I remember my resolution to focus only on the future . . . only on finding Beth . . . but the overwhelming feeling in my heart right now is betrayal. How can Art have done any of this?
There’s a creak on the floor in front of me. I look up. Lorcan has squatted in front of me. He holds my gaze.
‘We will find Beth,’ he says.
We look at each other for a long moment.
‘I want to go to the hotel,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I want to find out what Art does there . . . see if it’s connected to Beth—’ My voice cracks.
Lorcan checks his watch. ‘Okay, we’ll set off in the morning. It’s too late now – we can’t arrive in the middle of the night.’
I nod, then look along the corridor to where Bernard is coming back from the bathroom.
‘I want to go via my house in the morning.’ I lower my voice. ‘After Art’s gone to work.’
‘Why?’
Bernard walks into the living room.
‘I’d like to give you something for trying to help me,’ I say. ‘I know it was on Lucy’s mind, about your two kids still at home and . . .’ I stammer to a halt, not wanting to embarrass him.
Lorcan tilts his head slightly to one side. I can’t tell if he thinks I’m mad to be offering Bernard money. Bernard himself tugs self-consciously at his shirt collar.
‘I . . . er, that is Lucy and I . . .’ He tails off.
Lorcan gets up and slaps Bernard on the back. ‘It’s late. Why don’t you stay here tonight?’
Bernard shakes his head. ‘No, I’ll get back to my hotel . . . I’ll come over again in the morning.’
Lorcan follows him down to the front door to see him out. I switch on my phone. It’s crammed full of voice messages and texts. Most are from Art but there are also several from Hen and even one each from Sue and my mum, whose message begins: What on earth are you—
I don’t open the rest of her text – or any of the others. I can only imagine that Art and Hen must have contacted Sue and Mum – and I have neither the energy nor the desire to deal with their concern right now. I switch off the mobile, then lean back on the sofa. I close my eyes. The image from the CCTV footage of Art holding the baby . . . our baby . . . drifts in front of my mind’s eye.
Exhaustion creeps like a thief through my bones.
In my dream I’m running. Images jumble inside my mind, one after the other, fast. Beth is ahead of me, unseeing. She’s eight, with her dark hair in long plaits that fly out behind her as she runs. Then my dad scoops her up and she’s much younger, only two or three and he holds her up, high in the air, and she squeals with delight. My dad lowers her and swings her round. Mum is standing on the sidelines, calling out for him to put her down. I’m running towards them but I get no closer. Then all three of them turn to face me. Dad’s dark eyes are angry. Have I made him angry? Mum is shouting, ‘Grow up, you’re pathetic.’ Beth starts crying. She’s eight again, her mouth trembling with grief. I have to reach her, have to hold her. But the closer I get, the further away she is. She waves at me, helpless. Tears leak down her face. I’m reaching out for her, crying her name. Then she is gone and I’m alone in our living room with Dad. He’s looking at the picture I have of him as a boy. ‘Where did you get this, Geniver?’ he demands, his dark eyes still angry. ‘Why isn’t Beth here? What have you done with her?’
I wake to sunshine streaming in through a gap in the living-room curtains. There’s a crick in my neck but I’m warm and lying on the sofa where I must have fallen asleep. Someone – Lorcan presumably – has removed my shoes, lain me down and covered me with a blanket. His jacket hangs on the side of the sofa. I catch its scent. It smells of him – of wood shavings and lemongrass.
The house is silent for a moment, then I hear water running in the shower. I sit up, massaging my neck as the water is switched off.
Lorcan appears, hair dripping, a towel round his waist. My eyes are drawn to his broad chest matted with damp hair, to the curve of the muscles on his arms. Then I realize I’m staring and abruptly look away.
‘Bernard’s on his way,’ Lorcan says. ‘Cup of tea?’
I nod and Lorcan disappears, into the kitchen. I pad down to the bathroom, splashing water on my face and rubbing some toothpaste over my teeth with my finger.
