‘Oh, Lou,’ he says thickly. ‘I’ve been such a bloody fool.’
Chapter 32
Caz
I’m on my way to the station to get the train back up to London when Andy finally responds to my hail of texts. On my way.
I stare at the screen, waiting for more, but that’s it. No need, I type back. Bella’s fine. I’ll be back in London in an hour.
He doesn’t respond. The Uber driver pulls up in front of the station, and I’m about to pay him and get out of the car when I get another text, this time from Lily, our next-door neighbour in Fulham. Andy has dropped Kit off with her for the night; she’s checking in to see if we need her to collect him from kindergarten tomorrow too. Why on earth didn’t Andy bring our son down with him? It’s not like it matters if Kit misses a day of nursery.
There’s no point going back into London if Andy’s already left. I lean forward between the front seats and tell the Uber driver to take me to our house here instead, anxious and angry. I should be worrying more about what Andy’s up to, but I can’t stop thinking about those ugly scars on Bella’s arms. I know cutting is almost a rite of passage at some expensive girls’ schools these days, but what could possibly be causing that lovely, smart, funny girl to do such terrible harm to herself? I pray to God what happened to me isn’t happening to her—
No. No! Andy would never do that.
I let myself into the empty house, shivering as if someone’s just walked over my grave. I promised Bella I wouldn’t say anything, but what if this escalates? Most girls who self-harm aren’t suicidal. They’re looking for release from emotions they can’t handle, escape from feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing; cutting brings relief from the intense emotional pain. But what about the few who are? I couldn’t live with myself if Bella did something terrible and I could have prevented it.
It’s not just that she’s cutting herself, either. The girl looks ill. She’s pale and drawn, and she’s lost weight in recent weeks. Something’s sucking the life from her and driving her to hurt herself.
Frustrated and scared, I open a bottle of Pinot Grigio, one of the few items in the near-empty fridge, and pour myself a generous glass, pacing anxiously through the empty house. I honestly think Bella is in real trouble, and I don’t know what to do. I’m twenty-nine years old; I’ve no idea how to deal with an angst-ridden teenager coping with divorce and peer pressure and God knows what else. The fact that I was a damaged kid myself doesn’t qualify me to offer expert help.
I’m going to have to tell Andy what Bella’s doing to herself, I realise suddenly. It’s the only responsible thing to do. Bella will hate me for a while, and I don’t blame her, but in the end, she’ll understand why I had to do it. I want to be her friend, yes, but my role here is to be her parent.
Dammit, where the hell is Andy? He said he was leaving hours ago. He should be here by now.
I check the spyware app on my phone, and Andy’s locator dot immediately appears: he’s on the Brighton-bound train from Victoria, currently just outside Crawley, less than half an hour away. It’s already six o’clock, so he’ll probably just want to come here and drop off his bag, then go straight over to Louise’s to check on Bella. I knock back a large gulp of wine. Like he needs an excuse to see her.
On impulse, I go into the study and log into Andy’s email account, scrolling swiftly through the messages. They’re nearly all related to work, other than a few charity solicitations and a couple of emails from a CNN editor who’s been wooing him to jump ship. Nothing to set off any alarms; but Andy’s not stupid. When we were seeing each other behind Louise’s back, he bought a separate pay-as-you-go mobile, just in case she ever checked his iPhone. He knows better than to leave a virtual trail of incriminating emails.
I pull up his browser history, still not really sure what I’m looking for. All I find are news sites and a few innocuous links to pages for fishing and outdoor sports. I stop on one web address I don’t recognise, and quickly click away again when an underage chatroom comes up. Andy’s been working on a documentary about teenage sex trafficking, but those aren’t images I want stuck in my head. Instead, I keep scrolling, going back through the last three weeks of his browser history, but there’s nothing remotely untoward. So why do I suddenly feel so uneasy?
Those teenage chatrooms. But it’s just for work. Andy isn’t like my father. What happened to me is not happening to Bella. I know the signs. I’d have realised.
With a sigh of exasperation, I shut down his computer, and make space on the desk for my own laptop. Enough. I’m going to drive myself mad.
For the next half-hour or so, I use work as an escape from the storm of worry in my head, replying to emails and signing off on a few outstanding briefs awaiting my approval. Several clients have already heard on the bush telegraph that AJ is leaving, and are anxiously checking in to see who’ll be handling them from now on. AJ has always been so good at managing their needs and expectations. I know Univest is important to Patrick, but why he’s allowed Tina Murdoch to dictate terms and sabotage us like this is beyond me.
My stomach rumbles, and I realise I still haven’t eaten all day. I go into the kitchen, scavenging some dried macaroni and a tin of tomatoes from the cupboard, keeping an eye on the progress of Andy’s little red dot as I quickly knock up some spaghetti pomodoro. He arrives in Brighton just as the pan comes to the boil, but instead of heading towards me, the flashing locator starts moving along the road towards Petworth.
I suppress a surge of anger. He’s obviously getting a taxi straight over to Louise’s, instead of coming here first. He knows Bella’s concussion wasn’t serious. The least he could’ve done was pay me the courtesy of checking in before rushing off to his other family.
What time will you be home? I text furiously.
The three circling dots again. It’s several minutes before he actually replies, which means he’s composed his answer several times, then erased and edited it, before finally settling on this: Trains delayed, security scare. May not get in till late. Don’t wait up.
The water hisses as it boils over, and I snatch it from the stove, cursing as I burn my fingers on the hot handle. He’s lying. Why? He’s already here, heading in a taxi to Louise, so why not just tell me that?
My brain beats like a bird trapped against a closed window. He doesn’t want me to know he’s already on his way to see Louise, because then I’ll expect him home sooner rather than later. And he evidently plans to stay longer than a check on his daughter requires.
Before I have a chance to frame a response, my phone buzzes again. I snatch it up, thinking it’s Andy, but the text is from AJ. Sorry to leave you in the lurch.
Don’t be daft, I text back. We’ll sort this out, I promise.
He doesn’t respond. I call him, and it rings a few times, then cuts to his voicemail message. I end the call, and hit redial. The third time, he finally picks up. ‘AJ, where are you?’ I ask anxiously. ‘I can come back to London if you need me—’
‘No, it’s OK,’ AJ says. ‘I’ll be fine.’
His voice sounds as if it’s coming from far away, and I have to press the phone hard to my ear to make out what he’s saying. ‘You don’t sound fine,’ I say uneasily.