The Judas Scar (28 page)

When they separated she looked up at him and nodded. ‘You know, it’s good to see you,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed you. I let my disappointment get in the way of what matters.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It did matter to you. I’m sorry I didn’t work that out on my own.’ She smiled at him and at that moment he’d never felt closer to her. A rush of warmth spread through him that made him feel short of breath.

‘Hey,’ he said, jumping away from her and moving back towards the hallway. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

‘Oh yes?’ she said, pressing the balled kitchen roll against each eye for a final time then putting it in the bin beneath the sink.

Will picked his bag up off the hall floor and then came back into the kitchen and got his camera out. ‘You might need your specs.’

‘What is it, then?’ she said, as she reached for her glasses from the kitchen work top.

Will found the pictures he’d taken of the garden. He stood close to her so he could scroll through them. ‘I’ve started gardening,’ he said.

She looked up at him and smiled, then put her glasses on and looked back at the camera screen. ‘Well, I never,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t it look beautiful? I knew it would.’ She touched her finger to the small screen. ‘That right-hand wall looks so much better now the ghastly hawthorn’s gone.’ She handed him back the camera. ‘It looks lovely.’

‘I should have done it ages ago.’

‘Well, better late than never.’

As he put the camera on the table something caught his eye at the door. He turned to look and saw a grey tabby cat slinking its way into the room.

‘There’s a cat in the house,’ he said unnecessarily, as his mother bent to stroke the animal’s back. The cat jumped up on the table and began to purr.

‘She’s called Penny,’ his mother said, as she tickled the cat beneath its chin. ‘When she came to me she was called Sylvia, but I didn’t think it suited her, so I call her Penny. You like that better, don’t you, poppet?’ The cat lifted herself off her front feet and pushed her cheek against his mother’s hand. ‘She was abandoned by some awful person.’ She shook her head. ‘He’d just disappeared on holiday and left six cats locked in a top-floor flat in Ipswich. The RSPCA officer who found them told me the place was full of faeces and stank to high heaven.’ She looked at Will and raised her eyebrows. ‘The poor creatures had been left for ten days and only survived by drinking water out of the loo.’

Will reached out to stroke the cat. ‘When did you get her?’

‘A couple of months after your father passed,’ she said. ‘I was terribly lonely and needed something to look after. She’s been a godsend. Haven’t you, darling?’

Will had a flash of his father kicking his kitten against the wall and closed his eyes as as he felt a familiar surge of hostility. ‘How did you live with him?’

She took her hand away from the cat and gently pushed her off the table. The cat started to curl herself around his mother’s ankles.

‘He was my husband and I loved him and, whatever you think, we were happy. Nobody knows what makes a good marriage. People have these ideas of marrying the ideal person, the love of their life, but in reality it rarely happens. Marriage requires care and attention and hard work, like anything worthwhile. There’s no such thing as the perfect marriage but if you love someone enough to marry them then the very least that’s expected is your loyalty and your support.’

That night he slept in what his mother called the spare room, which was essentially a small storage room, stacked high with boxes of things she and his father couldn’t bear to throw away when they moved to the smaller house. He closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed. There were piles of his father’s clothes, laid carefully on their hangers over the boxes. There was a tweed jacket on the top that his father had worn for as long as Will could remember. He placed his hand on it and pictured his father standing in their old living room, one hand on the mantelpiece, the other on his hip, as if posing for a Victorian photograph.

He reached across and turned the light off. The room was lit by the street lamps outside. He thought of his mother next door. She’d taken Penny upstairs with her and Will had smiled as he caught sight of them when he passed her door, the animal curled up on his father’s side of the bed, nestled beside her, contentedly cleaning itself. He imagined how angry his father would be if he was able to see it, and how happy his mum was, lying in her button-up nightie, covers neatly tucked in around her, her fingers idly stroking the cat’s soft fur as she read.

Will was woken from a heavy, dreamless sleep by his phone buzzing the arrival of a text. He grabbed for it sleepily and glanced at the clock. It was twelve-thirty, earlier than it felt. He blinked in the light of his phone and saw the message was from Harmony.

