He Will Find You Page 10

  ‘Have you got the food ready?’ His voice is angry with an undertone of world-weariness. It makes my stomach flip. ‘They’ll be here any second.’

  ‘What food? Who will be here?’

  He slams the refrigerator door but it makes very little noise as it closes and I doubt it has had the desired effect.

  ‘Bloody hell, Kaitlyn! Mike and his girlfriend are coming round for a barbecue this evening. I bought all the stuff you needed. The only thing you had to do was get it ready!’

  A scowl contorts Alex’s tanned face. He takes a step towards me and I take a step back. I wonder if he’s going to strike me, and instinctively my hands curl into fists at my sides.

  ‘But this is the first I’ve heard of it.’

  I look over Alex’s shoulder out of the window. The sky is dark now and there’s not a trace of the earlier sunshine. It’s going to rain, rain on Alex’s party.

  ‘Bollocks! I told you on the phone earlier this week and then I reminded you at lunchtime.’

  Did he? I don’t remember.

  ‘I asked you to make a chocolate mousse and some salads.’

  I don’t believe him. I’m not the one who forgot. I fight the tears that threaten to spill down my face. I’d have remembered if Alex had mentioned this barbecue. I’d have been wildly excited about entertaining and getting to know some of Alex’s friends properly at last.

  ‘You watched me put the shopping away!’

  Yes, but I also asked him about his plans for the weekend and he said nothing about this.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Kaitlyn!’ Alex throws a glass at the wall and it smashes into smithereens. My eyes are drawn to the shards on the floor between Alex and me. The glass is not the only thing that is broken between us, even though I’ve tried so hard to hold us together.

  I want to storm out of the kitchen, but I feel so weak that I doubt my legs will take me. It’s all I can do to stay standing. I lean against the worktop for support, an unwelcome and unwilling spectator to Alex’s show of anger.

  In the end, he doesn’t lay a finger on me, but his words hit me hard. He has never called me names before. I listen, speechless, to a string of insults as they stream from his mouth one after the other. Then his words become meaningless muffled sounds as if he’s now behind a closed door or underwater and I can no longer make out what he’s saying.

  I try to think on my unsteady feet.

  ‘Alex,’ I say calmly. To my surprise, his mouth stops moving and the noise stops. ‘We don’t have enough time for the mousse to set, but I can make a chocolate fondant cake in next to no time. And salads are easy. If you get the meat ready for the barbecue, we can do the salads together.’

  Alex nods, docile now.

  ‘And I’m quite sure Mike and his girlfriend – what’s her name? – won’t mind sitting at the table here and having a drink while we finish getting ready,’ I say, warming to my theme.

  ‘They might mind a bit. They’ve just done a two-hour training session. They’ll be hungry.’

  But the fight has gone out of him. I can breathe again.

  ‘We’ve got crisps.’

  I bend down to get the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink. As I sweep up the fragments of glass, I tell myself that Alex is mistaken. He simply forgot to tell me he’d invited his mates and he thought he’d mentioned it. Then he overreacted when he came home and saw nothing was ready.

  But the memory of the dinner at his mother’s house resurfaces from where it was lurking in a corner of my mind. Was that an innocent mistake? Or did Alex lie about my favourite meal? Why would he have done that? And why would he lie about this evening? Surely he doesn’t want to ridicule me in front of his friends.

  These questions stop racing through my mind abruptly. I look down at the floor, aghast. Alex realises what has happened before I do. As I look at him, I can feel the shock etched on my face, and suddenly the roles are reversed. I’m the one who is panicking and it’s Alex who takes control of the situation.

  ‘Sit down here for a second, Katie.’ He speaks slowly and evenly, almost as if he’s thinking out loud. He pulls out a kitchen chair and takes my elbow to guide me, making me feel like I’m an old woman in need of a walking stick. He takes the dustpan and brush out of my hands. ‘I’ll fetch your suitcase,’ he goes on, ‘and then I’ll help you out to the car.’ The smile on his face looks genuine, although I’m not sure whether he’s excited or trying to be reassuring. ‘We have to get you to hospital, Katie. Your waters have broken.’