When I come back to the kitchen a steaming mug of tea and a plate of toast are waiting for me. I eat hungrily. Lorcan – now dressed in jeans and a plain black jumper – watches me. I’m suddenly aware of my unbrushed hair and creased sweater and squirm self-consciously in my seat.
‘I’d like to go home and fetch some clothes,’ I say. ‘And if I’m going to transfer money to Bernard without Art as co-signatory, I’ll need proper ID . . .’
Lorcan raises his eyebrows. ‘How much are you planning on giving him?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know, but more than I can get unless I use this particular account.’
‘You don’t have to pay him anything,’ Lorcan insists. ‘He’ll help you without it. He just wants justice for his wife.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But his wife died because she told me about Beth. I have to do something.’
A few minutes later Bernard appears and a few minutes after that the three of us pile into Lorcan’s car and he drives us to Crouch End. As we near my house I check the time. It’s 8.30, half an hour before Lilia arrives and well past the time Art usually leaves for work, but I call his iPhone just to make sure. I’m psyched up for Art to answer, steeling myself against the sound of his voice. But the call goes straight to voicemail, so I ring the office number. Siena puts me straight through.
‘Gen?’ Art’s voice is strained to breaking point. ‘Gen, thank God, where are you?’
I switch off the phone. ‘He’s definitely in the office.’ Lorcan parks outside the house and I open the car door. ‘Wait here, I won’t be long.’
I let myself in at the front door and head straight for our bedroom. There are signs of Art’s presence everywhere: clothes on the floor, a half-drunk cup of coffee by the bed. A towel lies strewn across the duvet. I pick it up and experience the familiar irritation that it is damp. As I place it back in the bathroom, I’m struck by how natural these intimacies of our marriage still feel. In spite of what I’ve learned about Beth and how increasingly close I feel to Lorcan, this room and the relationship it represents is still the centre of my life.
I fetch a hold-all and start hauling clothes out of drawers. I fill a small bag with toiletries from the bathroom, where Art’s razor lies on its side by the sink, then go downstairs to fetch my passport from the cupboard in the living room. Using it as ID will be the easiest and quickest way for me to get my hands on the money I want to give Bernard O’Donnell.
As I come into the hall again, the sound of a creaking floorboard fills the silence. I freeze. The sound is coming from Art’s office on the second floor. Someone is up there. I stand, stock still, holding my breath. Another creak. I’ve only just spoken to Art, I know it isn’t him. So who else could possibly be here? They must have heard me crashing about in the bedroom just below them. Why didn’t they make themselves known?
Perhaps it’s Lilia. She could be early – and she often cleans with her iPod playing. Maybe she didn’t hear me before. I step onto the stairs and peer up towards the first-floor landing. I can’t see any part of the second floor from here.
Another creak.
A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck. And then I hear the soft brushing sound of footsteps on the carpeted second-floor stairs – the footsteps of someone padding down to the first floor, trying not to make any noise.
I stand for a second, gripping my bag tightly. Silence.
Instinct tells me it’s not Lilia. Then who? If it’s the guy who mugged me before, then why hasn’t he already come to find me?
There’s no further sound. My whole body is tensed, waiting. Perhaps I imagined the noises I heard. Like Art once said, those office floorboards have a mind of their own.
r />
‘Hello?’ I call out. My voice sounds croaky to my ears. ‘Is someone there?’
‘Geniver?’ A familiar voice drifts down the stairs.
And then the last person I expected to see comes into view.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I stand at the bottom of the stairs, still clutching my little bag, looking up at Art’s sister.
‘Morgan?’ My mouth drops open. ‘What are you doing here?’
Morgan stares down at me. She is dressed to perfection, as usual, in a pale grey skirt, tailored blouse and her trademark kitten heels. Her lipstick is a soft pink, to match her nails and the coral chain that hangs around her neck. But there’s nothing soft in her expression.
‘What the hell is up with you, Geniver?’ she demands. ‘My brother is going out of his mind.’
Anger wells up inside me. How dare Morgan leap right in like that and judge me?
