Being a mum doesn’t come easy to her, he knows. It’s not only the germs, it’s the constant fear that something might happen to Archie. Something bad. He feels this himself as a father. The nagging worry that the outside world is too big, too harsh for his precious boy. He thinks this is probably true for most parents, but of course for Leah everything is heightened because of what she’s been through. Still, he had hoped as Francesca gradually lifted some of the heavy burden of fear Leah felt that she would want another baby – George had always dreamed of having a large family – but she was adamant she could never go through it again. Her heart couldn’t take it, and as a result his heart was half-empty.
Was.
George takes his phone out of his pocket and calls Marie. It rings and rings and he pictures her in her chaotic flat, shifting junk as she hunts for her mobile. Running her fingers through her hair while she tries to remember where she last had it. Hair that Leah says used to match hers, but Marie changes its colour all the time. There’s no hiding from those green eyes though and sometimes when Marie looks at him, it’s like looking at Leah and then the guilt kicks in. She’s so much like his wife, and yet equally different. Her answer service kicks in and he rings off. Tries again but she doesn’t pick up.
The sisters have been through so much, he doesn’t want to come between them. It’s suffocating to think that he could make their relationship, or break it. That his actions will have such a profound effect on all their futures.
During a therapy session Francesca had told him he had a ‘rescuer identity’. A need to be needed. A desire to save and he believes that to be true. He remembers the first time he met Leah there was something about her that brought out his protective instinct. She had a fragility about her that made him fall instantly in love. It was weeks of gentle courtship before she began to open up to him, tentatively at first, but then her story rushing out as though she couldn’t possibly contain it for one more second. She had wept as he held her shaking body against his, but what she didn’t know was that he was crying, too, for all that had broken her – but he believed then that he could be the one to put her back together, and he thought that he had. However, since that terrible time with the police a few years ago and the questions and the suggestion that perhaps Leah should be committed for her own safety – for everyone’s safety – it feels so temporary. The good periods may stretch for longer with Francesca’s help but he’s always on tenterhooks, waiting for Leah to shatter again. Wondering if he has the strength to hold her together once more.
The doorbell rings. A cardboard box is thrust into George’s arms. He carries it through to the kitchen and slices through the brown tape. His shoulders tighten as he stares at the contents. This will set everything off again when Leah comes home. He can’t pretend he hasn’t seen this. The thought of another row is almost too much to bear.
They’d fought last night. He says ‘fought’ but there were no raised voices – he didn’t want Archie to hear his parents arguing and he never shouted because Leah was jumpy, easily frightened – but it was there in his body language. The furling and unfurling of his fists despite knowing he’d never use them. In the set of his jaw.
His anger.
‘Show me,’ he had demanded.
Leah had played with the cuff of her gloves. ‘It’s too sore.’
‘You’re lying.’ He knew she was wearing gloves again because she was slipping backwards, not because of some non-existent eczema. Why couldn’t she just be… the word normal sprang to mind. George felt instantly ashamed, and then furious again, and then helpless.
Why wasn’t he enough for her? Why wasn’t all of this enough for her? A home of her own. A family.
Her past was horrible and twisted and awful but she’d come through it, and yet it was still with her. In every guarded smile. In every single one of her bloody rituals.
He had known it was inevitable when the first journalist approached them several weeks ago.
The anniversary.
The fucking anniversary.
He’d be glad when it was all over and they could all move forward with their lives.
A fresh start.
George picked up his handset and rang Marie again.
This time she answered.
Chapter Ten
Leah
Now
George puts the knife down on the worktop next to the cardboard box and opens his arms just as Archie bowling balls into them. ‘Have you had fun at nursery?’
‘Yes! I talked to a real policeman!’
George raises his eyebrows and I give an almost indiscernible shake of my head. The police were nothing to do with me. Not this time.
‘Have you ever met a real policeman, Daddy?’
There’s a beat before George says, ‘Yes,’ but unlike Archie, there’s no excitement in his voice, just an underlying sadness and regret and again I think about all I have put him through since we have been married. The endless interviews. The detectives. The psychiatrists. The whispers that I should be sectioned despite me being adamant that I knew what I had seen. What I had witnessed.
Throughout it all he had never left my side, holding my hand. Promising me that he wouldn’t let them take me away. That he could look after me.
He believed me. He believed in me.
The lies came later.
My lies.
His.
Last week I found our bank statements and it is all worse than I’d feared.
‘We’re fine. We’re managing,’ George had said. ‘I’m working my arse off to get us back on track.’ That much was true, at least. He is always networking, trying to bring in new business. It’s not fair the burden falls to him. Especially when I can’t give him the one thing that he wants.
Another child.
He has always been the one desperate for a sibling for Archie. I’ve been reluctant to agree. Truth be told, I’d been horrified when I found out I was pregnant with Archie, as I’d been so careful. George has stopped asking me for another baby. I hope it’s because we can’t afford one right now, because the thought that he might still want a large family – but not want one with me – is almost too much to bear.
I look at him across the kitchen, my handsome husband with his mop of dark hair and blue eyes that look permanently worried. He is slipping away from me. For a split second I wonder how much money the journalist had offered Marie. What we would have to say to generate enough interest to rocket our bank account from red to black, but I dismiss it instantly.
There are things I will never tell no matter how high the stakes.
‘How’s your morning been?’ I ask George as I lift the box from the worktop. He puts Archie down.
‘Go upstairs and wash your hands while Mummy and I make you some lunch.’
‘Okay, Daddy. I’ll fly.’ Archie stretches his arms into wings and zooms around the kitchen twice before he thunders upstairs.
George takes the box from me and puts it back down. ‘What the fuck, Leah?’
I swallow hard. ‘You shouldn’t have—’
‘I knew you weren’t coping.’ George tips the box onto its side and out spills bottle after bottle of antibacterial cleaner, hand wash, disinfectant wipes. Disposable gloves.