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She unzips the case. Inside is …
‘“Chestnut Reflections”,’ she reads aloud. ‘“A natural way to cover the grey.”’
Emily gives a shout, ‘Oi!’ It is almost funny, as if she is saying,Oi, wotcha doin’?
The box is open. Samantha looks inside, thinking, still thinking, that there must be something else to this, that this cannot solely be a box of hair dye. But inside is a kit – two transparent hand shapes, which look like a pattern cut-out for making gloves. Theyaregloves, of course, to keep the dye from getting onto the hands. They have not been used; however, she is filled with the utter certainty that Peter dyes his hair. Not one fleck of grey. And lately she’s noticed a slightly wig-like quality, which she now realises is due to a uniformity in the colour.
‘Bloody hell,’ she whispers, puts the gloves back, places the box on the floor.
Emily is building up now, though not quite crying.
There is something else in the case – a box of … latex gloves.
What?
On impulse, she removes a pair and puts them on. They are the type that doctors wear for intimately examining patients, a memory all too recent. But that is not their purpose here, obviously. They are probably stronger and better quality than the ones in the kit. That would be so like Peter, to find what is provided wanting. Although surely an exclusive salon would be more his style. Unless his vanity extends beyond not wanting to go grey, all the way to not even wanting to admit that he dyes his hair. In that case, he would definitely not visit a hairdresser and risk being seen. Could it be that he is so paranoid that he has hidden it even from her? Is it even possible to be so vain? It’s like that song her mum used to sing, used to love because she’d loved it as a girl; she once gleefully explained the lyrics to Samantha, telling her that they were so clever because they trapped their subject in a maddening paradox, not that her mother would have used that word. But Samantha remembers the song vividly, how the female singer accused her former lover of being so vain, he probably thought the song was about him. Which, of course, it was.
‘Ridiculous,’ she whispers to herself now, staring at the evidence of her partner’s boundless vanity. ‘Pathetic.’
It isn’t as if she doesn’t know he’s older than her. She’s known that from the start. What the hell is he trying to prove?
She is about to put everything back when she sees something else in the case: a clear plastic vial, a little smaller than a mustard jar – wide neck, screw top. Inside, whitish-grey powder. Her throat closes. A wave of nausea follows. She unscrews the vial, licks her finger and puts the tip to the powder. She has put the powder to her tongue before she reflects on what she’s doing. But she’s done it now and winces at the acrid taste. Like eating hairspray. But it’s not hairspray. It tastes exactly the same as the pill he gave her the first time she came to this house, the pills he gave up offering. Ecstasy, then, is what this is. In powder form. That’s her best guess.
She sputters, spits, wipes her tongue on the back of her hand. Emily is crying more loudly now, building up to a full-on wail.
‘I’m coming,’ she calls. ‘Mummy’s coming, lovey.’
Quickly, precisely, she puts everything back. She replaces the floorboard and presses it down with her foot, stands back and scrutinises it. It looks the same. She hopes.
‘Coming, baby girl,’ she calls out, running across the landing. She picks up her daughter, realises she still has on the latex gloves, which makes her giggle. She’ll roll them up in Emily’s used nappy. No way Peter will find them there. Nappies are something he avoids if he can.
‘Shh,’ she whispers, jiggling Emily in her arms, laying her on her changing table. Despite her pumping heart, the breath erratic in her chest, when she looks down on her little girl, she smiles. Emily, her precious Emily, is here. She is safe, she is unharmed. She has her father’s beautiful bow on her top lip, but Samantha is her mother and she feels the animal fury of it in her blood, in her bones, in every last cell of her. Whatever happens, nothing, nothing will separate her from this child ever again.
Downstairs, while Emily feeds, Samantha calls the English department and asks to be put through to Professor Bailey.
She waits.
‘You’re through to Sally Bailey,’ comes the pre-recorded message. ‘I’m afraid I’m not available to take your call at the moment, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Many thanks.’
She fills her lungs with air, keeps her tone light. ‘Um, hi, this is Samantha Frayn, Peter Bridges’ partner. I’m just calling to let you know you left your scarf in Peter’s car, and if I know Peter, he’ll forget to tell you. So just in case you don’t see him or he forgets, don’t worry, I’ve got it. I’ll make sure he brings it in with him tomorrow. Such a lovely scarf, be a shame to lose it! Take care. Bye.’ She hangs up, exhales. She has only met Professor Bailey a handful of times, with Peter, and has always become a little tongue-tied in her impressive academic aura. But it is not this that is making her heart beat faster. What she’s just done is hardly the fraud of the century, but at the same time it is, for want of a better word, unnatural. Slyness doesn’t suit her, especially after what she and her mother went through. But like an oversize jacket borrowed in an emergency, she will have to wear it as best she can.
She calls Marcia then, her chest buzzing with nerves. She has not seen Marcia in so long, wonders what thin thread is left of their friendship. But when Marcia hears it’s her, her voice warms instantly.
‘Oh, Sam,’ she says. ‘I’ve been thinking about you so much.’
Samantha feels her eyes fill. ‘Me too. I even dreamt about you last night. We were in that flamenco bar.’
‘Costa Dorada? Was it two in the morning?’
‘Of course. We were dancing with the professionals.’
‘Lucky them. Did we pull?’
‘You did. After you’d fallen off the table.’
They laugh. It reminds her of Aisha and Jenny. That bond that underlies everything, even when things are tough. She thought it had gone, but it has not.
‘How’re you doing anyway?’ Marcia asks. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been to see you. This PG Cert’s a bloody nightmare; I’m practically sleeping standing up.’