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I snap.
Morgan picks her way down the stairs and brushes past me. I turn to follow her. The hallway, as always, is cluttered with coats and bags, with a teetering pile of magazines in the corner. We face each other at the foot of the stairs.
‘This has to stop,’ Morgan says, giving her foot a little stamp. There’s a fleck of spittle resting on the lipstick in the corner of her mouth. I get a perverse sense of pleasure from seeing this chink in her armour. ‘I spoke to Art last night. He told me what you accused him of and he’s devastated. I dropped everything and rushed over straightaway.’
She knows about the private things I’ve said to Art and she’s been here overnight. In my house. I let my bag fall to the ground.
‘This isn’t any of your business,’ I say. ‘You don’t know the whole story.’
Morgan’s thin eyebrows arch dramatically. ‘About your baby? Of course I know the whole story. Everyone knows the whole story. You and Art lost your daughter. We were all so sad for you both. Art pulled himself together and got on with his life. Brilliantly. You let the whole thing drag you down to the point where you’ve become a millstone around Art’s neck.’
‘Shut up.’ My hands clench with fury.
‘And now this . . . this hysterical nonsense—’
‘How dare you talk to me like this? You’ve got no idea.’ But even as I speak, I’m flooding with shame. Morgan’s right, though I don’t want to face it. I have let what happened drag me down . . . let my life stagnate, while Art’s has exploded with colour and opportunity.
I have to get away. I pick up my bag and try to walk past Morgan, but she grabs my arm.
‘Listen,’ she says. ‘I know I’m being hard-assed here, I understand it’s hard to move on. I just can’t bear to see what you’re doing to Art.’
‘What about what Art’s done to me?’ I wrench my arm away.
‘Is it that you think he’s having an affair?’
I stare at her. Why would she think that? My mind flashes back to the hotel room Art was in on Monday afternoon. What does she know?
‘No,’ I say, hoping I sound more sure than I feel.
‘Good, because he would never be unfaithful to you.’
‘For God’s sake, Morgan. You don’t know what Art’s capable of.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Morgan snarls. ‘I’m his sister. I know him better than you think, Geniver. Maybe even better than you. Don’t you see? He loves you. He’s sacrificed everything for you.’
‘What?’ I glare at her. ‘Sacrificed what?’
‘Children for one thing.’ Morgan’s mouth trembles slightly. ‘You won’t do IVF. You’re making him suffer because you don’t have the guts to move on.’
Again, shame floods me. My heart is pounding. I hate her. I absolutely hate her.
Morgan glances at my bag. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Get out of my house.’ My voice rises.
‘Art invited me to stay.’ Morgan flicks her dark hair over her shoulder. A gesture of defiance.
‘Did he invite you to rummage around in his office too?’ I snap, remembering the creaking floorboards that betrayed her presence.
Morgan rolls her eyes. ‘He rang me just now to ask me to look something up in a file for him. I’m waiting for my car, then I’m into town for a meeting.’ She tilts her head to one side. ‘Doesn’t Art ever ask you to help him like that, Geniver? After all, you’re at home all day.’ She pauses, a sneer creeping across her lips. ‘No, I suppose he doesn’t. Not reliable enough.’
I’m so angry I can’t speak. In the back of my mind I know that my fury is partly because Morgan has touched a nerve. But she has no right to say any of this.
Morgan sniffs. She looks at my bag again. ‘Where were you last night?’ she asks. ‘Maybe it’s you having the affair?’
‘What? Jesus, Morgan . . .’
‘You’ve been with Lorcan Byrne, haven’t you?’
I freeze.
‘Nothing’s happened.’ The words are out of my mouth before I realize how guilty they make me sound.
‘Between you and Lorcan?’ Morgan raises an eyebrow. ‘Really? I’ve met the man before. I know how he operates.’
What the hell does that mean?
‘How do you know I’ve even seen Lorcan?’ I say.