  To: kaitlyn.best@newzmail.co.uk

  From: alexanderriley9987@premiernet.co.uk

  Sent: Thur, 23 Feb 2017 at 20:41

  Subject: THE LIFE OF RILEY

  Dearest Katie,

  This is just a quick message to let you know that I’m not going to be able to make it the day after tomorrow, I’m afraid. I know we’d arranged for me travel to Taunton by train so I could share the driving with you up to Grasmere, but I have an important competition I just can’t get out of that day. I’d be letting the team down. The good news is that I’ll be free by the evening. You don’t mind, do you? I remember when I offered to come, you insisted you’d be OK by yourself and I know how independent and capable you are!

  I can’t make it down to Somerset, but I will make it up to you in Cumbria, I promise! I’ll pamper you and make you breakfast in bed and basically let you live the life of Riley now you’re going to be my wife!

  If you prefer, we could postpone your journey until the following weekend and I can help you out with the driving then. I’d rather you came the day after tomorrow, obvs, because I can’t wait to see you! That would be only two more sleeps!

  You decide what’s best for you, my Best girl, and let me know.

  I love you,

  Alexxx

  Chapter 9

  ~

  I hear Chloe wailing in the middle of the night. When I roll over, Alex’s side of the bed is empty. As usual, he has got there first.

  I get out of bed, push my feet into my slippers and grab my dressing gown from the back of the door. Then I make my way along the landing and peep in through the door to Poppy and Violet’s bedroom – now Chloe’s room – which Alex has left ajar.

  He’s holding a bottle of milk in one hand and cradling our baby in the other arm and as I watch, he sits down on one of the single beds. The squalling stops as soon as Chloe’s mouth finds the teat and she starts to suck hungrily on it.

  ‘It looks like you’ve got it all under control again,’ I say.

  Alex has got up twice with Chloe every single night since we brought her home. He hears our daughter before me, gets out of bed to go to her before me, and he feeds her and holds her far more often than I do.

  But that’s about to change.

  Alex looks up. ‘Hello there,’ he says. ‘You go back to bed. Chloe and I can manage.’ Looking down again at our daughter, he adds, ‘Can’t we, petal?’

  I wonder if he called Poppy and Violet ‘petal’, too. Probably, given that they have flowery first names. Maybe he nicknamed his ex-wife “princess” as well.

  I feel a strange mixture of gratefulness and helplessness, as I often have since coming home from the maternity hospital. I’m thankful that Alex knows what to do with a newborn baby – he has been amazing – but I feel useless in comparison. He’s a great father, but his efficiency makes me feel like a bad mother.

  I’m also rather jealous when I witness scenes like this because I’m reminded that Alex has been through all this before – twice – with two other daughters, and, more importantly, another wife.

  ‘You don’t need me, then?’ I ask, torn between staying here and going back to sleep.

  ‘Nope. We got it.’

  As I walk away, my husband starts singing ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’ to Chloe. How odd. I sing all the time. In the car, in the shower, while I’m cooking. But I’ve never heard Alex sing before.

  The following morning, we’re up before Chloe. Alex has
been on paternity leave, or so he calls it, although technically he’s not an employee, as it’s his business. But his two weeks are up and it’s back to work. When Chloe wakes up, I bring her down to the kitchen so we can keep Alex company while he eats his breakfast. I get as comfortable as possible on the wooden chair and encourage Chloe to latch on to my nipple, but she’s not having it.

  ‘Can’t think why she’s not mad about your boobs,’ Alex says, a cheeky grin on his face. He opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of expressed milk. He runs warm water from the tap over it for a few seconds before handing it to me. Chloe stops protesting mid-scream.

  ‘She has certainly taken to the bottle,’ Alex jokes.

  I paint a smile on my face, although I wish Chloe would take my breast. Still, with Alex back at work, we’ll have time to bond, my baby girl and me.

  ‘Will you cope?’ Alex asks.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say, although I was just asking myself the same question.

  ‘You should get some light exercise. Take Chloe out in the pram for some fresh air.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s a great idea.’ We could walk to the shop in Grasmere and buy some chocolate. Alex has been making me healthy meals so that Chloe gets all the vitamins and nutrients she needs through my maternal milk, but I’m starving all the time. Silver lining: at least the pregnancy weight is falling off me. Perhaps that’s the idea.

