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She heard weariness in his voice, then, which was just what she was feeling beneath her fear. At that point, she had no energy to ask for more details; she just wanted him to go.
‘I’m sorry it happened,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. We should try to sleep.’
After he shut the door behind him she stayed awake for a long time, and now it feels as if she’s only been asleep for a few minutes, and she’s woken up feeling less rested than she did last night.
‘Blinds up,’ she says, but the blackout blinds remain stubbornly closed. Of course. A thin strip of light beneath the door tells her that it’s after dawn. She prays that the police will come today and tell her that Tom’s death was an accident, and she can be released from this nightmare of not knowing and of fear, and try to work out how to live without him.
Patrick calls her, his voice a stage whisper, and knocks softly on her bedroom door. It’s so different from last night. ‘Are you awake? Would you like a cup of tea?’
No, she thinks. I’m not ready to see you or talk to you, yet. Go away. She bites down on her lip before forcing herself to respond: ‘Yes, please.’
She gets out of bed and finds a robe. ‘Blinds up,’ she repeats and this time her command works. She wraps the robe around her, gets back into bed and pulls up the covers, feeling slightly less vulnerable than she did last night.
Patrick delivers her tea a few minutes later, barely meeting her eye, carefully moving things on her bedside table so he can put the mug down within her reach, and as he does, he fumbles, dropping a book and then kneeling to retrieve it from beneath the bed. He seems nervous and embarrassed, too. She doesn’t know what to say, apart from, ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he says. She wants him to go but he lingers.
‘Can I ask you a favour?’ he says.
She nods.
‘My car’s playing up. I had a warning light on when I drove to the supermarket yesterday. I could wait until I go home to have it looked at, but I’d rather not especially because I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying. I called the garage in Chepstow, and they can look at it today, but I would need to borrow a car from you while it’s with them. Would that be okay?’
She’s relieved it’s such a banal request, that they don’t have to talk about what happened last night. ‘Oh, of course,’ she says. ‘You can borrow the Maserati.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. Do you want me to drive you to the garage?’ It might be nice to get out of the house for a while.
‘No, you don’t need to trouble yourself. I’ll drive the Jag there and get a cab back. I’ll probably take it over there now if you don’t need me.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I’ll see you later,’ he says. ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘No,’ she says. He stocked the fridge yesterday.
She feels strange after he’s gone. Lonely and relieved. Still troubled by what she heard last night. Did his shouting have echoes of that night when she saw him lose control? It did. She can’t deny it.
Get up, she tells herself. Stop thinking about it. When she gets out of bed, her foot lands on something and she slips and almost falls, just catching herself. The culprit is Patrick’s phone. It must have dropped out of his pocket.
She picks it up and hurries towards the kitchen in case he hasn’t left yet. As she goes downstairs, the phone starts to vibrate in her hand.
‘Patrick!’ she calls. ‘Your phone’s ringing! I’ve got your phone.’
He’s nowhere to be seen. As she opens the front door, she sees his car disappear down the drive. She waves to attract his attention, but it’s too late.
The phone stops vibrating but starts again almost immediately. The name on the screen is ‘Peter F’. That can’t be his ex-girlfriend so there’s no harm in answering it. She can explain that Patrick’s gone out and left his phone.
She takes the call. ‘Hello, Patrick’s phone.’
‘Who the fuck is this?’
Nicole flinches. She dislikes bad language. ‘This is Nicole Booth. Patrick’s staying with me.’
‘Nicole,’ the voice says, flatly.
‘Yes,’ she confirms. ‘Who is this?’
