bottle from me and places it back inside the fridge. She finds the one I need and hands it to me.
‘Thank you.’
She’s saved me. If I’d given the wrong milk to a baby and my mistake had been discovered, either by me or by the parents, there would have been drama. And panic and HIV testing and a vulnerable baby at risk. There would have been a complaint.
‘I’m going home,’ I say. ‘Can you ask Wendy to get cover for me?’
‘Of course. No worries. Go home and rest.’
Amanda is blonde and full of curves; it’s like looking at the opposite of my daughter. I place the bottle of milk back in her competent hands and leave the room.
As I make my way down the corridor, I feel myself dipping and sinking, my head slipping underwater, as though there are waves beneath my shoes instead of blue linoleum. The chaos and the confusion and the breaking apart have found me here. I suppose it was only a matter of time.
Forty minutes later I step out of the side entrance to the hospital and into the wet and miserable afternoon. Isaac is waiting for me.
‘Thank you for coming to get me,’ I say.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘I’m not sure.’
My cashmere coat is wrapped tight around me but it cannot ward off the cold. The paving stones are slippery after the rain and I stumble slightly. Isaac reaches out, takes hold of my arm and steadies me for a brief moment. I look around, as though DS Cole might be lurking somewhere, following me, camouflaged between the grey skies and the grey pavement.
The car is parked a street away. I’m worn out, as though fatigue has burrowed right down inside my bones, and I’m grateful Isaac is beside me. I couldn’t bear the bus, not today, couldn’t bear to sit amongst all those poor and exhausted people. Stop. Start. Stop. An interminable journey ending at an empty flat. I am one of them. Poor. Exhausted. Alone.
When we reach Vivien’s car, Isaac opens the passenger door for me and waits while I climb in. The car is spotless. I wonder if he has removed all traces of Vivien, or if there are still remnants, bits of her life secreted in the crevices between the seats, down the sides of the doors, tucked away inside the glove compartment.
As I fasten my seatbelt, I’m sure I catch her scent, the scent of flowers, though I’m not sure if this is real or in my imagination.
Isaac gets in, closes the door with a soft whump, and starts the engine. This car purrs. Cocooned in the plush interior with Isaac, I feel a little better. I begin to revive.
‘DS Cole came to see me today,’ I say. ‘She turned up at the hospital, out of the blue.’
Isaac is checking his side mirror, pulling out into the traffic.
‘She asked about an argument between Ben and Vivien, the day before Vivien died. She told me that Ben didn’t spend the night at home.’
I turn in my seat, so my body is angled towards his. But Isaac looks straight ahead, and he gives nothing away. He stays silent, his profile inscrutable.
‘Isaac, did you know Ben walked out on her the night before she died?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I knew. But it wasn’t my place to pry, and I didn’t ask questions.’
We’re making slow progress, edging our way onto the flyover.
‘Ben called me and told me where he was staying,’ Isaac says. ‘He asked me to go past the house, to check everything was all right. Vivien had really shafted him by calling off the dinner; those people were critical investors. He needed some time on his own, but he was planning to go home the next day.’
‘Was everything all right, when you went past the house?’
‘As far as I could tell. When Vivien came to the front door she was calmer than I expected, she didn’t seem that upset.’ Finally, he glances over at me. ‘She didn’t invite me in. She asked me not to press the buzzer again because she didn’t want the noise to wake Alexandra. She said she’d just managed to get her to bed. In hindsight, I wish I’d stayed for a
‘Thank you.’
She’s saved me. If I’d given the wrong milk to a baby and my mistake had been discovered, either by me or by the parents, there would have been drama. And panic and HIV testing and a vulnerable baby at risk. There would have been a complaint.
‘I’m going home,’ I say. ‘Can you ask Wendy to get cover for me?’
‘Of course. No worries. Go home and rest.’
Amanda is blonde and full of curves; it’s like looking at the opposite of my daughter. I place the bottle of milk back in her competent hands and leave the room.
As I make my way down the corridor, I feel myself dipping and sinking, my head slipping underwater, as though there are waves beneath my shoes instead of blue linoleum. The chaos and the confusion and the breaking apart have found me here. I suppose it was only a matter of time.
Forty minutes later I step out of the side entrance to the hospital and into the wet and miserable afternoon. Isaac is waiting for me.
‘Thank you for coming to get me,’ I say.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘I’m not sure.’
My cashmere coat is wrapped tight around me but it cannot ward off the cold. The paving stones are slippery after the rain and I stumble slightly. Isaac reaches out, takes hold of my arm and steadies me for a brief moment. I look around, as though DS Cole might be lurking somewhere, following me, camouflaged between the grey skies and the grey pavement.
The car is parked a street away. I’m worn out, as though fatigue has burrowed right down inside my bones, and I’m grateful Isaac is beside me. I couldn’t bear the bus, not today, couldn’t bear to sit amongst all those poor and exhausted people. Stop. Start. Stop. An interminable journey ending at an empty flat. I am one of them. Poor. Exhausted. Alone.
When we reach Vivien’s car, Isaac opens the passenger door for me and waits while I climb in. The car is spotless. I wonder if he has removed all traces of Vivien, or if there are still remnants, bits of her life secreted in the crevices between the seats, down the sides of the doors, tucked away inside the glove compartment.
As I fasten my seatbelt, I’m sure I catch her scent, the scent of flowers, though I’m not sure if this is real or in my imagination.
Isaac gets in, closes the door with a soft whump, and starts the engine. This car purrs. Cocooned in the plush interior with Isaac, I feel a little better. I begin to revive.
‘DS Cole came to see me today,’ I say. ‘She turned up at the hospital, out of the blue.’
Isaac is checking his side mirror, pulling out into the traffic.
‘She asked about an argument between Ben and Vivien, the day before Vivien died. She told me that Ben didn’t spend the night at home.’
I turn in my seat, so my body is angled towards his. But Isaac looks straight ahead, and he gives nothing away. He stays silent, his profile inscrutable.
‘Isaac, did you know Ben walked out on her the night before she died?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I knew. But it wasn’t my place to pry, and I didn’t ask questions.’
We’re making slow progress, edging our way onto the flyover.
‘Ben called me and told me where he was staying,’ Isaac says. ‘He asked me to go past the house, to check everything was all right. Vivien had really shafted him by calling off the dinner; those people were critical investors. He needed some time on his own, but he was planning to go home the next day.’
‘Was everything all right, when you went past the house?’
‘As far as I could tell. When Vivien came to the front door she was calmer than I expected, she didn’t seem that upset.’ Finally, he glances over at me. ‘She didn’t invite me in. She asked me not to press the buzzer again because she didn’t want the noise to wake Alexandra. She said she’d just managed to get her to bed. In hindsight, I wish I’d stayed for a
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