filled him in on what she now believed. That Leah had Fregoli Syndrome. He’d tried his best to empathize. His wife had a mental illness, but it was a lot, on top of the constant cleaning, the constant rituals, the constant worry. It was wearing. Unfairly, he’d felt cross with her as though it was all her fault, but of course he knew it wasn’t. It wasn’t his either but he was also affected. Leah didn’t seem to realize this. Her world seemed to then centre around herself, Marie and Carly, and then later Archie. George felt he was always on the periphery looking in. Part of her life, but not.
George finishes his phone call and then wipes his call history before he heads inside.
Archie is perched at the breakfast bar with Carly when George gets home, crafting unidentifiable animals from plasticine – a pink giraffe with a neck so long its head trails dolefully by its feet, an orange elephant with flapping ears, larger than its body. The kitchen is warm and cosy. Smelling of coffee and toast. George kisses Archie hello, and then wipes the remnants of strawberry jam from his son’s mouth with his thumb.
‘Do you want another cup?’ George asks Carly as he pours himself a mug of the syrupy coffee.
‘No, thanks. Another mug and I’ll be climbing the ceiling.’
‘Like Spider-Man!’ Archie shoots invisible webs from his wrists. ‘Uh oh – it’s the Green Goblin.’ Archie leaps from his stool and races around the kitchen, fighting something only he can see.
We’re all battling something hidden, thinks George.
Carly, always the practical one, whips a large tablecloth from the drawer.
‘Quick.’ She scrapes the chairs across the floor and drapes the cloth between them, a makeshift tent. ‘The Green Goblin won’t find you in there, Spider-Man.’
Archie clambers inside and Carly follows him on her hands and knees. Not a second’s hesitation while she deliberated when the floor was last cleaned. No noticeable flinch as she places her palms on the tiles.
‘You’re so resourceful,’ George laughs. It amazes him how different the three sisters are. One he hugely admires, one he loves and one… well, he doesn’t know how he feels right now.
Carly crawls out of the tent and passes Archie a couple of chocolate fingers.
‘Superheroes need to keep their energy up. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Stay,’ George asks. The realization he doesn’t want to be alone with Leah sits uncomfortably on his stomach.
‘I can’t. Little man has worn me out.’
Carly’s eyes are shadowed with deep violet rings. None of them are sleeping properly.
‘Leah shouldn’t be long.’
‘Really, I need to go.’
‘Are the letters scaring you?’ he asks, suddenly worried about his sister-in-law. Moments ago he’d been mentally berating Leah for not considering his feelings and he was guilty of doing the same with Carly, but she always seemed to be the one who copes. She might have chosen not to have kids of her own but who’s to say she would have done anyway? She doesn’t have a crutch that George can see, no alcohol or rituals for her. And yet these past few days seem to have shrunk her.
Twenty fucking years. It’s enough to break anyone.
‘Not scaring me… just… I don’t know. I feel angry, I think.’ She tilts her head to one side like a bird waiting for a crumb. ‘Yes. Angry and disappointed and… I just want it to be over now. I need it to be over now.’
‘Three days,’ George says.
‘Three days,’ she whispers.
It doesn’t sound long. Less than a week. Seventy-two hours. But empires had been torn apart in less. Lives left in pieces.
‘What did you think about the TV offer?’ George can’t help asking as Carly pulls on her coat. The colour bleaches from her already pale face.
‘There are things…’ Carly’s breath hitches and she takes a second to compose herself. ‘There are things that are too awful to comprehend. That should never be shared.’
George nods. He knows all about things that are too awful to comprehend. He’s guilty of them himself.
George knows all about secrets.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Leah
Now
The two-day letter is on my doormat when I tumble downstairs after a sleepless night. It isn’t a surprise but it fills me with dread all the same. Two days. Two days until what? I am almost willing the next forty-eight hours to thunder past so I can get it over with, whatever it is. The anniversary or something else.
Something worse?
I slip the letter into my pocket like a secret – the empty chocolate digestive packet after I’d binged,