61

Katie was going to save her marriage.

She rang the office at eight. She was planning to leave a message and was caught on the hop when Aidan answered the phone (if he didn’t sound so bloody perky she might have suspected him of sleeping in the office; she couldn’t imagine him doing extra work if other people weren’t watching).

“Let me guess,” said Aidan, wearily. “You’re sick.”

It would have been simpler to say yes, but it was a day for being honest. And, in any case, she’d never liked agreeing with Aidan. About anything. “I’m fine, actually. But I need the day off.”

“No can do.”

There was a gurgling noise in the background. Was it possible that he was urinating while talking on the cordless phone? “You can live without me for a day.”

“The Henley had the fire officer round. Their license for the ballroom has been revoked. So, we have some work to do.”

“Aidan?” she said, in that growly snap you used to make bad children stop what they were doing right now.

“What?” he said, in that slightly quivery voice bad children used when you did the growly snap.

“I’m staying at home. I’ll explain later. I’ll find you a new venue tomorrow.”

Aidan reasserted himself. “Katie, if you’re not here by ten o’clock-”

She put the phone down. It was entirely possible that she no longer had a job. It didn’t seem terribly important.

Ray turned up just after nine, having dropped Jacob at nursery. He rang the office and talked to a few people to make sure everything didn’t crash and burn in his absence. Then he said, “What now?”

Katie threw him his coat. “We take a tube into London. You get to choose what we do this morning. I get to choose what we do this afternoon.”

“OK,” said Ray.

They were going to start all over again. But this time she wouldn’t be single and desperate. She’d find out whether she liked him instead of just needing him.

They could deal with his anger-management issues later. Besides, if the wedding was off, it was someone else’s job.

Ray wanted to go on the Millennium Wheel. They bought a pair of advance tickets then ate ice creams sitting on a bench watching a big tide heading for the North Sea.

“Remember wafers?” said Katie. “You’d get this little brick of ice cream sandwiched between these crisscross-patterned biscuits. Maybe you can still get them…”

Ray wasn’t really listening. “It’s like being on holiday.”

“Good,” said Katie.

“Only problem with holidays,” said Ray, “you have to go home afterward.”

“Apparently, going on holiday is the fourth most stressful thing you can do,” said Katie. “After death of a spouse and changing your job. And moving house. If I remember correctly.”

“Fourth?” Ray said, staring at the water. “What about if your kid dies?”

“OK. Maybe not the fourth.”

“Wife dies. Kid with disability,” said Ray.

“Terminal disease,” said Katie. “Loss of limb. Car crash.”

“House burning down,” said Ray.

“Declaration of war,” said Katie.

“Seeing a dog run over.”

“Seeing a person run over.”

“Actually running a person over,” said Ray.

“Actually running a dog over.”

“Running an entire family over.”

They were laughing again.

Ray was disappointed by the wheel. Too well engineered, he said. He wanted the wind in his hair and a rusty handrail and the faint possibility that the whole structure might collapse.

Katie was thinking she should have included a height rule in her plan for the day. She felt ill. Marble Arch, Battersea Power Station, the Gherkin tower, some green hills over there which looked like they were in bloody Nepal. She stared down at the blond wood of the central oval bench and tried to imagine she was in a sauna.

Ray said, “When we were kids we had these cousins who lived in this old farmhouse. You could get out of the bedroom window and climb up onto the roof. I mean, if Mum and Dad had known they’d have gone ballistic. But I can still remember it, even now, that feeling of being above everything. Roofs, fields, cars…Like being God.”

“How long have we got to go?” asked Katie.

Ray seemed amused. He glanced at his watch. “Ooh, about another fifteen minutes.”

62

Except that it wasn’t a swimming pool because her lime-green bottom (her name was Marianna, he recalled) slid sideways to the right and there was this rhythmic banging which was the sound of oars striking water because he was watching the Boat Race on television (on second thought it might have been Marlena), but maybe not on television because he was leaning on a sturdy granite balustrade, though he could also feel carpet pressed against the side of his face, which suggested that he might, after all, be indoors, and the commentator was saying something about the kitchen, and one way of drawing a rubber plant would be to photograph it and then project a slide onto a large piece of paper masking-taped to a wall and trace it, which some people might think of as cheating, though Rembrandt used lenses, or so they said in that article in The Sunday Times magazine, or perhaps it was Leonardo da Vinci, and no one accused them of cheating because it was what the picture looked like which mattered, and they were dressed in white and they were lifting him up into the air and it wasn’t a circle of light, more an upright rectangle at the top of a flight of steps, though now he came to think about it he may have thrown the slide projector out in 1985 along with the plastic bath, and someone was saying “George…? George…? George…?” and then he went into the rectangle of bright light and something was placed over his mouth and the doors closed and he was ascending now in a kind of crystal lift shaft directly above the house, and when he looked down he could see the unfinished studio and the blocked guttering above the bathroom window that he really should have got around to clearing, and a steam train on the Nene Valley Railway and the three lakes of the country park and the bedspread of fields and that little restaurant in Agrigento and the butterflies in the Pyrenees and the crisscrossing contrails of jets and the blue of the sky turning slowly to black and the hard little fires of the stars.

63

Jean had always found her sister hard work. Even before she was born-again. To be honest, it was slightly better after she was born-again. Because then there was a reason for Eileen being hard work. You knew you’d never get on because she was going to heaven and you weren’t, so you could give up trying.

But, God, the woman could make you feel greedy and self-centered just by the way she wore a shapeless faun cardigan.

She was sorely tempted, over lunch, to mention David. Just so she could see her sister’s face. But Eileen would probably consider it her moral duty to share the information with George.

It didn’t matter now. The ordeal was over for another year.

By the time she got home she was looking forward to a conversation with George. About anything.

She was juggling her keys, however, when she realized something was wrong. She could see, through the little square of frosted glass, that the phone table was at an angle. And there was something dark lying at the foot of the stairs. The dark thing had arms. She hoped to God it was a coat.

She opened the door.

It was a coat.

Then she saw the blood. On the stairs. On the hall carpet. There was a bloody handprint on the wall beside the living-room door.

She shouted George’s name, but there was no answer.

She wanted to turn and run and phone the police from a neighbor’s house. Then she imagined the conversation on the phone. Not being able to say where he was, or what had happened to him. She had to be the first to see him.