “Didn’t I?” Dom didn’t bother to explain himself. He lifted his head to look over my shoulder towards the dresser. I knew he was looking for the whiskey bottle; I’d hidden it.

  “You missed a bit,” he said, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist, forcing it back to the table, grinding my hand into the hot patch.

  “So you’ll be out all day tomorrow,” Max said, his dark eyes still watching his brother.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. What is this, twenty questions?” Dom stood up and rooted irritably through the kitchen cupboards until he finally found the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, pouring himself a large tumbler of the golden liquid and knocking back half in one slug.

  His sigh of satisfaction drew a frown from Annabel, who had wandered in to get a glass of water. “OK if we stay up a bit later tonight, Mum? We want to finish this film.” Annabel’s wild hair tickled my face as she leaned close to my ear to whisper her request.

  “OK, love. As it’s not a school night. Just this once.” I rubbed my wrist, trying to ignore the pain where Dom had squeezed bones that were already bruised.

  “You always say that! And then you’ll say it again next Friday night, and then the next, and the next, and . . .” She curled into the crook of my arm like a kitten.

  “Well, aren’t you a lucky girl?” I said, winding a lock of her hair around my finger and tickling her freckled nose with it.

  “Not too late, though!” I said, as she drifted back towards the kitchen door, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

  “Yes, missy. It’s well past your bedtime already,” Dom cut in, pouring himself another whiskey. “I’ll come and tuck you in later,” he added, patting her backside as she passed his chair.

  “S’all right,” she told him, twirling away. “I don’t need tucking in. And you’ll be driving Uncle Max home, won’t you?”

  “No. I won’t,” Dom told her firmly. “He’s big enough and ugly enough to get the bus. Aren’t you, Max?”

  “Guess so. If it’s too much trouble to give your only brother a lift after I’ve looked after your kids all afternoon. Helped them with their homework. Taught them how to do long division and everything.”

  “I’m sure we’ve more than repaid you with dinners,” Dom said, looking pointedly at Max’s empty plate. “And no doubt you’ll be here again for Sunday lunch.”

  “Cheers. I’ll do that.”

  “It wasn’t an invitation.”

  “Aren’t Lucy and Jasper coming on Sunday?” Annabel said from the doorway.

  “You still there, princess? Not earwigging, are you?” Dom said. “Because if you are, you’ll have to answer to the Tickle Monster.” He reached across and pulled her on to his lap, tickling her ribs until her laughter turned to a coughing fit.

  Annabel resisted, sliding away and pulling awkwardly at her short purple nightie. Usually so happy to be the center of attention, I registered her self-consciousness as new. She was really growing up, I realized; it wouldn’t be long before pre-teen body awareness kicked in and cuddles were completely out of bounds.

  “Yeah, they are,” Aidan said, wandering in with his DS in one hand and an empty bowl in the other, his eyes scanning the worktop for more snacks. “Jasp said his mum’s taking him to Westfield tomorrow morning to buy new football boots because he did so well in his maths test.” He found a box of cereal and dug into it, bringing out a handful that he shared between his bowl and the kitchen floor.

  “That’s nice, love,” I said, turning away to do the washing-up so he couldn’t see the blush I could feel creeping up my neck, and the rush of tears filling my eyes. Could Lucy and Dom really be meeting up secretly behind my back? Jasper would be with them, so they could hardly be planning a quiet, intimate drink, but even so it hurt that I hadn’t been told, wasn’t invited.

  “Thanks for the steak, Maddie. It was top. I’ll see myself out,” Max said, breaking into the awkward silence.

  “No problem. Thanks. See you later.” I forced myself to turn around and smile.

  “And don’t worry about Sunday. I’ll stop by in the week. Bring that new game round for the kids. Catch you later for our poker rematch, hey, Bel?” Max added, squeezing past her in the doorway.

  “Give your uncle a kiss goodnight, then, Annabel. Come on. I’m sure the school teaches better manners than that for four grand a term,” Dom said with a heavy sigh, reaching again for the bottle in front of him.

  “Sorry. Night, Uncle Max,” Annabel said quietly.

  Max rested his big palm on the top of her head. “Night night, sweet dreams, sugar.”

  SIXTEEN

  I stare again at the phone next to my bed, as if it might yield more clues to Max’s whereabouts. I’m still none the wiser and can’t stop thinking of him and puzzling about his message, until it dawns on me that something’s missing from my bedside table.

  On the day the twins were born, once I’d been patched together and wheeled back on to the ward, the midwife reappeared with an even bigger smile and a Polaroid camera and took the first ever photo of me with the twins. It’s a snapshot that means more to me than my entire wedding album. I would not only run back into a burning house to save it, I’d crawl across the proverbial hot coals. I keep it next to me, always, at my bedside, displayed in a simple white wooden frame inscribed with the word “love.”

  And it’s not there.

  My eyes dart around the room, but something at the back of my brain pulls them back to the suitcase in front of me. Slowly, I rifle through the clothes, my hand pushing deeper, seeking out the compartment at the bottom of the case. My fingertips find the zip and I draw it back, then carefully I lift the flap, sliding my hand underneath, patting inside the soft fleecy space until I encounter something hard . . . wooden.

