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Just for a moment I feel a wave of sympathy for Simon. A perfectly nice, solid, unexciting guy, unable to believe his luck when he’d snagged a girl a bit out of his league. And then a series of unforeseen events had happened and suddenly she was faced with choosing between him and Edward Monkford. There really wouldn’t have been any contest. No wonder he found it impossible to move on. No wonder he had to believe there was some hidden conspiracy or secret behind her death.
“We’d have ended up back together if she hadn’t died,” he adds. “I’m absolutely certain of it. Sure, the way we broke up was messy—there was this one time she wanted me to sign some papers: I went to the house to try and win her around but I was a bit drunk and I didn’t handle it very well. I think I was jealous of Monkford, even then. So I knew I had a lot of work to do to make it up to her. The first step was convincing her to move out of that horrible house. And she’d agreed, in principle anyway—there were issues with the lease, some kind of cancellation penalty. If she’d only managed to leave I think she might be alive today.”
“The house isn’t horrible. I’m sorry you lost Emma, but you really can’t blame it on One Folgate Street.”
“One day you’ll see I’m right.” Simon looks directly at me. “Has he made his move on you yet?”
“What do you mean?” I protest.
“Monkford. Sooner or later he’ll make a pass at you. That’s if he hasn’t already. And then he’ll brainwash you too. That’s what he does.”
Something—perhaps knowing that if I admit we’re lovers it’ll simply confirm Simon’s belief that women fall over themselves for Edward—makes me say, “What makes you think I’d say yes?”
He nods. “Good. Well, if me talking about Emma’s death saves just one person from that bastard’s clutches, it’ll have been worth it.”
The café’s filling up. A man sits down at the next table, clutching a sausage-and-onion toastie. A pungent reek of cheap, dank dough and overcooked onions wafts toward us.
“God, that sandwich smells disgusting,” I say.
Simon frowns. “I can’t smell it. So, what are you going to do next?”
“Is there any chance Emma could have been exaggerating, do you think? It still seems odd to me that she made such bizarre claims to you about Edward Monkford, and equally bizarre claims to the police about you.” I hesitate. “Someone I spoke to described her as a person who liked being the center of attention. Sometimes people like that need to feel they’re important in some way. Even if it means making things up.”
He shakes his head. “It’s true Emma liked to feel special. But she was special. I think that was one reason she liked One Folgate Street—it wasn’t just the security, it was because it was so different. But if you’re saying that made her some kind of fantasist…No way.” He sounds annoyed.
“Okay,” I say quickly. “Forget it.”
“Is it all right if I sit here?” A woman holding a sub points to the empty chair next to us. Simon nods reluctantly—I get the impression he’d like to go on talking about Emma all day. As the woman sits down I catch the nauseating smell of fried mushrooms. It smells like wet dogs and dirty bedsheets.
“The food here really is disgusting,” I say in an undertone. “I don’t know how anyone eats it.”
He gives me an irritated look. “You’d rather have met somewhere more upmarket, I suppose. That’s more your style.”
“It’s not that.” I make a mental note that Simon Wakefield has a bit of a chip on his shoulder. “I like Costas normally. This one seems unusually smelly, that’s all.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
Nauseous, I stand, eager to get into the fresh air. “Well, thanks for meeting me, Simon.”
He stands too. “Sure. Look, here’s my card. Will you get in touch if you find out anything else? And give me your own number? Just in case?”
“In case of what?”
“In case I finally get some evidence that Edward Monkford really is a killer,” he says evenly. “If I do, I’d like to be able to let you know.”
—
Back at One Folgate Street I go up to the bathroom and undress in front of the mirror. When I touch my breasts they feel sore and full. My nipples have darkened perceptibly, and there are little raised spots, like goosebumps, around each areola.
My period isn’t due for a week, so a test won’t be reliable. But I don’t really need one. The heightened sensitivity to smells, the nausea, the darkened nipples, the little raised bumps my midwife told me were called Montgomery tubercles—it’s exactly what happened the last time I was pregnant.
9. I get upset when things don’t go as planned.
Agree ? ? ? ? ? Disagree
THEN: EMMA
It’s been a while since I saw you, Emma, Carol says.
Yes, I’ve been busy, I say, pulling my legs up underneath me on her sofa.
When we last spoke, you’d recently asked Simon to leave the house you shared. And we talked about how survivors of sexual trauma often find themselves contemplating big changes as part of their process of recovery. How have those changes been working out for you?
She means Have you changed your mind about Simon yet, of course. For all she swears her job isn’t to make judgments or direct our sessions toward any particular conclusion, I’m coming to realize that Carol often does exactly that.
