A day earlier, I’d sifted through dozens of photographs of faculty members on Effie’s school website until I found a picture of Ryan. He’d taken photos of my son and me in the lounge area of Henry’s home without me even noticing, but how had he gained entrance? I showed Ryan’s image on my phone to two of the brainless receptionists, and one immediately recognised him.
‘That’s Peter Spencer’s grandson, isn’t it?’ she began. ‘I think he’s called Robert or Ryan or Richard or something.’
Neither enquired as to why I wanted to know, and after thanking them, I headed towards Henry’s wing, then took a diversion towards the geriatric care unit, walking along sticky, lino-clad flooring and through bleach-scented air until I reached another reception desk. I claimed to a nurse with a foreign accent that Mr Spencer was my uncle. She didn’t ask me for identification and pointed me towards Room 23. I made a mental note to complain to the management about the lackadaisical security later.
Moments later, I loomed over a vulnerable old man, too poorly and weak to protect himself. All it might take was a firmly held pillow over his face to free him of the prison his body held him in. He might not be suicidal but I’d be giving him just as much mercy as I did my candidates.
I glanced around his sparsely decorated room and flicked through the clothes hanging in his wardrobe, stopping at his one solitary suit. I assumed it would only be worn again when they lowered him into the ground. Photos on the shelves were of what I guessed were his children and grandkids. Then I spotted one of Ryan on his wedding day, and Charlotte by his side in an off-the-shoulder, white lace dress. It was already a dated look. I picked it up to get my first proper look at her. She was more attractive than her voice had suggested; she was slimmer and taller than me. Even if she hadn’t stepped from a clifftop, their marriage wouldn’t have survived. She was too far out of his league to have stayed for long.
If Ryan had been allowed a peek into his future, I wondered if he’d still have married her, knowing what she’d do to him. I know I’d have still married Tony, despite everything that followed.
Our wedding had been a small affair, at a church in the village of Weedon, near to where he’d grown up. We were young, both only in our early twenties at the time, but I’d never been more sure of anything in my life.
The purpose of a wedding isn’t just to commit to each other, it’s also to bring two families together. Only I wasn’t able to deliver my side of the bargain. Tony’s ushers had to direct guests towards both sides of the aisle, so it wouldn’t look weighted in favour of the groom. His mother tried to fill my mum’s shoes by helping me to get ready in the morning. And when I held his father’s arm as he walked me up the aisle, it brought home to me just how alone I was.
All day, when I should have been grinning from ear to ear, I just wanted it to end. It was a constant reminder I had nobody but my new husband. At the reception, when distant members of his family asked where my mother and father were, I’d have to keep telling them my parents were dead. I’d been forced to explain the same thing to everyone, from the wedding-dress shop owner to the florist, the driver of my car, and the restaurant manager arranging the top-table seating plan.
I had no relative to run my plans past, and my bridesmaids were girls I worked with who I barely knew but who were too embarrassed to decline when I asked them. Everything about my wedding was a compromise.
The best I could do to feel my parents’ presence was to wear my mum’s engagement ring and offer Tony my dad’s watch. I was close to tears when he accepted. I didn’t tell him I’d actually bought them at an antiques shop in the nearby village of Olney. I wanted a sense of nostalgia, even if it was someone else’s nostalgia, not mine.
A silver watch lay unclasped and stretched out across Ryan’s grandfather’s bedside table. The inscription on the back read: To our son on his wedding day.
How sweet, I thought. Back then I’m sure it had cost his parents a small fortune. I slipped it into my pocket, along with the batteries from his TV remote control.
I left the room, then paused. I turned around and went back inside, closing the door quietly behind me.
I listened carefully to the old man’s lungs as they struggled to take in air. His breath was wheezy and crackly, too weak for asthma and more likely to be emphysema. The poor bastard really was going to be better off dead.
The call came out of the blue, but it couldn’t have been more welcome. I stubbed out my cigarette on the footpath when a number I recognised flashed across my phone.
‘Oh, my darling!’ I began, and closed my eyes, thrilled and relieved to hear from Effie. It had been a week since I’d surprised her at their new house. I’d since texted the number I’d memorised from the display on Tony’s dashboard and given her mine, hoping she’d want to open the lines of communication between us, which might, in turn, encourage Tony to do the same.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m okay,’ she replied hesitantly.
‘Are you sure about that? You don’t sound it.’
‘Could we . . . would you . . . like to meet up?’
‘Oh, of course, I would love to. When?’
An hour and a half later we sat side by side on a leather sofa inside a coffee shop. She’d chosen a Starbucks in a retail park on the outskirts of town because she didn’t want us to be seen by her dad or his friends, she explained. We sipped hot chocolates topped with whipped cream and sprinkles as I listened intently to my daughter filling me in on the time I’d missed from her life. She explained how some of her friends had turned against her when her Facebook account was hacked and her ex-boyfriend Thom was humiliated. Then her grades had slipped and she’d found herself alone and without any confidence in her own intelligence. It was Ryan Smith I really wanted to know about, but I couldn’t just shoehorn him into the conversation.
‘Are there any subjects you like?’ I asked. ‘What was it you used to be good at? Chemistry, wasn’t it?’
‘English and biology. And now I get shit marks in English and I hate biology because we’re expected to dissect animals. Baby pigs . . . it’s gross.’ She screwed up her face.
To begin with, Effie struggled to maintain eye contact with me and I understood that, while I was her mother, I was also a stranger. I still struggled to remember what had torn us apart, and as frustrating as it was, it didn’t seem appropriate to ask her and risk opening old wounds. Today was about moving forward and getting her back on side, to show my husband what he was missing without me. When her eyes finally reached mine and remained there, I could see so much of myself in them.
It gradually dawned on me, as Effie spoke, that I’d never really heard what she had to say before. I’d listened, but all too often I’d dismissed her words and feelings as those of a child. Now, with her fifteenth birthday approaching, she was a young woman, and it was time I treated her like one.
Several times she opened her mouth as if to ask me something, before having a change of heart and closing it again.
‘I don’t want to pry, but is there something else you want to talk to me about?’ I coaxed.
She shook her head and looked across the car park at the shoppers loading their vehicles with bulging bags or strapping toddlers into buggies. She pursed her lips and looked so sad.