Before I Wake Page 3

  “By about twenty minutes. He’s in London today.”

  “Damn.” He casts another look around, hoping perhaps that Brian will magically materialize, then looks back at me and frowns. “You okay, Sue? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m fine.” I push the drawer closed and cross the study. “Honestly.”

  Oli’s eyes dart over my face, trying to read my expression, as I approach him. “How’s Charlotte?”

  I sigh, deflating as the air leaves my body. I’ve been so pumped on adrenaline, searching through Brian’s things, that now that I’ve stopped, I feel drained.

  “She’s…” I want to tell him the truth—that Charlotte is no different than she was yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that—but he looks so worried, I lie instead. His exams are coming up soon and he’s worked so hard. “…she’s looking a little better. There was more color in her cheeks yesterday.”

  “Really?” His expression brightens again. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “It’s…progress.”

  “And has she, you know, shown any signs that she might wake up?”

  “No, not yet.” The secret’s the reason she’s still asleep; I know it is. Maybe once I know what it is, I’ll understand why, and then I’ll be able to help her.

  “Something…something…music,” I hear my stepson say.

  “Sorry? What was that, darling?”

  Oli smiles the same indulgent smile I’ve seen a hundred times since Charlotte’s accident—it’s the one that says it’s okay for me to be permanently distracted, considering what’s happened. “Music. Have you tried playing Charlotte her favorite songs? It works in Hollywood films.”

  “Music.” She adored Steps and S Club 7 and their ridiculously catchy tunes and simple dance routines when she was a toddler, but that was years ago. “I haven’t bought her a CD for years. It’s all MP3s and downloads these days, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you know what she likes?”

  “No idea.” He shrugs. “Lady Gaga maybe? Jessie J? Doesn’t everyone under the age of sixteen worship her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Or you could check her iPod to see what her highest rated or most frequently played songs are.”

  “You can do that?” I make a mental note to find Charlotte’s iPod.

  “Or maybe ask one of her friends?”

  “Yes, yes, I could,” I say, but the suggestion makes me frown. There’s been an outpouring of teenaged concern on Charlotte’s Facebook page—lots of “luv u m8” and “gt wl sn ”—but I haven’t heard so much as a peep from the two most important people in her life—her boyfriend Liam Hutchinson and her best friend Ella Porter. How could I have failed to notice?

  Oli glances at his watch. “Shit. I didn’t realize the time. I’ve got to run. Next time I’m down, I’ll pop in to see Charlotte.” A shadow crosses his face. “Sorry I haven’t been there for her more. Life’s just been really—”

  “I know.” I put a hand on his forearm. “You’ve got a lot on your plate. The best thing you can do right now is study hard and make us all proud.”

  We walk in companionable silence down the stairs, across the hallway, and into the kitchen where Milly, our hairy Houdini, is waiting for us, her tail thumping the tiles. I reach up to Oli for a good-bye hug, and it strikes me for the umpteenth time how quickly time passes. It seems only yesterday that we shared our first hug and his arms embraced my knees instead of my shoulders.

  “I’ll tell your dad you called in,” I say into his shoulder.

  “Cool.” He kisses me on the top of my head then reaches down and scratches Milly behind her ears. “Be a good girl, Mrs. Moo.”

  “Drive carefully!” I shout after him as he lollops out of the kitchen and crosses the porch in two long strides. He raises a hand in acknowledgment and is gone.

  I’m still standing at the kitchen window, staring out into the front garden long after Oli’s little red Mini has pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the road. Our brief conversation in the study has cleared my mind, and I suddenly feel ridiculous for searching Brian’s pockets. Other than some emotional detachment on his part and a hunch on mine, I’ve got no reason to suspect that he might be cheating on me. Of course Charlotte’s accident was going to change the dynamics of our relationship—how could something so terrible not? They say leopards never change their spots, but Brian was a broken man when I found out about the affair. He cried and said he was “no better than that monster you were with before you met me” and swore he’d never hurt me again. And I believed him.

  The shrill sound of a phone ringing slices through my thoughts, and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve shut Milly in the porch and I’m taking the steps to the landing as fast as I can. Brian’s private line rarely rings, and only then when it’s something very important.

  “Hello?” I’m gasping for breath by the time I burst into the study and snatch up the receiver.

  “Mrs. Jackson?” I recognize the voice immediately. It’s Mark Harris, Brian’s personal assistant.

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mrs. Jackson, but I was wondering if I could speak to your husband. I wouldn’t have disturbed you but his mobile’s off.”

  “Brian?” I frown. “He’s on his way to work.”

  “Are you sure?” There’s a clunk and the sound of papers being shuffled, then another clunk. “It says in the planner that he won’t be in until this afternoon.”

  “The planner must be wrong…” I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. There has to be a rational explanation for the fact that my husband told me one thing and his PA another. “Brian definitely said he was going to work when he left this morning.”

  “Oh.” Mark pauses. “Did they open early for him or something?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The hospital. He mentioned yesterday that he was going to see Charlotte this morning. I presumed that was why he couldn’t make it in until the afternoon.”

