I placed the lasagne in the oven, poured myself a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and took a seat at the table. Soon, the air was heady with the smell of baked garlic and tomato.
Jason was upstairs, revising. He wanted to study right up until dinner and so, to kill time, I reached for the local free paper. But the words and pictures did not interest me and soon my thoughts began to drift, back to the text messages I’d seen on Vicky’s phone. On the face of it, the exchange between her and Martin was straightforward. Barney went missing when he was in Vicky’s care. She, quite understandably, still felt guilty. That was hard to live with. But there was something about their exchange that didn’t sit quite right, something I couldn’t put my finger on.
Abandoning the paper, I decided to make a start on the salad. I chopped the lettuce, cucumber and tomato and arranged the mixture on two plates. I dressed Jason’s portion with olive oil and salt and pepper and, as usual, left my portion untouched.
I’d struggled with my weight ever since I was a teenager. Until Lauren went missing and the subsequent loss of appetite, I’d been what was politely referred to as a ‘big girl’ and I’d been OK with that. I liked to eat and as my dress size used to testify, I never denied myself. Lauren had revelled in my pillowy stomach and thighs. Whenever she saw me in my underwear, she’d grab hold of my midriff and with the same screwed-up face people adopt when they marvel at a chubby baby, she’d declare, ‘Mummy, you are so lovely and squishy!’ But Jason had only ever known me like this: slim and fit. Of course, he knew what I used to look like, but our relationship had been predicated on me as I was now. We’d never spoken of it, but I sensed that it would never do to break those terms.
The salad sorted, I started to lay the table. I’d wait right up to the last minute before calling him down to eat, give him as much time as possible. He was so committed to passing this exam and to his subject. It was hard to imagine what he was like in the years before we met, when he still worked as a welder. The steel was in his blood – a family trade – and had, by all accounts, been a huge part of his social life. Yet after Barney went missing, he’d left it all behind without, it seemed, a second glance.
I looked at the two fire-blankets and portable defibrillator fixed to the wall next to the cooker. On occasion, his passion for his new profession had bordered on obsession. The defibrillator had not come cheap but, within weeks of moving in together, Jason had insisted we invest. A square red case, it had curved edges and a black carry handle. Not unlike the carry-on luggage favoured by 1950s air hostesses, it was emblazoned with a white heart symbol, a slice of lightning through its middle. As soon as it had arrived, Jason had given me a tutorial. Inside was a surprisingly simple-looking kit: a pair of scissors to cut off clothing or underwired bras, two pads with adhesive stickers and the machine itself. A small grey box, it had two buttons: one green, one orange. Jason had reassured me that if I attached the pads to a person who was not, in fact, in cardiac arrest then the machine would not fire. He’d said that the pads were designed to check for arrhythmia before administering a shock.
He liked to keep the box hanging dead square next to the fire-blankets, but now I noticed it was balanced at a funny angle. It often got knocked as people brushed past. I readjusted it into position, but no sooner had I centred it back onto its hook than it slid down to the right again. Something inside was making it list. I lifted the case off its hook, set it on the table and opened the catch.
There, wedged in next to the grey box, was a folder I’d seen once before. Jason’s Vicky folder. I stepped back from the table, confused. And then, wanting to check it was in fact the very same as the one I’d found in the filing cabinet, I opened it up. There was the mobile phone bill, with the same two numbers highlighted;