School Run (36 page)

She’d explained about the siege – which he’d heard about on the news but hadn’t realised it was her school – and he’d insisted on coming back when she’d had a chance to relax. Later, he had whisked her off in a taxi to a smart restaurant where he entertained her with tales about the bank where he worked. It had been just what she needed to take her mind off the gruelling events of the day. But now, after a delicious dinner, she felt exhausted. ‘I keep thinking of what might have happened,’ she said.

He had nodded understandingly. ‘I can see that.’

‘I mean, supposing they’d hurt the children . . .’

Duncan reached across the table and took her hand. ‘You were so brave. And helping them to meditate was a real inspiration.’

She retrieved her hand. His clammy touch and those too-understanding eyes were getting on her nerves. It wasn’t his fault, poor man, she was just irritable and tired and . . . ‘Duncan, I’m really sorry but you’re right. I’m shattered. Do you mind if I go home now?’

His face was a picture of disappointment. ‘Of course not. I understand. Let me just sort out the bill and then I’ll get a cab.’

She allowed him to take charge. ‘I’m sorry I can’t ask you in for coffee,’ she said.

He squeezed her hand. ‘Another time.’

‘Actually,’ began Kitty, ‘there was something I was going to ask you . . .’

‘Fire away.’

She took a deep breath. Could she really do this? Alex’s face, Champneys and the Ofsted inspector’s moustache flashed through her mind. Yes, she could.

HARRIET

‘So relax with Classic FM to soothe you through Friday evening . . .’

Harriet was chopping onions for chilli con carne when she heard Charlie’s key in the lock. She turned off the radio, which had been keeping her company.

‘Do you know what’s happened?’ she said, rinsing her hands under the tap.

‘What?’

She told him all about the siege. ‘Didn’t you hear about it on the radio?’

‘No, I told you. I was in a meeting.’

Her eyes were watering from the onions and she dabbed at them with a tea towel. ‘Not according to your secretary.’

‘I told you about that, too. She’s a temp. She should have known where I was but obviously she didn’t.’

He had an answer for everything, though Harriet, as she put the dish in the oven. Later that night when they watched the news on television, it was some consolation to see the astonishment on his face when the siege came on, showing pictures of the culprits being led away by the police. ‘I hadn’t realised it was so bad,’ he murmured. For a moment, the horror on his face actually made her feel sorry for him. And there was something else: Charlie, shoulders slumped, looked really unhappy. He didn’t want to be here. But his sense of obligation made him stay. Was that what she wanted?

He got up and left the room. Harriet heard him pad upstairs and along the landing to the children’s rooms. He’d be kissing them goodnight – too late, as they’d nodded off ages ago. He loves them, she thought. It’s me who irritates him.

He was asleep – pretending? – when she went into their bedroom. The wet towels in the children’s bathroom indicated he’d showered there. Harriet lay and listened to his even breathing. Was he awake too, wondering what was going to happen to them?

You have a choice
.

Monica was right. It wasn’t a one-way street. All she had to do was cross the road. Without anyone to hold her hand.

EVIE

‘And now for
Book at Bedtime
.’

‘Can’t we have Radio 1?’ complained Leonora.

Evie hesitated. ‘We ought to turn it off and go to sleep. I was really waiting for the news but I think we’ve missed it.’

‘Lie down, Mum,’ demanded Jack. He was in her king-size bed instead of his own. Evie needed him close – and the girls, who were also on Evie’s bed, felt the same. No one wanted to sleep alone after what they’d been through so the girls were at the bottom and Jack at the top. Later, she’d just slide in beside Jack.

‘Can we have some hot chocolate?’ asked Natalie. ‘Mum always gives it to us if we’re pissed off.’

Evie nodded – ignoring the language – went downstairs and returned with a tray of steaming mugs. She hated to admit it but Rachel was right: even in the summer, hot chocolate could be comforting. They sipped it together, and somehow Evie managed not to warn the girls against spilling any.

‘Fun! Camping!’ said Jack, his eyes gleaming.

‘It is,’ said Leonora, ruffling his hair.

‘How’s your leg, Natalie?’ asked Evie. She’d bruised it in her eagerness to fly into her sister’s arms.

‘OK, thanks.’

‘Have some more witch hazel.’

Natalie rubbed it in. ‘Do you think Dad will call?’

‘I don’t know. I wish I did. I’m sure he will at some point.’

She drew a deep breath. They had a right to know what was going on – or, at least, a censored version.

‘As you know, your dad owed some money – I don’t know why but there’ll be a good reason for it. I think he’s gone away to sort it out.’

‘But he’ll come back?’ Leonora’s eyes were wide with anxiety.

Evie crossed her fingers mentally. ‘Of course.’ He’d bloody better, she told herself. It was all very well telling the girls that Robin was ‘sorting things out’. That was what she’d thought at first. But suppose something else had happened? Evie had always thought of suicide as the coward’s way out and Robin was no coward. But he was a proud man. Redundancy had been a hard pill for him to swallow. She should have been more understanding. She would have been if she’d had more time but she had always been rushing – rushing to get the kids off to school, rushing to work, rushing to a meeting, rushing to get the magazine’s figures turned round. And for what? Evie asked herself bitterly. Just so that bloody Janine could take over. Typical, absolutely typical, that she should offer to shorten her maternity leave in order to concentrate on the job. Shit! The car! She should have returned it. Well, it would just have to wait until Monday now.