  I sink into Brian’s black leather chair, the phone limp in my hand.

  When we visited Charlotte yesterday evening, the consultant told us they’d be running more tests on her and we wouldn’t be able to visit until the afternoon at the earliest. He was very sorry but there would be no morning visits.

  “Mrs. Jackson?” Mark’s voice is so faint it’s as though he’s a million miles away. “Mrs. Jackson, is everything okay?”

  Wednesday, September 12, 1990

  I haven’t heard from James for three days and I’m starting to worry. He left the hotel room before me on Sunday morning because he had to go home and get changed before rehearsal, and I haven’t heard a word from him since.

  I keep running the time we spent together over and over in my head, but I can’t find anything wrong. I did ramble on a bit over dinner about how excited I was that Maggie had given me the opportunity to design costumes for the Abberley Players and how the bar job meant I’d finally be able to ditch teaching English as a foreign language and sew in the daytime, but I asked James plenty of questions too. And I didn’t smoke once. Not even with my coffee.

  Sunday morning, before he left, he leaned over the bed and kissed me on the lips. He said he’d had the most amazing night of his life, that he couldn’t bear to leave me, and he’d ring that evening.

  Only he didn’t.

  And he didn’t ring on Monday evening either.

  By Tuesday night, I was so stressed I called Hels. She talked me down off the ceiling and said there were all kinds of reasonable explanations why James hadn’t called, and he’d ring when he got the chance. She told me to relax and get on with my life. That’s easy for her to say. She hasn’t been single for years. She can’t remember how torturous it is, staying home, trying to watch a film, but all the time staring at the phone, wondering if it’s working—then ge
tting up to test it to find that it is.

  Oh god. The phone is ringing right now. Please, please let it be him.

  Chapter

  Four

  I’m curled up on the sofa when Brian gets home, a book in my hand, a glass of wine on the coffee table, and my feet tucked up under my bum. It’s a familiar scenario, and one that would normally signal a happy, relaxed Sue, but I’m on my third glass of wine and I’ve read the same paragraph at least seven times.

  “Hello, darling.” My husband pops his head around the living room door and raises a hand in the same easy manner as his son, twelve hours earlier.

  I smile in acknowledgment, but my body is tense. It’s not the thought that he’s having another affair that’s tearing at me; it’s the fact he’s been using our daughter’s accident to cover his tracks. I’ve been torturing myself all day—pouring through my diary and the one in Brian’s study (there was nothing in the drawer, just some notepaper), looking for anything to back up, or even discount, my suspicions—but I found nothing. If it wasn’t for the phone call with Mark this morning, I wouldn’t have a shred of evidence.

  “You okay?” He strolls into the room with Milly at his side. When he reaches the sofa, he kisses me gently on the lips and sits down. “How’s your day been?”

  “Okay.”

  He reaches for the cushion behind his back, throws it onto the armchair, leans back with a sigh, and then looks at me. “Just okay? I thought you were going to go into town and treat yourself to a new dress.”

  “I…” For a second, everything feels normal—my husband and I, having a chat about our day—but then I remember. Everything is far from normal. “I didn’t go. I was too busy.”

  “Oh?” He raises an eyebrow and waits for details, but I change the subject.

  “Oli popped by this morning.”

  “I missed him again?” He looks genuinely gutted. “What did he want?”

  “Nothing in particular. He was on his way to Southampton for a field trip. I think he’s going to call in again on his way back.”

  “Oh good.” Brian brightens again. His relationship with his son is different from his relationship with Charlotte; it’s more complex. They were joined at the hip when Oli was a child, clashed furiously when he was a teen, and have developed a mutual respect since. Theirs is a comfortable friendship, tempered by a similar sense of humor and challenged by different political views. They laugh easily, but when they clash, it’s titanlike. Charlotte and I always run for cover.

  I twist to place my book and my wine glass on the coffee table, temporarily hiding my face from my husband. I feel sure he must have noticed the strained expression on my face. Trying to appear “normal” when all I want to do is rage at him is exhausting, but I can’t scream at him. The last thing Charlotte needs is for me to suffer another of my episodes. I have to be calm. Logical. One lie does not an infidelity make. I need more evidence.

  “You okay?” There’s concern in Brian’s voice.

  “Fine.” I twist back. “How was work?”

  “Urgh.” He groans and runs a hand through his hair. It was once as bright a shade of auburn as Oli’s but it’s now ninety percent gray, what’s left of it. “Hideous.”

  “How was the train journey?”

  He casts me an inquiring look. I’m not normally so interested in the details of his daily commute. “Same as normal,” he says then reaches across the sofa and pats one of my knees. “You okay, darling? You seem a bit…tense.”

  My fingers are knotted together. Was I twisting them while Brian was talking? It’s amazing, the little messages a body can leak. I look from my fingers to my husband. His body isn’t saying anything unusual. He looks as relaxed and calm as normal.

  “Why did you lie to me, Brian?” So much for staying calm and logical.