‘Art told me,’ Morgan says. ‘And Hen knows all about it too. She called Art after you ran out on her last night. It was obvious to both of them that you’d gone to him. Poor Hen was weeping down the phone.’ Morgan shakes her head. ‘You put her in a terrible position, Geniver. It’s very selfish.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, come on. Art and Hen know Lorcan’s reputation as well as I do.’
‘You mean the reason he got fired?’ I say. ‘That was a long time ago. Lorcan’s just been helping me.’
Morgan throws me a contemptuous look. ‘I bet he’s outside waiting for you in his car right now.’
I say nothing. Fear swirls about my head. And embarrassment, too. It’s humiliating to think of Art discussing me and Lorcan with Hen and Morgan.
‘I saw the way he looked at you at Art’s party. Same old Lorcan. Like a wolf who’s picked out a sacrificial lamb.’ She pauses, her eyes widening. ‘God, is it him who’s fed you these ridiculous ideas about Art?’
‘No. And they’re not ridiculous.’
‘It is him,’ Morgan persists. ‘And I bet he’s denied sleeping with the client’s wife at the start of Loxley Benson too.’ Morgan snorts.
‘We haven’t talked about it, Morgan. Like I said, it was all a long time ago.’
I force myself to stop. I should just leave, and yet Morgan’s words about Lorcan being a wolf are running circles in my head.
Morgan senses my uncertainty.
‘Look, this is really hard for me to tell you, but I want you to know the truth.’ She draws closer and I get a whiff of her perfume. A dark, dense, herby smell. ‘It’s not just that client’s wife. When Lorcan and Art travelled round the States there wasn’t a drug Lorcan didn’t take. And he got Art to try plenty of them too.’
‘So what?’ Lorcan and Art have already told me about this. ‘They were in their early twenties. It was years ago.’
‘It’s not just the drugs.’ Morgan purses her lips. ‘Lorcan slept with about twenty women on that trip. Most of them were older and wealthy. He used them, Geniver. And it wasn’t just on vacation. I know of at least three similar cases back home. And when he was friends with Art he often juggled two women without the other’s knowledge. Art told me.’ She pauses. ‘Did you know Lorcan has got someone in Ireland right now?’
Her self-righteousness is almost funny. And yet, if I’m honest, I don’t want to hear that Lorcan has a reputation as some kind of womanizer.
‘I know he has a girlfriend,’ I say. ‘He told me. Anyway, the rest of it is ancient history. You don’t know anything about Lorcan now.’
‘People don’t change. Believe me.’
‘Right.’ I march past her to the door. I want her out of my house, but Art has as
ked her here. He has turned to her, like he turned to Hen, because I went away. And everything is such a mess.
I walk out, my eyes full of tears, slamming the door behind me.
Lorcan raises his eyebrows as I get back in the car, but I shoot a warning glance at Bernard, hunched over in the back seat, and Lorcan takes the hint and says nothing.
We go to my bank and I request the transfer of £20,000 from the savings account that Art and I share to Bernard’s account. I call the Art & Media Institute and say I’m ill again, too sick to take today’s class. I just don’t care anymore. Then I phone Jim Ralston, Art’s accountant. I can’t stop thinking about the money Art paid MDO and Hen’s conviction that those initials stand for Manage Debt Online. Could terrible debts that I don’t know about have something to do with Art’s lies about Beth?
Jim Ralston answers my call straightaway – such is Art’s influence these days. I explain I’m going over some old papers and was wondering how long I should keep financial records.
Jim goes into mind-numbing detail on the ins and outs of different types of records and their requirements. I let him talk for a minute or two, then ask if Art has any debts that I should be worried about.
‘No.’ Jim sounds a bit anxious. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you asking? Has Art said something?’
‘No, it’s just me,’ I say quickly. ‘Probably just being neurotic, not wanting to believe everything’s really going as well as it is.’
‘Well, you can believe it,’ Jim says with a satisfied chuckle. ‘Loxley Benson is making money hand over fist . . . bucking all economic trends, in fact. As MD, Art takes an excellent income from the business. But you know that, Geniver.’