Gradually, over the next half-hour, the girls and Jack fell asleep. Jack was sucking his thumb and whimpering occasionally. He was bound to be unsettled, Evie thought. She lay on the bed and dozed until the phone rang. Grabbing the receiver, she ran to the top of the stairs so as not to wake the kids.

‘Evie? It’s me. Sorry to ring so late.’

Her heart plummeted. ‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Any news?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I still think you should tell the police. I don’t trust those loan people.’

Evie would have laughed if the idea hadn’t been so preposterous. ‘You think they’ve taken him away? Come off it, Dad. That sort of thing only happens in films.’

‘Well, you thought Bad Ron was involved, didn’t you?’

She allowed herself a wry smile. Whoever Bad Ron was, it hadn’t rung any bells with her dad’s contacts. But it showed what a terrible state she’d allowed herself to get into, if she thought her son’s garbled sentences were that important.

‘If I haven’t heard anything by tomorrow, I will call the police,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got this odd feeling that he wouldn’t want me to. Besides, you know those missed calls I’ve been having? I’m sure they’re from him.’

She said goodbye and went back to her bedroom. The girls’ chests were rising and falling slowly, and Jack was curled up against Natalie’s back. Thank God, thought Evie, that the hospital examination had shown he hadn’t been abused.

She resigned herself to a sleepless night. The shock had woken every nerve in her body. Being taken hostage was nothing to the terror of discovering Jack had been snatched. If the policewoman hadn’t found him in that horrible little house, God knows what might have happened. She should never have left him. She was a bad mother. Softly she began to cry.

‘It’s all right, Evie,’ said a voice.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Nattie.’

‘I thought you were asleep.’

‘I was. Then I heard you crying.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s all right. You must have been awfully scared about Jack.’ Evie became aware of a hand holding hers. ‘Sorry I’ve been such a bitch.’

‘You haven’t. Well, you have, but so have I.’

‘Friends?’

Evie squeezed her hand. ‘More than that.’

‘Thanks. Night, Evie.’

‘Night, love.’

SATURDAY

41

HARRIET

‘Traffic is building up on the Marylebone bypass and there are reports of . . .’

Time to get up, Harriet thought. No, it wasn’t. It was Saturday. There had been no need to set the radio alarm last night. She had forgotten in the aftermath of what had happened that she could sleep in. Now she’d been woken up early. She switched off the radio. Still, no school run for two months. Summer holidays. Charlie home. She turned towards him and he moved away. Her heart sank. This morning, she felt as confused as she had last night. Maybe she needed to do more for herself. The photography idea had come to her out of the blue during the siege. Maybe Nick was right. You
did
think of irrelevant things during crises that were actually quite important.

It was hard to breathe with the window shut, the way Charlie liked it. During his absence she’d kept it open. Since his return, she’d tried to leave a gap but he’d closed it, declaring he got cold in the night. The stale air had induced a headache and she got out of bed to make tea.

While she was waiting for the kettle to boil, she went through Bruce’s schoolbag for his report. It was a complete mess, full of hand-outs that he should have stuck into the relevant exercise books plus three notes that he should have handed to her about school trips, long past, and arrangements for yesterday’s sports day. The report was at the bottom, heavily stained with an unidentifiable purple substance that might or might not have been fizzy drink.

Harriet sighed as she flicked through it.

Maths:
Bruce needs to pay more attention.

Science:
Bruce would do better if he could sit still in class.

Geography:
Bruce must learn to put up his hand instead of shouting out.

English:
Bruce shows terrific imagination and writes wonderful stories. With help, I believe his spelling could improve.

The last paragraph was written by that new teacher, Miss Hayling. Harriet reread it; the first positive comment he’d had since nursery. She put the report into a kitchen drawer. She’d show it to Charlie later, maybe even next week. He would home in on the criticisms, which outweighed the nugget of praise. She thought of Nick, who would, she suspected, react in a more balanced way. He seemed such a natural father. Far more so, she thought, than Charlie.

The rest of Bruce’s school-bag stank of stale crisps and liquorice. It was dry-clean only so she’d have to take it in. That reminded her: a pile of Charlie’s suits needed to go too but she ought to clear out the pockets first. Might as well do it now while the house was quiet.

She took out a couple of pens and a flight boarding card. There were some handkerchiefs (he hated tissues) and receipts. He might need those for his expenses.

Harriet put them on the kitchen table and noticed the name of a smart hotel in Knightsbridge. Strange. Charlie hadn’t had to stay overnight in central London for months. She examined it more closely. The date was the night that he had left for the airport on his way to Dubai. Yet it had been an afternoon flight and he hadn’t needed to stay in London. Harriet looked again. A double room. And what was this? No. Dear God. Breakfast for two persons.

Stop! It might have been a business associate. For a few minutes, she sat at the kitchen table, staring at the receipt with its pink heading. Then she opened her husband’s briefcase and took out his mobile.

How had Bruce told her to check recent outgoing calls? That was it. She recognised most of the numbers Charlie had used: home, his mother, the office, and another that didn’t ring any bells. A number that, according to the time on the phone, Charlie had called at eleven last night when he would have been in the bathroom.

Call
.

It rang four times and someone answered as she was about to switch off the phone.

‘Oui
?’

It took Harriet a few seconds to register that the woman – unmistakably a woman – was French.

‘Charlie?
C’est toi
?’

Swiftly, Harriet cut her off. The phone rang in her hand.

The number on the screen was the one she had dialled. She switched it off, then walked leadenly up the stairs. Charlie lay in a hump under the duvet, eyes shut, snoring.