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He puts the screwed-up invitation on the side before returning his gaze to me. Palms open and hovering at his waist, he leans his head a little to one side before he speaks.
‘Look,’ he says.
‘Don’tlookme.’ My words cling, trembling, to the artificially flat tone of my voice.
He raises his hands higher. ‘I’m not. I’m just… I know it’ll be tough; I’m not saying it won’t be. I’m not saying it won’t be hard, all right? All right? But just for one second, try to believe it might be… if not fun, then interesting? It might allow us to think about something else, just for a short time. I mean, it’s not a trendy underground bar opening, but itwillbe the party of the year, you know, in suburban terms. Everyone’sdesperateto see inside. This whole street has been talking about the Lovegoods’ refurb for months. Pete Shepherd’s going to have some sort of embolism. Honestly, he’s been giving me a running commentary on it since it started; he knows more about their kitchen extension than Neil does. I bet he’s started getting ready already, probably got his tie on.’
He smiles but even in his smile I can see that he’s disappointed not to have made me laugh even a little.
‘Honestly, hon. This could be good for us. Everyone will be going.’
‘Exactly! That’s exactly my point. I can’t face the neighbours as it is, let alone all of them in one room. What the hell am I going to say to them? What the hell are they going to say to me? What can anyone say to me? Surely you can see that?’
‘I can – of course I can. But we have to talk to them sometime. Might be good to get them all out of the way in one evening. This way we can show our faces and then next time you see them it won’t be so bad.’
I stare into his eyes to see if he’s joking. He isn’t, apparently.
‘Their little one’s turning three next week,’ I say. ‘Cosima.’
He runs his hand down the length of my arm. ‘I know.’
‘Abi would’ve been three by now.’
‘Don’t.’
‘They would have walked to school together. Eventually.’ Tears run hot down my face. A great bottomless well bubbling up, overflowing.
‘The party doesn’t have to be about Abi,’ he almost whispers. ‘It could be about us going forward, trying to make that step. And their kitchen will be spectacular, I guarantee it. Like something out ofHello!magazine.’
I feel so heavy. So tired. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything he’s just said.
‘I can’t,’ I say eventually. ‘I can’t go to any party. It’s too soon. I’m sorry.’ I press my forehead against his chest and feel his arms close around me.
‘Shh.’ He presses his lips to my hair. ‘Don’t cry. We don’t have to go if you don’t want to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.’
I stay in his arms, but the walls of me are thickening, hardening. Don’t have to do anything I don’t want to? I have to do what I don’t want to every single minute of every single day of my life. I don’t want to relive the beats of that morning, but I do. I don’t want to have to watch over and over the flashing film reel of it all, the constant, replaying torture. I don’t want to have to put my new baby boy in his sister’s pram, here in this surreal not-quite-present, knowing that he once had a sister, that he might still have a sister, somewhere out there, but that I,Ilost her. That I left the front door open and let her wander out to who knows where. I don’t want to walk out of that same front door every day, stop myself from triple-, quadruple-checking that it’s locked behind me when I get home. I don’t want to have to stop on the street and pass the time of day with people who know what happened, who read those horrible stories in the news, who offer kind words laced with intangible hints that plume like dark smoke around my questionable standards, my slow reactions, my fitness as a mother. I don’t want to stand there trying not to listen to all that they’re not saying, trying not to hear the creak of their necks as they cock their heads in sympathy that may or may not be genuine. I don’t want to have to put one foot in front of the other. I don’t want to have to breathe in and breathe out. I don’t want to stay clean, eat, live. I don’t want to wash my fucking hair.
What I want is to say all of that, now, to Matt. But I don’t. It’s not fair. It’s me that left the door open, not him. And he has never once, in all the tears and the rage and the confusion that followed, blamed me for it.
Four
Ava
I’m taking the laundry out of the washing basket. Armfuls of sheets, shirts, pillowcases. Focusing on finding the steps one by one. The handles of the pushchair come into view, the mesh back. No Abi. I fall. Land on the bundle of dirty linen. Right myself, rub my hands. Stumble into the hall, calling her name. The house opposite. The lamp post. I can see the lamp post.
The front door. The front door is wide open.
‘If only I’d shut the front door,’ I sob, hours later, to Matt.
He holds me tight. We rock each other softly. ‘Ava, you can’t do that to yourself. Don’t think about it. Come on, Ava, you’ll drive yourself crazy.’
Beat by beat. Sometimes the seconds jump around. Sometimes the minutes mix themselves up. Matt stands thin and silhouetted in the doorway, making the call. He turns, slides the phone back into the hidden breast pocket of his jacket, his body slumped against the wall, his head bowed.
‘They’re sending someone now.’
I can see him. I see him, constantly, over and over. Second by second, lowering the phone from his ear. They’re sending someone now. Face set in shock. Body a question mark. His expression my own. Endlessly.
‘I thought you had to wait for someone to be considered officially missing?’