  My precious photo lies in my lap and I want to dive into the picture, scoop up my babies, be that woman again: dizzy with love for my new husband, our simple happy life, our brand-new family. But it’s gone. All of it. Gone forever. I trace my fingers over the slightly faded images of the twins, wishing I could bring them to life in my hands, wishing I had a pair of magic ballet shoes to transport me back to that moment, the best day of my life. I press the frame against the sob tightening my chest.

  Something pricks my skin. Something is poking out of the edge of the frame. I unhook the tiny latches, releasing the plywood back, opening it wider until an envelope slips out. I slip my thumb under the flap, hooking out the contents: train tickets.

  Destination: Brighton.

  Date of travel: the twins’ birthday.

  Date of return: open-ended.

  Passengers: One adult and two children.

  * * *

  I freeze for countless moments, my mind blank with confusion, and when I finally manage to focus again on the tickets in my hands I hear a shuffling noise. Footsteps. I hold my breath, my skin prickling and goosebumps chasing up the back of my neck.

  Someone is in the house.

  Hastily, I look around for somewhere to hide, and shock ripples through me as I see a pile of colorfully gift-wrapped presents piled up in the corner of the room. The living room.

  What am I doing back here?

  I must have blacked out again. My m
outh is dry; my eyes are foggy. Disoriented and still breathless with fear, I strain my eyes to look more closely at the mountain of gifts. I see a purple balloon taped to a ribbon around one of them, and it bobs back and forth, swaying in a breath of breeze. I hear wind chimes and the sweet, melodic high notes of a recorder, but I cannot pay any attention to them because I’m transfixed by the printed message on the balloon, gently nodding at me as if to say: That’s right, you read the words correctly.

  HAPPY 10TH BIRTHDAY!

  It doesn’t make any sense. Why hasn’t Dom cleared away the twins’ presents? They never got a chance to open them on the morning of their birthday, but surely they haven’t sat here all this time; I would have noticed. Or is it coming up to Aidan’s eleventh birthday and Dom hasn’t bothered to buy new balloons—has time slipped so unnoticed through my fingers that I’ve missed his special date? His birthday will forever fall on the anniversary of his sister’s death. My poor, darling boy.

  The balloon nods encouragingly at me. It’s purple: Annabel’s favorite color. This pile of gifts is not for my son. It is—

  Another noise: a creak on the stairs; a scraping, tapping sound at the front door. I can hear my heart thundering and look over my shoulder, waiting for the door to swing open and for him to sweep into the room. I’m suddenly convinced that whoever killed my daughter has come back for me; that he’s playing mind games with me.

  In the next heartbeat I tell myself it’s not logical: no one murders a child and then gets to wander the streets of suburbia at will. I try to tell myself not to be so paranoid. I’m not in any danger; there isn’t a killer in my home. I’ll just walk calmly around the house and prove to myself that no one is stalking me; it’s just another symptom of post-traumatic stress. It’s Monday morning, Aidan is at school, Dom is at work, the house is empty. It’s just me here alone with my nightmares.

  But who put the twins’ birthday presents back in the living room? I glance at them one last time as I creep across the room, creaking the door ajar. I peer out into the hallway, squinting against the bright sunlight pouring through the glass front door. My heart seems to slow down and then rapidly speed up as I remember the bulky silhouette blotting out the summer’s day. Swiftly, I turn my head and stumble up the stairs, no longer trying to be stealthy, just desperate to get away from that front door: the window into hell.

  My feet seem to know where they’re heading and within moments I’m sitting on Annabel’s bed. My brain obviously draws a direct line between the possibility of an intruder and my daughter; any sense of threat pulls me to her like a magnet. Or, at least, to where her presence still lingers.

  I sink down on her bed, listening for noises in the house. Below the silent stillness there is a low hum. I frown, unable to identify it. I wait to see if it stops but a faint electrical thrum still hovers in the air. There’s nothing threatening about the soft, resonant drone. Houses make all kinds of strange noises, I reflect. No one has come to get me; no one is lying in wait to hurt me. There is no need to check cupboards, or behind the curtains, or under the bed . . .

  But I do anyway, and instead of a bogeyman or a gun-toting monster, I find something almost as terrifying: Annabel’s diary.

  I sit holding the hardback book, its cover a glossy photograph of dewy white roses, for long moments. I sit with the knowledge that my daughter shared her innermost thoughts within these pages—her hopes, worries and fears . . . and no doubt all the stuff and nonsense that most nine-year-olds spend hours picking over.

  I bought this diary for Annabel because it had a pretty cover and she always loved to write, but I never gave it another thought. I certainly never went looking for it, and something makes me hesitate now. Do I really want to see inside the mind of my dead daughter, when there will never be a chance to ask her about anything I may read within these pages?