  ‘Are you feeling up to having that barbecue this weekend?’

  I’m keen to meet his friends, but right now I’m permanently tired and I look pretty terrible. ‘Yes,’ I say. Might be able to sneak a glass of wine. Beer. Punch. Anything with alcohol in it. It’s been so long. Ooh. Food. Grilled skewers and kebabs. Rice. Something other than quinoa and lettuce. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Good. I won’t be late home.’

  When Alex has left, I carry Chloe upstairs to my bedroom. She falls asleep on her activity playmat on the floor while I shower with the Pet Shop Boys and Dexys Midnight Runners blaring out of my wireless speaker from Hannah’s playlist, which I’d put on my phone.

  Hannah. Phone Hannah. I sent her a text with a photo when Chloe was born and she wrote back – succinctly – with her congratulations. That was a fortnight ago. And that’s the only time I’ve heard from her for well over a month now.

  I stop the music on my mobile, but before I can ring Hannah, the phone rings in my hand. I stare at the caller ID in disbelief. What does he want? I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail, but I swipe the screen and take the call.

  ‘Hi, Kevin.’

  There’s music playing in the background. Placebo, I think. Kevin’s favourite band. I can’t make out which song.

  ‘Hi, Kaitlyn. I’m just ringing to let you know the sale on the house has gone through. It’s all taken care of.’

  The familiar sound of his voice and the dulcet tones of his West Country accent – the dropped h’s and lengthened a’s – instantly transport me to another place, another time. Home. I sit down on the bed, still wrapped in my towel, my hair dripping onto my shoulders.

  ‘Oh. Thank you, Kevin, for seeing to all that.’

  Kevin always dreamt of building us our own home one day. A place with sea views. That’s one of the reasons we stayed in that house so long, even though we could easily have afforded something bigger, something better. That and the fact that with no children, we never really outgrew our place in Minehead. It might have been small, but it was big enough for the two of us.

  ‘There’s some paperwork to sign. I’ll have it sent to you by post.’

  ‘All right. Thanks.’

  ‘Maybe you could text me your address?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Oh, and, Kaitlyn?’

  ‘Yes?’

  An awkward silence. What’s that called? A pregnant pause. How inappropriate. Kevin breaks it.

  ‘Many congratulations on your wedding and the birth of your daughter. That’s wonderful news.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I realise I’ve thanked him three times and said very little else. I want to say so much more. I want to ask him how he is. Where he’s living now. I want to know how he found out about Chloe and if he’s OK about that. But it’s too late. Kevin has ended the call.

  I put on my underwear, which gives me a few seconds to breathe normally again, and then I grab the phone again to try Hannah. I don’t expect her to answer, but I can leave her another message. I prepare it in my head as her phone rings on and on.

  ‘Hello, Kaitlyn.’

  She sounds out of breath.

  ‘Hannah!’ I’m delighted to hear her voice, despite several weeks of confusion and concern. Why hasn’t she been in touch?

  And then I hear it. This time I can make out the song. Without You I’m Nothing. At first I think they must be listening to the same radio station. Kevin listens to the radio all day long while he’s at work. So does Hannah. And then the penny drops like a dead weight. It’s Monday. Kevin’s day off. Hannah doesn’t work on Mondays either.

  ‘You’re at Kevin’s,’ I whisper. It’s not a question. But I have no idea where he lives now. I correct myself. ‘You’re with Kevin.’ Two possible meanings, both fitting.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Kaitlyn. We didn’t want you to know until we were sure it was … serious. And then I didn’t know how to tell you. I feel terrible about avoiding you all this time.’

  We don’t talk for long – the conversation is stilted. I no longer want to tell her about Chloe. I can’t confide in her about Alex. I don’t tell her how much I’ve missed her. At the end of the call, Hannah asks if I think we can still be friends.

