Chapter Seventeen
By the time James gets back with the girls and Alfie, I’m fidgety, agitated, already willing the results back. While my skin is supple and softened from the bath I managed to sit in for all of five minutes, my mind has only grown even more erratic.
I’ve poured a glass of wine, and James eyes me as he hangs up the dog lead.
‘Drinking again?’ he asks in a way that makes it hard to know if he’s judging me or not.
‘What do you mean?’ I snort, suddenly self-conscious of the glass in my hand.
‘It’s just’ — he draws in a breath — ‘you’ve been drinking quite heavily lately. Every night, sometimes even in the day.’
My eyelashes flutter as I stare at him, my body going stiff.
I stand motionless, mouth parted. How can he say that when it’s usually him pouring the wine?
Wine that he drinks, too. And I haven’t been day drinking, have I?
I had a cocktail in town after my hair appointment, but does that really count? That was a treat, for my birthday!
I want to respond, but as I’m busy conjuring up the words, Skyla walks in with Raven.
‘How’re you feeling, Mum?’ she asks, wide-eyed.
My daughter, the empath. When she was two, I remember being so truly proud of her.
Everyone who met her commented on how lovely she was, how caring and loving.
I stopped going to playgroups after Robin disappeared, but we still saw family members who had babies of their own and if ever one was upset or crying, Skyla would desperately want to help.
She’d offer toys, cuddles, kisses, anything she could.
There were times where I’d be in floods of tears, trying to hide them from her, but she’d notice despite my efforts — and she was amazing.
At just two years old she’d put a hand on my shoulder, comforted me.
Cuddled and kissed me with her wet Cupid bow lips.
Her empathy has always shone through so much until recently, so it’s a relief to see it there again. Not gone, just muffled.
I place the glass of wine down on the countertop now and smile at my daughter, because her feeling secure is more important than anything else.
I’ve always tried to shield her from things like arguments and disagreements I’ve had with James.
‘Fights are a normal part of a relationship,’ he’s always said, and while I know he’s right I’m still the mother swan fiercely protecting her cygnet.
Skyla has been through enough. The last thing she needs is to feel like her home life is rocky, especially with Raven here watching on.
We’re under a spotlight, or so it seems.
‘I’m okay, honeypot,’ I say, using one of the names I have for her that came from nowhere and everywhere, like it was a name that had always been there, waiting to be used.
A derivation of honey, a term of endearment I’d never used before.
I’m not usually one for pet names, but honeypot always stuck for Skyla.
Robin had always been songbird, though her nickname had always been ironic because what she did at dawn isn’t exactly what I’d call singing.
It was more of a shrill squawk, I think, glancing at Raven over Skyla’s shoulder.
I lean in to kiss the top of Skyla’s head.
Her hair smells of her shampoo, watermelon and lychee.
As I draw back, I catch James still glowering at me from across the room.
Silently, he turns to go, but not before looking back at the full glass of wine in front of me.
What is his problem? I’ve had an accident; shouldn’t I be entitled to a drink to calm my nerves?
Not that I need a drink to calm my nerves.
I’ve never needed a drink; I just enjoy it.
I’ve never once thought I could have a problem with alcohol.
Rarely do I drink enough to get drunk; my birthday was an exception.
And anyway, I couldn’t drink too much tonight because it’s the evening of my infertility support group.
I’ll have to take his Tesla now that my own car has been driven into a ditch.
I don’t like the way he’s scrutinising me, especially when there’s still a couple of hours before I have to get back behind a wheel again.
More than enough time for the alcohol to work its way out of my system and to be fine to drive legally again if that’s his issue.
I wasn’t planning on having the bottle, just the one glass.
‘I’m just going to see your dad upstairs, my love. Mind chopping up some onions and garlic for me for dinner?’
Skyla nods and draws out a chopping board and the six-inch chef knife.
‘I’ll do it,’ Raven says, holding her hand out. ‘Least I can do for letting me stay here again.’
