I’d expected her to, then picked up a large shopping bag that had been tucked under the table, and that seemed to contain a jumble of jewel-bright fabrics, and some red patent high-heeled shoes with a gingham flower on each toe.
I watched her go, skipping between the tables and disappearing into the crowd of shoppers lined up at the register with trays and bags of designer clothes and Egyptian cotton bed linen.
Sunday 11 May 2008
I didn’t find the note until just now, a whole four days since I met Sylvia in the coffee shop. Stuart was at work and I got around to doing my laundry.
It was tucked into the pocket of my loose skirt, so small that I might never have found it had it not been for the force of habit making me check every pocket for tissues before shoving my clothes into the bag for the Laundromat.
I stared at it for a moment, knowing what it meant, before opening it slowly. Just four words, printed—they could have been written by anyone, and yet they could only have been written by her.
I BELIEVE YOU NOW
Four words, scrawled across the back of a John Lewis coffee shop receipt, folded and folded again.
It all dawned on me in a couple of seconds, the horror of it, and already I wondered if it might be too late. I thought about going around there, getting her out, running away. Where would we go? I thought about going to find him, taking a knife, taking him by surprise, finishing it the way I wish I’d finished it four years ago. I thought about phoning Stuart at work, asking him what I should do.
In the end I did the only thing that, realistically, I could do.
I went upstairs with my cell phone and let myself into Stuart’s flat. It was silent and empty without him. The sun was setting over the rooftops and his kitchen was bathed in golden light. I sat at the kitchen table and dialed the number.
“Can I speak to DS Hollands, please?” I asked, when the call was answered.
I had to wait a few minutes before she came on the line. In the meantime I listened to the background noise of the Camden Domestic Abuse office, someone talking on the phone, trying to calm someone down.
“. . . Try to take some deep breaths. No, don’t worry, take your time. I know . . . It’s very difficult. Not at all—that’s what we’re here for.”
“Hello? Cathy?”
Her voice sounded brisk, businesslike. I suddenly wondered if I was doing the right thing.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m worried about someone. A friend of mine. I think she might be in trouble.”
The Rest Assured was quiet this early on a Sunday evening, a few regulars at the bar, nursing pints of real ale and talking about the housing market. I was early, got myself a glass of white wine and sat on the same sofa where Stuart had held my hand and told me how Hannah had betrayed him. We’d both come a long way since then.
She was only ten minutes later than she’d said she would be. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I knew who she was as soon as she came in through the door propped open to let the evening breeze in. Jeans, black T-shirt, short natural blonde hair cut in a style that might once have looked like an early Lady Di, but which was too thick and heavy to maintain the necessary sweep to the side. Shorter than I’d expected, but with the build of someone you’d like to have on your side in an argument.
She breezed straight to the bar and got herself a half-pint of something, then came over. “Cathy?”
I shook hands with her. “How did you know it was me?”
She grinned. “You’re on your own.”
Sam took a glance around the bar and suggested we try the beer garden instead. I hadn’t realized there was one, but through an open door to the back of the bar, there it was. Just two tables, but enough of a breeze to make the temperature bearable.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said. I’d been surprised by it, to be honest, the readiness with which she’d agreed to give up her evening to hear the whole sorry Sylvia story.
“S’okay,” she said cheerfully, “it’s too nice an evening to be stuck indoors.”
She took a swig of her beer and licked her lips, then looked at me expectantly.
I told her