get it.’ She goes to the kitchen and returns with a large glass which she hands to me, before sitting down beside me. Soon we’re chatting easily about my work on the appeal, and I wonder if it might really be possible to make up for lost time and recover our relationship. But then I remember what Peter said.
Midway through the conversation, she goes over to the mantelpiece and looks at the photos. There are pictures of me and Peter, plus the ones I’ve added more recently of her and Dad. One of us all as a family and individual shots of the two of them. She looks pensive in hers, whereas my father looks happy.
She picks up the photograph of Dad, studying it. ‘He looks young here,’ she says.
‘It was shortly before he died,’ I say. ‘He wasn’t that young.’
‘I suppose he’ll never age now. Sometimes I just wish I could rewind to a year before he died. Stop everything from happening.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, fighting back tears. I’ve tried for so many years to block out my memories, to forget.
‘I still can’t get the sounds out of my head,’ she says softly. ‘I heard him screaming. Before he died.’
I close my eyes and all I can see are the flames in the windows. My body flushes with heat and I start to sweat, as if I’m there now, in the flat, with him.
‘Oh.’ I can’t make myself say anymore.
‘I was trying to get into the flat. Trying to save him. I knew he was in there. We were supposed to be meeting there to talk about our marriage.’
They’d said that in the court too. That she’d gone to meet him. They’d said she’d set fire to the place in a fit of rage.
‘It must have been awful for you.’ I take a gulp of water, trying to distract myself from the feelings rising up inside me.
‘When I got to the building the flat was already in flames. But I went inside to try to rescue him. I still loved him. But that was why they thought I set fire to the place. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, Mum.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’ She looks down at the photo. ‘He looks happy here.’
I smile. ‘He does.’ It’s nice to remember him like that, instead of all the arguments. That’s why I like the photo.
‘But I don’t remember this being taken.’ Mum frowns and peers more closely at the photo. ‘He’s wearing the watch I bought him for his last birthday. Six months before he died.’ She brings the picture over to show me. ‘Where is this?’ she asks. ‘I can see something in the distance. A pier.’
‘I’m not sure…’ I reply, my heart beating faster.
She looks closer. ‘Oh, yes. It’s Brighton.’ She looks at me. ‘We never went to Brighton that year.’
‘Oh.’
‘You got it from her, didn’t you?’
‘From who?’
‘From Beth.’
I freeze. How does she know about Beth?
‘I—’
‘I’ve seen you with her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been watching you. You’ve been to her house.’
‘Oh, I—’ I struggle to think of an explanation.
‘You’ve become friends, haven’t you? You always looked up to her. Do you think she can replace me? Is that your plan? To replace your mother?’
Forty-Seven
Beth
After I drop Charlie off at school, I walk down to a local coffee shop, where I’m meeting Genevieve. I nearly cancelled at the last minute, unsure if I could go through with it. I’ve been holed up in the house, barely daring to go out. Even little tasks are starting to feel insurmountable. It takes a huge mental effort just to force myself out to buy milk from the shop. I can feel myself spiralling. I remember the last time I felt like this, when I stopped getting dressed in the morning, stopped washing. It seemed like there was no point. Locked in my tiny flat, with the windows and the blinds shut, the air had grown stale and fetid as my mind whirred.
I don’t want to get like that again. I can’t get like that again. So I drag myself to the cafe, see Genevieve in the queue ahead of me and force a smile. ‘Hello.’
‘You don’t look well,’ she says when we’ve found a table. ‘Are you OK?’
I stir my coffee and nod. ‘Just tired. You know how it is.’
‘How old did you say your son was?’
‘Four.’
‘I remember those days. Well, just about, it’s all a bit hazy. I was rushed off my feet.’
I nod.
‘And you’re