CHAPTER 19
Ella
The locksmith works silently at the doors as the crisp morning air draws in.
An animalistic anger runs through me. Yesterday still plays on my mind, having to talk the police through everything, over and over again.
A statement has been made. It won’t come to anything, but it’s done, and now this.
The idea that Mum has been speaking to Henry again leaves my face hot.
Part of me wants to tell her that I stood face-to-face with him as he broke into my house, and yet I can’t.
The coffee cup warms my face as I take another sip.
I think of how different things would have been if I had stayed with Dad.
The locksmith looks up. “You can head off if you need to,” he says. I simply nod. This isn’t the first time he’s said this, but I won’t be moving. I sip my coffee as he works a tool into the side of the snug door.
Logically, Henry doesn’t know the locksmith, the gardener or the cleaner, but my nerves have eaten away at me, so now everyone is a threat.
The marble of the kitchen floor is cold against my bare feet.
A gentle murmuring comes from behind me: Rufus and Helena.
I glug more of my coffee, hoping the warmth will calm me.
“What’s all this?” Rufus says, approaching me with a look I am sure I once found comforting. How much does this man know? He’s wearing his work outfit with a few buttons loose. There’s a smile on his face, but I know that’s for the guest in our house and not for me.
“We’re getting the locks changed,” I say, my eyes still on the locksmith. He has a rugged rouge to his cheeks and nose, and a tight green top that seems to be well made. It suits him, working with his hands.
Rufus coughs, and I turn to him. He nods towards the kitchen, and dutifully, I follow. There’s not much more to elaborate on when he refuses to play ball with me. But I humour him.
“Why are we changing the locks? You had no proof that anyone was here. A fox could have easily tripped the alarm.” He looks down at me, speaking slowly and low. I glance back at the locksmith.
“There have been some things going on, and I’d rather feel safe than not,” I say.
“What things?” Rufus asks.
“Where were you the other night?” I say, placing the coffee cup on the counter. My dad’s voice comes to mind, as we pack our bags up, my mum off somewhere doing something that neither of us could control.
Make decisions for yourself and not others, he used to say.
Looking at Rufus now, I wonder about this decision.
“Probably working,” Rufus says now, smart and snide.
I ignore it.
“Yesterday. I called you about the break-in. The break-in that I had to tell you about in the middle of the night when you finally came home. I called you and you never answered.” I pause, watching the emotions play out across his face. “I even called your office, and you weren’t there.”
Rufus’s shoulders draw back.
“So where were you?”
My mother’s voice is there again, cold and emotionless as she breathes down at me, “Why couldn’t you be Nate…”
Have I always been trying to be something I’m not?
Finally, Rufus speaks, and it’s the same cold detachment of my mother’s voice.
“I was working,” he says.
Working.
“Well, stop. I need you here,” I say, but it doesn’t sound as strong as I intend it to.
Rufus blinks for a second before a small, cruel smirk emerges.
“Stop? And who do you think will be paying for this? For the cameras and the new locks, all your clothes and your little podcast project?”
And there it is, the elephant we were all dancing around.
Rufus’s generosity flips onto its back, revealing its dark and malicious underbelly.
I never wanted to reduce my work, that was his idea.
It was Rufus who insisted that I do what makes me happy.
But at what cost? Finally, his resentment and anger spill over in hushed snips on a chilly autumn morning.
The studio, lavishly decked out, was nothing more than entertainment for him.
A way to fill my time so I wouldn’t ask too many questions, or worse, notice when he’s gone.
“Who were you with all night?” I snap back, watching him. He folds his arms and sighs, his chest rising and falling slowly.
“I told you, I was at work,” he says.
“Until two in the morning?” I lift my chin and scan his eyes. I’ve always wondered if you know when a man is cheating. If there’s a telltale look in his eyes which conveys how pathetic he is. There is.
Rufus’s face remains steady. “Yes.”
It’s a lie. If I wasn’t sure of it, the fact that he turns and walks away tells it all. Heat rises up my neck. I have to be careful here. I can’t leave until I have sorted things with Henry.
I turn, catching the locksmith’s stare before he readjusts himself, busying his hands again. I see myself through his eyes, the trophy wife who’s scared enough to change the locks but not smart enough to leave the marriage.
I wipe the side of my face. I catch up to Rufus in the hallway, Helena slinking away upstairs.
Stepping in front of him, I place my hand firmly on the wall. “Is it smart of you to be sleeping around before we get married?”
All I can see is the image of Rufus, head dipped as he leans in, and Poppy, her head tilted up, inviting. Rufus scoffs now, putting on his shoes.
“Well?” I push.
“What more do you want, Ella? You have this house, this life, all the things you could ever want. I picked you up and I made you.”
He steps forward, his face drawing close. I scan it, searching for answers to questions I don’t yet have.
“Why can’t you be happy with all this?” he says, in a way that is supposed to be gentle but rips at my heart, leaving me aching. He places a kiss on my lips, soft and quick.
As he reaches the door, he turns, his voice louder now to ensure that all the staff in the house can hear.
“We have guests coming tonight, so wear something nice,” he says.
