CHAPTER 34
‘I told you, didn’t I? I said not to trust him,’ says Josh later that evening.
It was the first thing I told him when he got home from work, and his whole demeanour instantly went from hostile to interested.
At least I managed to ward off an argument, although I don’t admit how gutted I am.
Harry had been so important to me all those years ago, a safe haven.
Kind, thoughtful, sensitive. But what is he up to?
Again I think about the brief conversation we had when I bumped into him on Saturday and how he’d said he wanted to talk to me about Dorothea.
We’re sitting on one of the faded pink velvet sofas. We’ve lit the fire and Solly is lying at our feet and the room is warm and soporific. For such a huge room with high ceilings, the effect of Dorothea’s furniture and the marble fireplace is cosy.
Josh appears in high spirits, happy, no doubt, that Harry is no longer a contender for my affections, what with him being a possible killer.
‘It would have been easy for him to attack Dorothea, living next door to her,’ he says. I don’t want to think that the boy I was once crazy about could drive a motorbike at me and kill an old lady. ‘He’s been lurking around here too … I’ve seen him with my own eyes,’ continues Josh gleefully.
‘Wait …’ I sit up. ‘What do you mean, you saw Harry with your own eyes? When?’
‘On the cameras, of course. I look through the footage every day. We need to keep ourselves safe, Ims. And Harry is always hovering. Once I saw him in the lane, just waiting outside his house, and then, as soon as you came home, he pounced. And then the other day I saw him trying to get in through the side gate. He obviously didn’t realize we have a code now.
Everything is secure,’ he continues proudly, like he’d installed it all himself.
‘Nobody can get in. We’re totally safe now. You’re totally safe.’
‘So you think Harry wanted to hurt me but because you’ve set the place up like Fort Knox he had to go for Dennis instead?’
‘I …’ His eyes flicker to mine and his expression darkens. ‘Why do I feel like you’re getting at me?’ His eyes narrow. ‘Oh, I see, you don’t want to think that he could be behind all this? I saw you. I saw the two of you in the lane. You all giggly, loving the attention.’
My stomach tightens. ‘No, that’s not what I meant.’
He stands up, towering over me, and for the first time in our relationship I feel threatened by his physicality.
‘You don’t need me now, is that it? You don’t need my money because you have all this,’ he throws his arms out. ‘You are a woman of means.’
He makes me sound like a Jane Austen heroine and in no way is it a compliment.
‘Josh …’
But I can see the more I try and speak, the more riled up he’s getting.
His face is red, his tie askew, the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up.
He’s not a broad man but he’s tall, and fit, and so much stronger than me.
And I feel it between us, this imbalance of physical power.
If he wanted to hit me, to hurt me, he totally could.
I shrink further into the sofa. He doesn’t seem to notice.
He continues to rant. He’s not shouting, he never shouts, instead it just comes out like a stream of consciousness about how I’ve used him, how much I take him for granted, that I don’t care about him.
That I’ve never cared. That I’m heartless, I’m cold.
On and on and on he goes, his words penetrating the insecure part of me that is desperate to please and his words are like tiny little swords jabbing at my self-esteem.
‘You just don’t see it, do you?’ he continues. ‘You don’t see how you treat me. How you make me feel.’
‘I’m sorry if …’
‘No, you’re not. You’re not sorry at all. You’re fucking not …’
And then he does something he’s never done before, in the whole twelve years of our relationship. He slams his hand down hard on the table and I wince.
His face instantly floods with shame when he realizes what he’s done.
‘Oh, Ims. Shit. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He slumps down onto the sofa and puts his head in his hands, all his anger dissipating. ‘Why do I feel like I’m losing you?’
I shuffle over so that I’m closer to him. ‘You’re not losing me. I’m sorry. I should have been honest about going to see Gabe. I didn’t think you’d approve, but I just wanted to find out a bit more about Dorothea and her life.’
He lifts his head up and looks at me through anguished eyes. ‘You’re not going to let this go, are you? Dorothea’s death?’
I shake my head. ‘It was arson, Josh. Dorothea was important to me once. To my mum. I need to know what happened to her.’ I need to know what the hidden sculpture means, I add silently.
He gives a resigned sigh.
And then we just sit there on the sofa in silence, the weight of all the unsaid words floating between us until Josh reaches over and turns on the TV.
He doesn’t ask what I want to watch, instead he puts on a Match of the Day he hasn’t yet seen.
I get up and go down to the kitchen. I make myself a mint tea and then sit at the table, staring at my own gloomy reflection in the opaque patio doors.
I try and picture the summer I stayed here: those sun-drenched days that felt like they went on forever, the open doors that made the garden feel part of the house, the dappled golden light that reflected on the ground in the woods where Harry and I used to hang out.
And then my thoughts turn to Harry. There must be an explanation for why he was hanging around Dennis’s house.
I can’t bear to believe he would have tried to hurt Dennis.
I jump when my mobile rings on the table next to me.
Alison’s number flashes up on screen. I haven’t spoken to her since I sent her that text and my hand hovers uncertainly.
I consider answering it, telling her about Dorothea, the sculpture.
I would love to ask her advice about Josh.
It’s exhausting keeping his behaviour a secret from everyone. I miss her, I realize.
But then I remember our last conversation. Her keeping Dorothea away from me, going to see our dad in prison.
I reject the call.