Chapter 9
Adam
I am reading an article titled ‘Top 5 UK Universities for Students with Autism’. It’s jumping forward a few steps in our plan, but starting with the end goal and working backwards means I can have answers up my sleeve for any questions Okie might have.
I discount UCL immediately, because of the distance, even though it apparently has a brilliant disability support system. Sheffield could work, in theory, but again, it’s not close enough to seem like an easy jump for Okie, who struggles to visit his grandparents in Cheshire. I keep scrolling, my fingers crossed tightly in my lap. Come on, come on, come on. If the University of Manchester has made it onto this list, we’ve hit the jackpot. It’ll be a ten-minute car journey for Okie each day. He can remain living at home and take private transport to get each day off to the best start.
Sussex... Brighton... there! I stop, a whoosh of air leaving my body, as what I’m looking for appears on my screen. I scan through it quickly: Designated disability advisor... broader supportive community... academic and social growth programmes...
I click off the article and find the switchboard number for the university, jotting it down and circling it so I remember to call later. I head downstairs to make a coffee — frothy milk and finely ground Italian beans, the one hipster facet of my personality — and then make my way back up to the office to start researching A Level exam times. I’m halfway up the stairs when my phone pings.
Piotr: Guys, I’ve got my finger over the ‘book flight’ button — confirm within next 5 secs or you’ll be paying for a holiday you’re not coming on
Fergus: 25th? For how many nights?
Piotr: [Forwarded message] We’ve been over this a billion times — 2 nights
Bil: I’m down, time’s the flight?
Me: Same
Piotr: Early, that’s why it’s cheap
Fergus: Yep I’ll be there
Piotr: [GIF of dancing banana] Mint! Send me your passport details so I can check us all in and pick our seats — it’s an extra fiver, Ferg, don’t have an aneurysm
Fergus: I’ll just sit wherever the system puts me, I’m not giving more money to Ryanair than necessary
Bil: Aw, come on Ferg
Me: I’m fine with that, thanks Piotr — I’ll send you my details now
Me: Sit Ferg next to me, and order him the full English as well, it’s only twelve quid
Ferg: DO NOT DO THAT
I lock my phone and take a slurp of my coffee, climbing the last few stairs and going into the office. I open the top drawer of the desk, my passport is usually in here with all the other important things I always seem to lose. The drawer sticks and then opens forcefully, making my hand jerk and splashing coffee all over the carpet.
‘Oops.’ I rub at it with my sock. Katie will go mad. She’s always been a bit of a perfectionist, making sure the house is as on-trend as possible, but it’s like I’ve got a blind spot for these kinds of things. She once had the sofa reupholstered in a different colour while I was away with the boys and I didn’t notice for two weeks.
I rifle through the drawer, but I can’t see it. I pull out my crumpled paper driving license and smooth it out, and find my national insurance card gathering dust in the back corner, but no passport.
I go through the other drawers in the desk; it’s not unlike me to forget where I’ve put something, so maybe I shoved it in one of these by mistake. When did we last go away? I rack my brains. Crete, last October. Katie and I did an all-inclusive thing for a week. She was looking after my passport, wasn’t she? She usually does — she doesn’t trust me not to leave it somewhere and get us stranded.
I leave my coffee on the desk and go into the bedroom, my mind taken back to our holiday. Katie was beautiful — she always is — with three different outfits for every day and a jam-packed itinerary of sunbathing planned. Was she being different with me even then? I cast about among my memories, trying to pinpoint specific events. I wanted to go and explore, and she didn’t, saying we’d paid for all-inclusive and might as well enjoy it. I went to a few places on my own; the island with the abandoned leper colony, the old town, but I didn’t mind. We holiday differently, we always have done.
She was on her phone a lot, I do remember that. Avoiding me? A memory takes shape in my mind: me, in the pool, splashing water onto her sunbed and asking her to join me. Her rolling her eyes and muttering something under her breath, not seeing the funny side, pulling her wide-brimmed hat down further over her face.
I remember the sting of the rejection; the feeling that something wasn’t quite aligned with us for a second. I swam until I forgot, and by the time I got out, everything seemed fine.
I shake the memory from my mind; these past few months have been a blip. When I got home from Hugh’s the other day, I asked Katie if everything was OK, and she said it was. She blamed her distance on work stress, and I believe her. You don’t win an award without putting in the graft. I’m sure that once everything quietens down, things will start to look up.
My phone beeps again with a message from Piotr, urging us to send our passport details over before all the good seats get taken. I focus on what I’m doing. If Katie had my passport, it’d probably be in the drawer of her bedside table.
I pull out my phone again and send her a message.
Just looking for my passport — is it in your bedside table? Do you mind if I check?
She’s at work, so won’t reply for a while, but I know she’ll be fine with it.
My phone squawks angrily as Piotr sends a string of SOS emojis, punctuated with Bil and Ferg handing over their details. I pull the drawer open.
I can’t see it straight away — coils of jewellery and neatly stacked sentimental birthday cards cover the top of the drawer — so I lift some items onto the bed and look underneath.
There! I pull out a passport and open it, but it’s Katie’s. Surely they’d be together? If it’s not here, it must be in my suitcase on top of the wardrobe. It’s the only other place I can think of.
I go to close the drawer, but something catches my eye. Something burgundy, right at the back. I reach in and pull it out.
It’s a pair of knickers. I feel a flush of guilt immediately; this is Katie’s drawer — I shouldn’t be looking at anything that isn’t my passport. I lift a few more things out of the bottom of the drawer, intending to put the pants back where they were, but underneath is more underwear: cup-less bras, razor-thin thongs, lace and bows and trailing, delicate ribbons snaking across the bottom of the drawer.
There are no tags: my mind takes note of this immediately, subconsciously. I’ve never seen any of these things before.
Katie is completely entitled to her privacy. Perhaps she bought these, tried them on, and is waiting for the right time to show me? I put everything back quickly, my emotions battling with each other, and start piling the stuff on the bed on top, without looking. My hand finds something silky and smooth, and on instinct, I pull it onto my lap. It’s a drawstring bag, black and shiny.
I shouldn’t open it. I shouldn’t.
My fingers find the knot of fabric at the top and I untie it, pulling the mouth of the bag open. I tip the contents onto the bed.
Three items. I force my eyes to take in one thing at a time.
A small vibrator. That’s fine, that’s OK. It’s healthy, it’s normal, it’s not a sign of anything. I almost feel relief, but my eyes have already begun to process what else is now lying on the bed.
A pack of Kama Sutra cards. Also fine. They’re used, the packet worn and the cards inside bent. Maybe she got them second-hand? Maybe she’s saving them for a special occasion?
As my eyes land on the final object, the one I spotted at the start but didn’t let myself process, my innocent explanations evaporate. XL condoms. A strip, with one torn off.
Katie has been on the pill since we met. We have never used any other form of contraception.
My stomach lurches, and I stuff everything back into the bag quickly, my hands shaking. I stack the drawer back up, piling on the jewellery I bought her and the childhood birthday cards, trying my best to make it look like nothing’s been touched.
My head reeling, I push the drawer shut, but as it goes, I spot it.
Slipped down the side, tucked in next to the black silk bag.
There it is.
My passport.