look at the first picture of Richard and the blonde girl in conversation, her back to the camera. There it is. The same water fountain. The photo was taken outside the university.
I swallow. Richard must have met up with her after he finished teaching. I feel sick at the thought of how blatant he was, meeting up with her at the university, where so many people he knows could have seen them. I wonder how many dinners out they had together while I was at home, looking after Charlie.
A thought occurs to me. What if the woman was a student, like I was? I feel a burst of anger. After we’d had Charlie, I’d learnt that I wasn’t the first student Richard had slept with – there’d been many before me. But he’d told me he met the woman in a bar. Had he lied to me?
The doorbell rings and I hurriedly shove the pictures in my desk drawer and race downstairs to open the door to Danielle.
‘Hi,’ she says as she steps over the threshold. She seems preoccupied as we go silently up the stairs, not bothering with the usual small talk.
‘Thanks so much for finding Charlie last week,’ I blurt out as soon as we’re sitting down. ‘I’m so grateful.’
‘Anything could have happened,’ Danielle says quietly. ‘If I hadn’t been there…’ She shivers. ‘He would have been hit by that car, Beth.’
I swallow the bile that rises in my throat. I can’t even contemplate the idea. ‘I—’ But I have no explanation, no excuses.
‘I worked on a case once where a woman had neglected her children. It was heartbreaking. She hadn’t fed them properly, or given them regular baths. And she’d let them play outside in all weathers.’
I don’t know why she’s mentioning that. Is she saying I was neglectful? ‘I honestly don’t know how Charlie got out.’
Her expression softens and she smiles sympathetically. ‘How’s he feeling after the whole ordeal? Is he alright?’
‘He hasn’t really spoken about it.’ I wish he’d talk to me, but all he will tell me is that he left because he wanted to see his Daddy.
‘Poor boy. I’m sure he’ll get over it.’
I nod, keen to change the subject. ‘Right, shall we begin?’
Danielle looks at the floor. ‘Yeah. I wanted to talk to you about Peter. I’m starting to question my relationship with him. Whether it’s right for us both.’
‘Has anything in particular made you think about it?’
‘I suppose the counselling has made me think about how I really feel about him. I feel trapped. We argue a lot. But all couples argue, don’t they…?’
I sense she wants to say more, but she’s struggling to find the words. I wait, hoping she’ll speak first without me having to ask a direct question. I stare at the closed curtains, the silence building. In my head I count the beats of my ticking watch, audible in the quiet room. I listen for other sounds in the house, Richard moving around, Charlie stirring. There’s nothing.
She looks at me, meets my eyes. ‘Sometimes… I feel a bit afraid of him.’ She tugs at the sleeves of her shirt and I remember the injuries I saw on her wrists the other week. I’d thought they’d been scars from the fire, but could they have been something else? Something to do with Peter?
‘Afraid?’ I lean in closer. I wish she’d trust me with whatever it is she’s worried about.
‘I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.’
I’m going to have to be more direct with her. I think I know what she’s hinting at, but I need to be sure. ‘When you say you argue, what do you mean? Just words, or physical arguments?’
‘Words mainly.’
I remember what she said last week about how she’d argued with Peter before the fire. Had he thrown the petrol on the barbecue because of their fight? As some kind of punishment?
She’s staring at the floor again, tears flowing.
‘Danielle,’ I say, leaning forward, ‘if I think you’re in any danger at all I have a duty of care to tell someone. Has he ever hurt you?’
She frowns as if she’s contemplating what to say, how much to tell me. ‘No,’ she says quietly. ‘He’s never hurt me.’
I’m sure she’s lying. ‘But you’re afraid of him?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think it’s his fault. I think I’m afraid because of the past. I didn’t have an easy time of it after I came out of care. I was looking for love, I suppose, someone who’d care about