I’m parked outside. Are you awake?

C H A P T E R    T W E N T Y - T H R E E

As soon as she heard Will leave the flat, Harmony came out of her study and went into the kitchen to get a drink. She felt weak with worry. What had she got herself into? Luke hadn’t stopped calling or texting since she’d walked out of the restaurant. She didn’t answer any of the calls any more. He didn’t listen to her when she did – he just kept telling her life was too short, that they had to be together, that he could make her happier than Will ever could.

The night before, she’d sat on the floor of her study, knees pulled into her chest, back against the door in case Will tried to come in, and stared at her phone as it buzzed calls and texts throughout the night, hoping that each one she ignored would be the last, that eventually he’d get the message. Then, at around four in the morning, as dawn crept up on the dark and her mind had become bleary with exhaustion and panic, she answered.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘You know why.’

‘Please, Luke. Don’t do this to me.’

‘I need to see you,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave now and be with you in half an hour.’

‘Christ, don’t come here,’ she whispered desperately. She took the phone away from her face and looked up at the ceiling. Then exhaled slowly, before returning to the phone. ‘Please, don’t come here.’

‘I have to see you. I need to make you understand. You’re not thinking straight.’

This had to stop. Harmony squeezed her eyes shut as she thought about what she should do.

‘Harmony? Are you there?’

‘Fine,’ she said, keeping her voice steady. ‘We’ll meet. But not now. I’m tired and need some sleep. I’ll text you when I wake and we can arrange it.’

In the morning, as Will watered the plants, she sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea she was too nervous to drink, and picked up her phone.

What time shall we meet and where?

Within a moment her phone beeped his reply.

I’m free all afternoon. We could meet in a pub and then get some supper?

No, she thought. I don’t want to be seen out with you.

Let’s meet at 3 p.m. But not in a pub. Come to mine.

She hesitated, her chest tightening. She remembered how she’d panicked when she saw Ian in the restaurant, how not being seen had taken precedence over making sure Luke knew it was over. She needed to focus on finishing this cleanly, on making him promise not to call, on convincing him to leave her alone so she could give her marriage a fighting chance.

Fine. I have to leave by four.

She decided to get off the tube two stops early at Westminster so she could calm herself with a walk along the river. She crossed Westminster Bridge and turned onto the South Bank, which heaved with weekend crowds. People poured in and out of the Aquarium and the galleries, and hung around on the Embankment eating chips and taking photographs. Harmony weaved through the crowds. Ordinarily, she’d have walked with a spring in her step; she loved this part of London. It was unique, with historic buildings and famous landmarks nestling comfortably beside utilitarian pieces of modernist architecture. It was even more beautiful at night. She and Will used to come here to eat fish and chips and look at the lights strung like pearls beside the river, their reflections rippling silently in the oily night-time blackness of the water. Those were happy times, she thought. When nothing mattered but the two of them. When love was straightforward.

His flat was in a huge concrete and glass building beside Blackfriars Bridge that loomed over the river. When she walked into the reception area the dark grey of the exterior was replaced with a shiny chequerboard floor and wall-to-wall mirrors. There were two lifts, and she pressed the button and waited, tapping her foot as she did so in an attempt to ease her nerves. His flat was on the top floor, and by the time the lift got there she worried she might throw up. She wondered if she’d made an error agreeing to meet at his place, and that perhaps thay should have arranged to meet in a pub or cafe after all.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she whispered aloud. ‘He’s a lawyer, a friend of Ian’s, not a bloody axe-murderer.’

When he answered the door he smiled at her as if nothing was untoward. He leant forward to kiss her mouth but she turned her head, deflecting his kiss so it landed on her cheek. His smell filled her and she had a sudden flashback to the afternoon they’d spent together, the clash of their bodies, the frenzy and desire, the way he’d clung to her, buried his face in her neck. But any attraction she’d felt had vanished and the recollection made her shudder.

She walked past him and into the flat. ‘I can’t stay long,’ she said.