Skyla shrugs and places the black handle into the palm of Raven’s hand, making me freeze.
‘How do you want the onions? Diced, minced, julienned?’ Raven smirks, but her words come out sugared, mocking.
Something passes between us then as we stand watching each other from opposite ends of the kitchen, Skyla in the centre.
She knows I’m not going to say anything about what happened in the car park today; she knows I don’t want to upset Skyla, because if I say anything I would be the bad guy.
I would be the one Skyla ends up resenting, wouldn’t I?
I’m in a lose, lose situation — and I hate it.
‘Roughly chopped is fine,’ I tell her, no longer wanting to leave the room. That motherly instinct to protect my daughter has flared back up, Raven a threat with that blade in hand.
I hover, watching Skyla topple a handful of garlic cloves down onto the chopping board.
Raven slices off the tips and crushes the garlic beneath the blade before setting to work.
As I turn to go, I listen closely to her knifework against the butcher’s block.
As long as I can still hear the blade coming down hard against the wood, I’ll know Skyla is fine.
All the way up the staircase, my ears stay pricked. I hear her change from chopping the garlic, moving on to the onion. The slices become longer, the sound deeper as the knife cuts through the concentric layers of the bulb. Keep listening closely, I tell myself. Pay attention, keep Skyla safe.
I tap reluctantly at the door to the bedroom. Why, I don’t know. I’ve never felt the need to knock before entering my own bedroom before.
‘Yeah?’ James calls, and I take that as my cue to come inside. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his belt on the floor, the buttons of his shirt undone.
‘What happened to your top?’ he asks as I take a tentative step closer to him.
I glance down at the stain I’d forgotten was there in the aftermath of the accident. This is when I tell him. Tears form in my eyes, and I scrunch the blouse up in my arms.
‘Raven did it,’ I sob. ‘She sabotaged me.’
James lets out a huff. ‘What’re you talking about?’
‘She knocked right into me, made me spill my coffee all over myself,’ I explain. ‘She’s . . . she’s everywhere, James. She’s—’
James cuts me off mid-sentence. ‘Stop. Just stop.’
‘But she’s doing things to me, James! Raven isn’t normal,’ I cry.
‘Raven is a young girl, Isabella. She’s got a shitty home life, and she’s obviously latched on to us for some sort of safety and security,’ James says. ‘She’s Skyla’s friend, and she needs us.’
‘She doesn’t need us. If her home life is that bad, she needs to go to social services,’ I say coldly.
James blanches. ‘And end up being forced to enter foster care, at her age? What has happened to you?’ he asks, his lip curling in disgust.
‘Wh-what do you mean?’ I stammer.
‘You used to be so caring. You’d never have made a young girl like Raven feel so unwelcome the way you have been. You would have wanted to help her, that’s the Isabella I married.’ He looks me up and down. ‘This version of you is — nasty.’
‘Nasty?’ I gasp. ‘James, it’s her being nasty, not me!’ I feel the need to race back down the stairs. I’m too far from the kitchen now to hear the chopping and the idea of Skyla down there with Raven holding a knife in her hand is keeping me on edge.
‘I know you’ve been drinking more than you let on,’ he says. ‘And we both know alcohol makes you . . . mean-spirited.’
‘I only ever drink with you!’ My eyebrows are set into a deep frown, and I shake my head wildly back and forth. I can’t believe what he’s saying. I glance at the door, wishing I’d at least kept it open so I could hear something from down there.
‘You were drinking when we came back from walking Alfie,’ he points out.
‘That’s different! I’d been in an accident!’ Adrenalin is starting to rush through my arms and down into the tips of my fingers. Why doesn’t he understand? Why is he treating me this way?
‘Maybe it’s a good thing you weren’t breathalysed after the accident.’ James turns away from me.
My mouth drops open, the room starting to lose its solidity. The walls seem to start caving in, the door falling away.
‘You don’t even bother hiding the bottles.’ He sighs. ‘I’ve been seeing them stack up in the recycling, Isabella. How much are you actually drinking a day?’