  I realize I’m scared of finding out that I didn’t know her as well as I thought—or perhaps that she knew me too well, and saw into my own heart far too clearly. Painfully, I acknowledge that my clever, intuitive daughter may have sensed that cracks were appearing between her father and me. It would hurt me so badly now to know that she worried about it. I’m sure I never told Annabel or Aidan in so many words that I was unhappy, as I’m beginning to realize I was, even before domestic unhappiness was blown out of the water by the complete and utter destruction of my world. Death trumps divorce, always.

  Was that what was going on? Is that what those three open-ended train tickets mean? That I was leaving Dom and taking the children with me—on their birthday? The date seems so significant. Why on their birthday? Or was it just that I could only manage to hold on for one more day, until they’d enjoyed their special moment—blown out their candles before I snuffed out their happiness and took them away from their friends, their home, their father . . . ?

  But why Brighton? Do I even know anyone there?

  I remember Annabel’s sparkling eyes as she leaned over the end of the pier, and I remember the appointment I was trying to keep. I sense the shadow of someone, am aware that there was a person I was planning—or hoping—to meet during the May half-term break. But I have no recollection of any name; I can’t picture anyone’s face. My mind draws a complete blank. Perhaps there was no connection; maybe I wasn’t meeting anyone that day and Brighton was simply somewhere new, unknown. Perhaps that was the point. Maybe that’s exactly what I wanted: to run away and make a fresh start, somewhere no one would think to look for me; somewhere we would never be found.

  A place of safety.

  The thought echoes in my brain. Safe from Dom—yes, I can see that now. I was scared of him; perhaps the kids were, too. Maybe that’s what tipped me over the edge—seeing my children look at their father with wide, frightened eyes, hiding under the piano, waiting for the axe to fall . . .

  I wouldn’t have told them; I know that. I would have hidden those tickets in the suitcase, tucked inside the photo I would never have left behind. I would have tried to protect them from the truth, not because I worried they might betray my secret to Dom, but because that’s what mothers do: they keep secrets from their children when those secrets can destroy their entire world. I’m sure Jasper has no idea that his mum is secretly in love with her best friend’s husband. Because she is, isn’t she? And her son has no idea that his happiness is teetering on the brink—that his mother could pull the rug out from beneath his safe, happy world at any time.

  Somehow I know this—and I know that’s what I was about to do. And I suspect Annabel may have guessed my secrets. She was the smartest girl I’ve ever known, while Aidan was the most empathic, most intuitive. Did they both know? And did that knowledge break my daughter’s heart? That I was going to take her away from Dom, her beloved daddy. Daddy’s princess . . .

  There is only one way to find out. I open the diary and turn to a random page, somewhere near this summer.

  Matthew Jones is an idiot. He thinks he’s cool, but he’s so not! Why does he keep picking on me? What have I done to him? Just because I told him to stop teasing Aid about his hair.

  I smile and relief shudders through me. I hadn’t realized how nervous I was. My fingers are still trembling but this isn’t as bad as I thought. I keep turning the pages, smiling as my eyes catch phrases here and there. Then a lump forms like a rock in my throat.

  Mum wore lipstick and perfume today. She smelled

  like angels. I love her round the stars and over Mars.

  If she was reading this she’d say she loves me more.

  But she can’t. I love her best of anything that exists

  in the world, the universe, space and heaven.

  It takes long moments for any joy to surface through the gut-clenching guilt and heartache. I remember wondering if I chose her because I thought she didn’t need me—or if I loved her less than Aidan. How could I have been so blind, so stupid? I adored her; I know I did. Yes, she was often challenging and we had our differences. I was angry with her sometimes—ther
e were days when, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve hated being a parent—but I simply can’t believe there was hate in my heart on the morning of the twins’ tenth birthday.

  Her words tear my heart to shreds. I want to bury myself in them and weep. My darling girl. I wish you were here now to tell me not to cry, not to be so soft. I keep turning pages, barely taking in the words, doodles and cartoon drawings of her teachers and a couple of her friends’ dads, until another entry catches my eye. I want to hide in Annabel’s bed, my face under her pillow, and never come out as I read:

  Mum hasn’t smiled for a week.

  Aid hasn’t laughed for a month.

  I may never stop crying for ever.

  What was going on that day? I check the date again: it means nothing and I haven’t the heart to read any more entries. I start to push the diary away from me when three words draw my attention: his disgusting touch.

  It’s out of sync with the otherwise light and girlish narrative, and I flatten the pages, skim back to the beginning of the page, and start reading again.

  I wish he’d stop looking at me. His eyes follow me

  round the room like the posters on my bedroom wall.

  Is this Matthew Jones again, I wonder, being a pest at school? I continue reading, heart thumping. That boy . . . why did no one ever sort him out?

  Making creepy eyes is one thing. But now he wants me to do things. I keep saying no to his disgusting touch. How can he do this to me? He’s a grown-up!!

  What the . . . ?

  He’s getting cross with me for telling him no. I know he’s not going to give up. He’s going to keep coming after me until he gets what he wants. And if he doesn’t . . .

  SEVENTEEN

  I know that it’s a physical impossibility to suffocate with nothing over my face, but the sensation is exactly how I’d imagine it. I gasp—no, I bite at the air, gulping it in and swallowing fat pockets into my lungs to stop myself from blacking out.