He closed the door and she heard the click of the Yale lock. She pushed her shoulders back and lifted her chin.

‘You look lovely. I’ve not seen you without make-up before.’

‘There are lots of things about me you haven’t seen.’ He laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose there must be.’

She followed him into the main room, which was twice the size of her and Will’s flat alone. There were two full-height windows that overlooked London as far as the eye could see and glazed double doors that opened onto an empty concrete roof terrace. Harmony walked up to the central window and took in the panorama: the Houses of Parliament, the London Eye to the left, the glinting towers at the hub of the City, the majesty of St Paul’s.

‘That’s an incredible view,’ she said.

‘It’s at its best at dawn.’

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘I bought it after my wife died. I couldn’t sleep in our house without her so I sold it and bought this.’ He smiled at her. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘No, thank you.’

She turned around and looked at the room itself. The walls were brilliant white with abstract paintings in muted black and greys. The floor was polished concrete with a high sheen in a swirl of charcoal greys. There were no rugs to soften the effect and the furniture was sparse: a large white corner sofa, a glass coffee table and a couple of Sixties-style chrome-and-black leather seats. There was a stainless steel kitchen area with an ornate faceted metal ceiling light that hung over the island unit and a solid steel-and-glass dining table to one side. The whole place was spotless – no clutter or books, no ornaments, nothing on the kitchen surfaces apart from an expensive-looking coffee machine. She tried to keep herself relaxed, but as she looked around the sterile, soulless room, she felt her skin begin to prickle with unease.

He told her to sit down so she did, perched on the edge of the sofa, knees pressed tightly together, hands in her lap. She watched him open the fridge and get out a bottle of champagne.

‘I don’t want a drink, thank you.’

‘Just a small glass?’

‘No.’

He popped the cork on the champagne anyway and the noise echoed. He poured himself a glass then put some music on. Her mouth and throat felt dry as she began to worry how vulnerable she was. She was painfully aware now that nobody knew where she was, and as she looked out of the huge window in front of her and the far-reaching views over London her head started to spin as if she had vertigo.

‘I thought I made it clear this was over. That anything we had was finished,’ she said as he sat down beside her. Too close. His knee touching hers. She pulled herself away. ‘You can’t call me, or text or email.’

‘I don’t have a choice.’ Suddenly there was a dark desperation about him; his eyes flicked back and forth over her face as if searching for something.

‘Of course you do.’ She was aware that her breathing had become quick and shallow. She tried to take a fuller breath to calm herself. ‘Luke, listen to me. I made a mistake. I was in a bad place and I should have been stronger.’

‘There are no such things as mistakes. There are things you do and things you don’t do. You need to recognise that what you and I have is important.’

‘You and I have nothing, Luke.’

‘No, we have a connection.’

‘We don’t have a connection, for God’s sake!’ she said with exasperation. ‘We had sex against a wall and on a grubby floor in a damp lock-up.’

Luke reached out and took hold of her arm below her elbow.

‘Leave him.’

‘Christ,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You really mean that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you don’t even know me!’

He stared at her, his face blank, his mind turning over. ‘Come with me,’ he said, leaning forward to put his glass on the coffee table then standing.

He walked away from her and disappeared into another room.

‘Luke?’ she called after him. He didn’t answer her. She swore quietly and then followed him to the doorway. ‘I don’t understa–’

She stopped speaking and stared, trying to process what she saw. It was another large white-walled room with a neatly made bed and a bedside table with nothing on it but a stainless steel lamp and a photo frame. But above the bed, hanging on the wall, was a large canvas, a photograph. A photograph of her.

‘Where did you get that?’ she breathed, her eyes fixed on the picture.

The canvas was at least a metre in width and half a metre high; it was the photo Will had taken on their wedding night on one of the disposable cameras they’d put out for their friends. It was one of Will’s favourites. He’d taken it just after they’d made love. She stared at it, mesmerised, fear mounting with every breath she took. As she stepped closer she saw the photo frame by the bed also had a picture of her. She walked over and picked it up. It was her profile picture from Facebook.