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“I assume, given what you’ve just said, that you don’t want to be his father in any practical sense,” I go on. “That’s fine. I don’t want anything from you, Edward. If you’d only told me you were still in love with Emma—”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupts. “It was like an illness. I hated myself every second I was with her.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. “The therapist I saw today…She talked about how we can get stuck inside a story, trying to reenact our old relationships. I think somehow you’re still stuck inside Emma’s story. I can’t help you get out of it. But I won’t get stuck in there with you.”
He looks up at the walls, at the perfect, sterile spaces he’s created. He seems to draw strength from them. He stands up.
He says, “Goodbye, Jane.” He picks up the Swaine Adeney bag and leaves.
11. Which relationship problem do you fear most?
? Getting bored
? Realizing you could do better
? Growing apart
? Your partner becoming dependent on you
? Being deceived
THEN: EMMA
Sometimes it’s as if I can shrink away to nothing. Sometimes I feel as pure and perfect as a ghost. The hunger, the headaches, the dizziness—these are the only things that are real.
Being good at not eating is the proof I’m still powerful. Sometimes I’m not so good and gobble a whole loaf of bread or a tub of coleslaw, but then I force my fingers down my throat and bring it up again. I can start over. Wipe the calorie slate clean.
I’m not sleeping. The same thing happened last time my eating disorder was bad. But this is worse. I wake abruptly in the night, convinced the house lights have flicked on and off or that I’ve heard someone moving about. After that, getting back to sleep is impossible.
I go to Carol and tell her that Edward is a vicious, bullying egomaniac. I tell her that he brutalizes me, that he’s controlling and obsessive and that’s why I’ve left him. But although I want to believe what I’m telling her, longing for him permeates every cell of my body.
When I come back from seeing her, I notice something in the garden, what looks like a rag or a discarded toy. It takes my brain several moments to work out what it is and then I’m outside, hurrying across the pristine gravel.
Slob. At the front he’s on his feet, but the back half is lying sideways. He’s dead. His left side has been stoved in, a mess of bloodied fur. He looks as if he’s dragged himself here, away from the house, before collapsing. I look around. There’s nothing to explain how he died. Hit by a car? Stamped on and then thrown over the fence? Or even trapped against the house and battered with a brick?
You poor thing, I say aloud, crouching down to stroke the side that isn’t damaged. My tears fall onto his silky fur, so still and unresponsive now. You poor, poor thing. I say it to him but really I mean me.
And then it hits me that this, just as much as the paint flung against the wall, is a message. You’re next. Whoever is doing this wants me frightened as well as dead. And now I’m all alone, with no way of stopping them.
Except for Simon. I can still try Simon. There’s nobody else left.
NOW: JANE
So here I am, come full circle. A bump and no man. Mia doesn’t say I told you so. But I know she’s thinking it.
There’s one last piece of housekeeping I need to take care of. Edward might not have been interested in what I found out about Emma, but I think Simon deserves to know. I ask Mia to be there too, in case he takes it badly.
He arrives punctually, bringing wine and a thick blue folder. “I haven’t been inside this place since it happened,” he says, scowling at the interior of One Folgate Street. “I never liked it. I told Emma I did, but really it was her who wanted to live here. Even the tech stuff turned out to be less impressive than it first seemed. It was always going wrong.”
“Really?” I’m surprised. “I haven’t had any problems.”
He puts the folder on the counter. “I brought you this. It’s a copy of my research on Edward Monkford.”
“Thank you. But I don’t need it now.”
He frowns. “I thought you wanted to find out how Emma died.”
“Simon…” I make eye contact with Mia, who tactfully takes the wine away to open it. “Emma lied about Edward. I can’t be sure why, just as I can’t be sure about the exact circumstances of her death. But there’s no doubt that what she told you about him was wrong.” I leave a pause. “She’d been caught out in another, bigger lie as well. It wasn’t the burglar in that video the police found on her phone. It was Saul Aksoy.”
“I know that,” he says angrily. “That’s got nothing to do with it.”
It takes me a moment to work out how he knows. “Oh—Amanda told you.”
He shakes his head. “Emma did. After she broke up with Edward, she told me everything.”
“Did she tell you how it happened?”
“Yes. Saul drugged her and forced himself on her.” He sees my expression. “What? You’ve been playing detective and you didn’t know that?”
