He throws me a look of . . . confusion? Mistrust?
Surely it’s inevitable that I will take over even more of Nina’s roles? I hope I haven’t overdone it.
‘The code is Nina’s birthdate, but I haven’t bothered with it much of late. It was Nina who decided she’d like the reassurance. Deborah is correct but the damage was minimal and nothing went missing.’
‘I’ll leave it then,’ I say.
‘Fine. Whatever.’
‘Call me if you’re worried or need help in the night with Felix. I’m here for as long as you need me. I’m not going anywhere.’
Every word is true. I promised Nina I’d look out for her family. No matter what, I’m here to stay. I’m becoming more convinced that it’s what Nina would’ve wanted, even if some people won’t see it that way.
I take the photo and pin it to the corkboard. It’s now hidden behind the bin collection timetable until I decide what to do with it.
I check the doors are all locked, then do so once again before persuading myself that I’m overreacting. Anyone can tell that the photo is not the best quality and could well be from a clumsy well-wisher, assuming that Stuart and the children would appreciate the memory. If a mysterious someone really wanted to be threatening, they’d have written something, whether cryptic or openly threatening. It’s what I would do.
The heart and soul has temporarily disappeared from this house, and I am the only person who can replace it. Nina had a black sense of humour, which only got darker as her illness took hold. Her own personal brand of gallows humour, as she would refer to it when I – or someone else – was shocked, unsure of how to react. She told me once that it was a good job she was on her way out as someone had it in for her. I didn’t push her or take it seriously. I wish I had because what if someone was after her and now that person is after me instead?
The sense of unease that has been building all day is heightened as I head upstairs. A guilty conscience is relentlessly unsettling. I stop. Listen. Nothing.
I turn around and retrace my steps before jabbing the familiar digits of Nina’s birthday into the keypad, changing my mind (again) and resetting the code to my own birthdate. The immediate reassurance it offers is gratifying, and some of the tension lifts as I creep to my room.
Chapter Eight
Nina and I slipped into our roles at school from a young age. We had a rhythm, a natural partnership. I did my homework in advance, she relied on me for all the times she ‘hadn’t quite got round to doing hers’. I was loyal. In return, she was there for me and shielded me when things felt too overwhelming.
One particular instance was during an English lesson when I’d been asked to analyse a passage out loud. I dreaded being picked. Only one sentence in, I froze. I couldn’t do it. I looked up at Mrs Palmer. Everyone was staring. I wanted to run out of the room, slam the door and hide. A nightmare come true: I was the sole focus of hostile amusement. I anticipated chants, some kind of fist thumping on the tables. Blood rushed to my face.
Nina’s hand shot up to save me, but I could tell it was forced. She looked embarrassed. Of me.
I was asked to stay behind, which filled me with further panic. If I couldn’t find Nina in the playground afterwards, I’d have to eat my lunch alone, hang out in the loos or the library, acting busy, disguising my lack of friends.
Mrs Palmer had kind eyes, but her tone had changed to the one people use when they’ve had enough. No matter how much encouragement she gave me, I didn’t ‘get it’. It wasn’t that I didn’t try, it was that I found lessons a struggle. I was never able to explain all my fears articulately enough. Not to anyone.
‘Marie, I’ve been wondering, are things all right at home? Is there anything in particular troubling you? Are you still seeing the school counsellor?’ she said.
As if I would have spoken truthfully to, or trusted, the school counsellor! There was nothing wrong with me. I was only referred to her because of a misunderstanding when the PE teacher had allegedly overheard me ‘telling a story’ that couldn’t possibly have been true and he ‘was concerned’. I pointed out to the counsellor, quite rightly, that all anyone had to do was listen in to any conversation at break time. Everyone exaggerated. Everyone wanted to be seen in the best light, to pretend that they’d gone somewhere exotic for the school holidays or that they’d been invited to the popular parties or some exciting event. And everyone also knew that the majority of us stayed at home most nights watching TV or being nagged to do our homework. Yet, unlike most people, I was forced into my exaggerations because my mother was at her happiest when I was safely at home.
When I shook my head in answer to all Mrs Palmer’s questions, she shared something that did actually resonate and eventually helped: no one surrounds themselves with clingy people. Apparently.
‘It drives them away, Marie. Pretend you’re OK no matter how much you have to fake it. Nina can’t always be there for you. You have to learn to stand on your own two feet, however hard it is. You must learn to tough it out.’
When I escaped, I found Nina had been waiting for me outside. I wanted to hug her with sheer relief. But I didn’t. I put on a brave face – acted happy. The incident taught me to say only what people wanted to hear and hide my true self. I’ve often wondered if Deborah was behind it, if she’d been in to talk to the teachers about Nina ‘being allowed to widen her friendship circle’. I’ll never know for sure.
When Stuart and the children appear for breakfast in the morning, I head off for a shower, making sure I don’t come back down until they’ve all gone. I ignore the abandoned cereal bowls and the scattering of Cheerios across the kitchen worktops. I’m on a mission to try to sort out some of Nina’s affairs. Not to mention that Christmas is six weeks away and Stuart’s parents’ arrival is imminent. I’m nervous because I want them to like me. We’ve only met once before, at Stuart and Nina’s wedding. I’m going to devote time to making them welcome and plan interesting family days out, especially when Stuart is working.
I lift the lid on Nina’s old laptop. The battery is dead. I hunt round in her kitchen drawers (which need a good clear-out as it’s where she stored stuff) but there’s no sign of a charger. Annoyed at the waste of my time, I step into Stuart’s study and glance at the shelves above his desk. Nothing. I yank open a drawer – he’s so much neater than Nina was – then another. The bottom one contains a twisted mess of wiring. I put them on the floor and sort through them, identifying one that will hopefully work.
It does. The laptop is slow to power up. I wipe the screen with a tea towel as it’s dusty. I switch the kettle on as I wait, hoping that Nina would have had a good filing system on this. She didn’t. Just as I’m about to give up for the day and shut it down, her old email address catches my eye. It is not her latest personal one or the business one. She’d saved all her passwords so it’s easy enough to log in. I scroll . . . She’d last used it the week before she passed away . . . and . . . one of the very last people she contacted was Camilla.
I click open the email and read. As the words sink in, sickening realization stabs.
My concentration is killed for the remainder of the day as I desperately search for something to explain what I’ve found. By school pickup time, I have still not succeeded.