  His mouth drops open and he blinks. “Sorry?”

  “You made out you were going to work.”

  “When?”

  “This morning. You didn’t go, did you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “That’s odd. Mark said you weren’t there.”

  “Mark?” Brian snatches his hand from my knee. “Why would you ring my PA?”

  “I didn’t,” I say. “He rang me.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he had something important to discuss with you. Didn’t he mention it when you went into the office in the afternoon? If you went in.”

  “Of course I did. And yes”—he shifts position so he’s turned square toward me—“now I come to think of it, he did have something fairly urgent to discuss with me.”

  “Great. So…” I maintain eye contact. “Where were you this morning, Brian?”

  My husband says nothing for a couple of seconds. Instead he runs a hand over his face and takes a few deep breaths. I wonder if he’s steadying himself, hiding his eyes from me so I can’t see the lies he’s fabricating now I’ve confronted him.

  “I…” He looks at me, a frown creasing his forehead. “I was going to see Charlotte.”

  “You didn’t! We were both there when the consultant said—”

  “Sue.” He holds up a hand and I bite my tongue. “I was planning on seeing Charlotte this morning. I planned it days ago. I know you can’t bear it when she’s left alone, so I was going to surprise you, suggest that you take yourself into town to get a manicure or a haircut or a new dress or something while I sat with her. Then, last night, the consultant told us about the tests and that pretty much hampered my plans so…”

  “So?” I say the word so loudly Milly lifts her head from the carpet and looks at me.

  “So I went into town instead. I visited the library, went for a swim, did a bit of shopping, and just had a bit of”—he cringes— “I guess you’d call it ‘me time.’”

  “Me time?”

  “Yes.” He looks me straight in the eye.

  “So you took the morning off to give me some…me time…and when the consultant told us that we couldn’t visit Charlotte, you decided to have some…me time…for yourself instead?”

  He shrugs uncomfortably. “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you mention it?”

  “When?”

  “When you came in just now. Why didn’t you mention it?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Sue.” Brian slumps forward, his head in his hands. “I really don’t need this. I really don’t.”

  “But…” I can’t finish my sentence. The whole situation suddenly seems faintly ridiculous, and I’m not sure why I’m continuing to argue. Brian planned a treat for me and it fell through, so he took a few hours to himself. That’s perfectly reasonable. So he didn’t walk through the door and tell me all about it—so what? I’m not his keeper. He doesn’t have to report his every move to me. I’d never do that to him, not after what James put me through.

  I look at the hunched, tired shape on the other end of the sofa. He looked so fresh, so optimistic when he walked in ten minutes ago. He looks ten years older now.

  “I’m sorry.” I reach out a hand and lay it on his shoulder.

  Brian says nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  The grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticktocks the minutes away.

  “Brian,” I say softly. “Please look at me.”

  After an age, he peels his fingers away from his face and looks up at me. “I don’t want to argue, Sue, not after everything that’s happened.”

  “Me neither.”

  I squeeze his shoulder, and he reaches a hand around and lays it on mine. The warmth of his palm on my skin has an immediate calming effect, and I exhale heavily.

  “Okay?” Brian says, his eyes searching mine.

  I’m about to nod, to pull him close for a hug, to lose myself in the warm, musky scent of him, when a thought hits me.

&nb
sp; “Was the pool busy?” I ask. “When you went for your swim?”

  Brian looks confused then smiles a split second later. “Crammed. Bloody kids everywhere. Half term, isn’t it, so what did I expect?”

  I don’t know what you expected, I think as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer, but I’d have expected it to be pretty damned empty considering it closed for renovations two weeks ago.

  ***

  We sit by Charlotte’s bedside in silence, Brian holding one of her hands, me holding the other. The heart monitor bleeps steadily in the corner of her room. We didn’t speak on the way in, but we often keep a companionable silence in the car, particularly when the radio’s on, and Brian had no reason to think there was anything unusual about the fact that I spent the whole journey staring out of the window. I was trying to decide what to do—to confront him about his swimming pool lie or bite my tongue and pretend everything is fine. I chose the latter—for now.

  “They still haven’t fixed the emergency button,” I say. My voice sounds horribly loud in the small room.

  Brian looks at the grubby yellow tape covering the red button above Charlotte’s bed. “Typical. I don’t suppose they’ve sorted the TV either.”

  I reach for the remote control and press a button. The TV flickers to life and we watch Bargain Hunt for all of thirty seconds before the screen fills with white noise. I turn it off again.

  “It’s a bloody joke.” Brian shakes his head. “I’ve campaigned for—and achieved—a threefold budget increase for this hospital, and it’s still falling down around our ears. And don’t even get me started on infections like MRSA. Have you seen the grime on the window sill? What do the cleaners actually do here? Mist each room with eau de bleach then go for a cigarette?”

  “That’s a bit harsh.” I pull an antiseptic wipe out of the packet on Charlotte’s bedside table and wipe down the window sill, then the frame of Charlotte’s bed and the door handle. “I think they’re just overstretched.”