The tears come then, unforgiving and fast. There’s the same disappointment in his eyes that my mother gave me once Nate disappeared. The same question dressed up differently this time: why can’t you be someone better?
I reach Immi’s shop by midday. I drive despite the closeness and impracticality of parking. It takes two tries to leave the security of the driver’s seat.
By then, my face is clean, and the redness from my tears has disappeared. The aching that Rufus left me with still niggles, as does the knowledge that Henry was at my house again. I’m running out of time.
“Darling.” Immi’s voice dips once the last customer leaves, pulling me into a hug that lasts too long.
“I’m fine,” I say, because that’s what you say.
I keep the information vague because I have updated her on most of it already, but somehow working over it untangles more things I forgot to notice.
How did Henry know which door to choose, finding the only one that wasn’t in the sight of the camera?
How did he leave and not be seen by the neighbours?
The gate is too high to jump over, so he must have simply entered the code and thus didn’t trigger the alarm.
How all of this meant that he had done this before, many times, potentially.
The past is stretching out its globby hands and dripping rancid gunk over my present. Devouring everything in its wake.
Immi’s face is more made up than before, the make up thick and noticeable around the edges.
She catches me staring. “Oh, I’m wearing a new blusher, going for something more autumnal. Do you like it?”
“I thought there was something different,” I say and nod.
“What did the police say?” Immi says, leaning on the counter.
“They’ve filed a breaking and entering report. I told them who it was, and they are looking into him.”
The truth untangles itself. I am selective in what I tell Immi, because soon this won’t be a problem anymore.
“But, for now, can we just…” My eyes trail downwards, prickling with tears.
“Of course. Tea?” Immi replies, singsong. I smile at how easy it is, in this little gated world, to move from honesty to pretence.
“Please,” I say.
After nearly an hour with Immi, drinking tea, I feel lighter. The pressure of what’s to come sits further back in my mind, and she acts as the perfect distraction until the door rattles open.
“Ladies.” Benji’s figure looms at the threshold of the shop. Immi stops speaking. I expect her to hop around the counter to jump into his arms as she usually does. But instead, she crosses her arms.
“Benji,” she says cooly. I shift back, the atmosphere tense.
“Immi, I wanted to–”
“Apologise?” There’s sass in her words, and she raises an eyebrow at him. The energy feels juvenile. I busy myself with the display to my left.
“Yes, actually. I acted rashly.” He steps into the shop, knocking a display of scarves as he moves. He fumbles to straighten them. There’s something oddly awkward about him. He’s grown facial hair since I last saw him and it makes him appear tired and gaunt.
“You were an idiot,” Immi says. I enter the back of the shop, heat prickling across the top of my ears.
They’re in their “off-again” phase, and now I’m trapped in it.
I fill the kettle, letting the sound of water cover their conversation, and flick it on.
Our cups are still on the counter, so I find new ones, moving around the back space and nosing through Immi’s stuff.
I’m reading a fire safety poster with two freshly brewed cups of tea when Benji’s voice carries through the door.
“I think it’s getting a bit ridiculous now,” he says. There’s anger in his voice. My hands hover by my side.
I can’t hear Immi’s reply.
“Come on now, Immi. You’ve dragged this on for too long,” Benji says.
I press my ear against the door and hear a sniff coming from Immi. I lick my lips. I could go in, but would that only pause the inevitable conversation?
“You need to let this go,” Benji says, and there’s an edge of desperation.
“Like hell I do,” Immi shouts and there’s a thud.
I yank open the door to find them standing close in the middle of the shop, the closed sign turned over. Benji takes a step back.
“I think you should go,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Woah, look, this is just–” Benji starts.
“Now,” I say. Immi folds her arms. Benji looks between us, his eyes darkening. A shiver runs over me. That look is eerily familiar.
“You need to watch yourself,” Benji snaps.
“Leave, Benji. Before you say something we’ll all regret.” Immi’s voice is calm, her face empty of emotion. It jars me to see her like that.
The word “psycho” hangs in the air as Benji retreats.
After the door clicks closed, Immi rushes forward, twisting the lock. Her body shakes as she pulls me in for a hug.
“I’m so glad you were here, thank you,” she says before I have a chance to question what was happening.
“Immi, things between you both seem really bad.”
I’ll regret saying that when they’re back together, but the more I search for them, the fewer endearing qualities I find in Benji.
Immi sighs, twisting a lock of her hair.
“He’s upset and emotional about a fight we had. I know it’s bad but he needs to cool down, and so do I,” she says.
“This isn’t your fault. He threatened me, he nearly hit you,” I say, and Immi’s eyes open wide.
“Oh no, that’s not what happened. It’s all just–”
I jump at my phone’s notification sound.
“Is that…?” Immi asks, her eyes dropping to my pocket.
I reach an unsteady hand for it. I’m so used to the messages, the constant nagging at the back of my mind that Henry is watching me.
Another unknown number shows, but it’s a text message this time.
I read slowly, an energy buzzing through me: Here, this is Henry’s address. He promised to help find Nate. Bring my baby home. Mum.
“I know where Henry is,” I sigh, and all worries about Benji float away.