‘Bottles? What?’ I flounder. ‘James, I do not day drink. You’d be able to tell if I did!’
‘Alcoholics are good at hiding things when they need to,’ he says bitterly.
‘Are you calling me an alcoholic?’
‘Come on, Isabella. You know you developed a bit of a problem after Robin disappeared.’
My legs turn so weak I have to sit down on the ottoman. I grip onto the softness of the velvet, hoping it will help calm me down.
‘I’ve never had a problem with alcohol,’ I say firmly. I look up at him through tear-filled eyes.
It is true that I started to drink more than I used to after Robin disappeared.
One glass of wine in the evenings became two, but I’d hardly think that constituted alcoholism.
I was only ever trying to numb my nerve-endings, raw and exposed.
The wine helped with that. It helped to soften the constant aching for my toddler, drift my thoughts away from the everlasting worry of where she might be, who she might be with.
Are they feeding her? Keeping her hydrated?
Is she warm? Is she even still alive? Wine swaddled those questions and tucked them away for another day, and there was a deep sense of comfort for me in that, because I could only endure the persistent brooding for so long.
‘Where have all these bottles appeared from then?’ James asks, hands on his hips.
‘M-maybe it’s her,’ I tremble. ‘Maybe this is another one of her ways to toy with me.’
James looks away again, working his jaw. ‘Ever since Raven arrived you’ve been acting so strange,’ he says, refusing to meet my eyes.
‘Because she’s tormenting me!’ I say, wounded and exasperated. Believe me, I beg silently.
We face each other, standing our ground. It is clear we’ve reached a stalemate. Both of us living in different realities.
And then he says the one thing that breaks me, that shatters my every confidence in him.
‘Is she, though, Bella? Is she really tormenting you, or are you tormenting yourself?’ He winces, perhaps afraid of what his words have permanently altered in us in this moment.
Words he can’t take back and now linger in the air between us like a bad smell.
He doesn’t believe me. Maybe he never has.
He’s questioning me, implying I’m wrong.
Am I? I can’t possibly be imagining everything Raven has said and done to me since she arrived.
I shut my eyes, press my lips together before I say something I’ll regret.
It’s only a matter of time until the results from the DNA test come back.
Time will reveal all, though I have no idea what I’ll do either way.
If Raven is our daughter, how do I handle it?
If she isn’t, do I report her? Yes, I suppose I must. She can’t go through life preying on the vulnerable, destroying people’s lives.
If I report her, I wouldn’t even need to share the DNA results anyway.
Maybe the police will request samples of their own if I tell them she’s been telling me she’s Robin.
Harassing me. There are ways for the truth to come out.
I just need to handle this all correctly.
Let James think what he wants to, for now. The truth always comes out eventually, doesn’t it?
* * *
There isn’t a bloodbath when I manage to hurtle back down the staircase and crash into the kitchen. Everything is fine. The onions are chopped, the garlic minced, and the girls are sitting at the kitchen island both hunched over one of their phones, watching intently. A TikTok video, perhaps.
Pulling open the fridge, I bring out the steaks and leave them to come to room temperature on the side.
While I wait, curiosity gets the better of me and I venture outside to the green recycling bin.
I’m about to drop the steaks’ plastic packaging inside when I pause, looking down.
A number of empty bottles are inside, not ones from the party either.
Those we took to the bottle bank, knowing there were far too many of them to fit in our recycling.
No Dom Pérignon here. Just copious bottles of wine, far too many considering our recycling gets taken away weekly.
I certainly haven’t had more than two bottles over the last week.
I stride back inside, heading towards the bar.
Our wine rack, usually fully stocked, has been attacked.
Empty slots are dotted everywhere. Some really expensive wines we’d been saving for special occasions are missing.
Wines we’ve collected from countries we visited.
Keepsakes from South Africa, Portugal, Spain, even Norway. They’re all gone.
My heart is starting to pick up its pace again. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do this. I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t.