  ‘Hannah, you’ve been my best friend nearly all my life. I’ll get used to the idea.’ I’m going to need some time. But I don’t tell her that. ‘You’re right for each other, you and Kevin.’ As I say it, I realise it’s true. Hannah has always needed someone kind and dependable. Someone exactly like Kevin.

  I can hear the smile in her voice as she says goodbye. I do my best to keep the tears out of mine.

  I don’t want to mope around the house all day, so I decide to go for that walk. Thinking about it now, I realise there’s no pavement for at least two hundred yards if I walk from home into Grasmere as I planned. I don’t relish the idea of pushing Chloe along the road, so I change my mind about setting out by foot and decide to drive into Ambleside instead.

  It’s a bit of a fiddle, but I manage to fasten the pram into the car and Chloe into the pram and then fold down the pram chassis so I can put it in the boot. I feel ridiculously proud of myself, but it doesn’t obliterate my sadness.

  As I pull out of the driveway, I reason with myself. I left Kevin. That was my choice. I should be glad he’s found someone else. Shouldn’t I? Even if that someone else is my best friend. And I should be pleased for Hannah. She deserves to find a man who can make her happy. Perhaps I will be pleased for her, in time.

  I start singing ‘Molly Malone’ to Chloe, even though I’m pretty certain she’s asleep and my voice sounds a bit choked. It will get Kevin and Hannah out of my head, anyway. With a jolt, I realise that my mother used to sing that song to Louisa and me. She probably sang it to Julie before us. She could carry a tune, my mum. I stop mid-verse. Oh God, I miss my mum and my twin sister.

  I also miss my dad and Julie, Daniel and my nephews. I’d love to see them and for them to meet Chloe. But Alex insists that I should wait until I’ve fully recovered from giving birth before having to look after guests as well as a newborn baby.

  I fight against the lump in my throat. I have to stop wallowing in self-pity. I have to be strong. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll talk to Alex again. He only has my best interests at heart, I’m sure, but I’m feeling very cut off from my family, not to mention estranged from my best friend. I’m sure I can make him understand that I need to see someone other than him and Chloe.

  And my mother-in-law. Sandy means well and she helps out a lot, but she has been round nearly every day since we brought Chl
oe home and it’s too much. It’s probably too much for her, too. I’m looking forward to the barbecue, sort of, but Alex’s friends don’t count, either. I want to see my family and my friends. Otherwise I’ll go mad.

  Then I remember Vicky. She works in Ambleside. Maybe I could pop in to the estate agency and say hello. I sent her a text when Chloe was born with some photos. We’ve exchanged text messages on a couple of occasions since then.

  When I’ve parked the car and got the pram clipped onto the chassis, I ask a shopper how to get to Swift and Taylor Properties, where Vicky works, and I find it easily enough. There are stone steps leading up to the entrance, only a few of them, but enough to make it impossible to take the pram into the estate agency. I don’t want to leave it at the bottom of the steps with Chloe in it, but she’s sound asleep and if I lift her out, she’s bound to wake up.

  I tell myself no one is going to take my baby. If I stand at the top of the steps and don’t actually go into the building, I’ll be able to keep an eye on her. So, leaving her in the pram outside, I go up the steps. The automatic doors open. I stand in the doorway, turning my head from time to time to check on Chloe, but the doors start to close and then reopen. Close, open, repeat.

  ‘Come in, love,’ says a woman in her fifties, who is sitting at one of the four desks and peering at me over the top of her bifocals.

  Reluctantly, I step into the room to allow the doors to shut behind me. I shuffle from one foot to the other, uncomfortable at the idea that Chloe is out of my sight now.

  ‘I … um, is Vicky here?’ I ask her.

  ‘Vicky?’

  ‘Yes, she’s a friend of mine. She works here.’

  ‘Vicky who, love?’

  ‘Er … I don’t know her other name, I’m afraid.’ Maybe there are two Vickys.

  Her phone rings and she picks it up. ‘Swift and Taylor Properties. How can I help you?’ She covers the mouthpiece and, nodding in my direction, she hisses at her colleague, ‘Dennis? Can you look after this lady?’

  Her colleague grunts grudgingly from his desk without taking his eyes off his computer screen. He’s the only other person in the office. The other desks are unoccupied.