Dark Mirrors (8 page)

“Okay,” she replied, taking the extended olive branch offered, surprised by his sense of urgency but pleased that he thought enough of her to come home. “I’ll pick you up. Text me before you take off.”

“See you then, and Esmée . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Hang in there.”

Despite herself a warm feeling of appreciation came over her as she put down the phone. Her brother was an asshole but he was still her brother. She’d deal with him face to face. Finishing the last of her coffee, she wondered what her state in life would be on Friday: alone, single, or forever married?

Once again, her phone rang. It was Penny, again, and as before she rejected it.

She took her mug into the kitchen, rinsed it and left it on the polished stainless-steel drainer. Then, resting her bum against the counter top, she moved her thumbs with great speed and dexterity around the small key pad to compose a text to her obviously and understandably concerned sisters:
Sorry for silence. Man trouble. Don’t want to explain twice. Call to 6 Brook Lane this evening at 6. Es

It took all of thirty seconds for each to respond with a simple
OK.

* * *

That afternoon after school, as promised, Matthew’s buddies came over to play havoc in the new house. Esmée had told their mothers that morning outside the classroom that she would pick them up after school and drop them home to their respective houses at about five. Each offered to collect her son but Esmée insisted that she would deliver them home, not wanting to have to explain to them, of all people, why she was living in a different house. They’d hear all the details in good time: the schoolyard was alive with busy gossips expertly masquerading as bored housewives eager to share the latest titbits of information. It was there that she found out about the apparently romantic meal Philip had shared with a woman who was definitely not his wife. Susan Morecombe had delighted in complimenting his companion’s sleek dark hair and tall slender figure, but Esmée, anxious not to be made a fool of, reversed the role to inform her informer that Philip’s so-called date was, in fact, his sister home from Arizona. The memory of Susan’s face, a long bony face framed with limp hair, complicated by a mouth full of forwardly aligned teeth that only a horse could be proud of, remained with her still. God knows what Susan saw Philip do with his ‘sister’ that night to make her cheeks turn red so visibly! If Philip was going to play off-side he could at least have the decency to be discreet.

The boys had great fun that afternoon and she actually heard Matthew boast about his new house. They watched
Shrek
, ate pizza and hunted for bugs in the teeny-tiny back yard. It was a reassuring start.

Amy, on the other hand, was particularly clingy. Usually she’d be in the thick of it with the boys, but not today – today she became Esmée’s shadow, following her everywhere, sticking to her side like glue. Together they put bedclothes and towels in the hot press, folded and put away the clothes, found places for toys and finally had tea and juice together at the small kitchen table. And, despite her little lady’s odd behaviour, Esmée classed the afternoon’s exercise as a complete success.

She took the giddy troupe of boys home at five – they were in great form and eager to come again to play.

Back at the house, promptly at six she heard Lizzie’s car pull up outside and moments later the chime of the doorbell. She was calm, composed, ready and standing on the far side of the timber door, hand on the latch, preparing herself to face the girls. She stood for a moment longer, smiling to herself, listening to the almost audible terse whispers of the two on the other side. They had obviously come prepared, having no doubt discussed their combined strategy en route. Lizzie most likely would have taken the lead and purposely collected Penny from the train to brief her. In a way she felt sorry for them because they really had no idea how to deal with the situation, each advising the other quietly as to the best course of action. Their hushed bickering stopped abruptly as Esmée swung the door open and they stood facing her. Armed with a bunch of flowers and two bottles of wine they looked like they had been caught with their hands in the biscuit tin. And for a brief moment they just stood there looking at their elder sister, all fingers and thumbs, not knowing what to say before finally, without consulting each other, they stepped forward in tandem to hold and squeeze her tight.

Esmée broke the ice with a grand but quick tour of the house and while they seemed suitably satisfied with her new environment, they couldn’t disguise their concern about the cost.

“How much is it setting you back?”

“It’s not bad really,” Esmée replied vaguely, not really wanting to reveal the amount, and using her mother’s expert diversion tactics pointed out the brilliance of the flatscreen TV with its record and playback facility.

The children, already dressed for bed, were sprawled across both of the two-seater couches watching a Disney DVD, exhausted after the day’s events and still a little disorientated. There had been no mention of their father – they were, after all, used to going long periods without seeing him – but Esmée was anticipating a possible bombardment of questions at some point soon. The girls kissed and cuddled their niece and nephew with extra enthusiasm before retreating to the kitchen where Penny rooted for a corkscrew with which to open the wine.

Esmée brought out three glasses and placed them on the table.

“None for me,” she instructed as Penny poured. “I have to go out for a couple of hours. Are you okay to hang here till I get back and we can talk properly then?”

Getting them here under false pretences, kind of, was an unfair ploy she knew, but a necessary one. Anyway, she’d be back in no time and would have plenty of time to fill them in.

“Where are you going?” they asked, surprised by her declaration, looking at each other in disbelief.

“I’m collecting Philip from the airport.” Esmée tried to make it sound like she was in control and placed the gift of freshly arranged freesias, her favourite, in the centre of the kitchen table while she calmly spoke.

Both sisters stopped and stared.

“What!” they harmonised.

“I’m collecting him from the airport and I’m going to tell him that the kids and I have moved out,” she explained coolly.

“You mean he doesn’t know?”

“No.”

“You’ve got to be joking!” Lizzie was shocked.

“Fucksake, Esmée! Have you completely lost it?” Penny demanded.

Annoyed by her sisters’ outburst, she turned to them. “Maybe I have, I’m not sure. But don’t give me that condescending tone – at least wait until you know the full story!”

“I’m sorry, Esmée, I’m just . . .” Lizzie paused, searching for the right word, “surprised, I suppose.”

“Apology accepted. Just don’t rush to judge me, all right? Look, let me get this over with – I’ll come back and we’ll talk properly
then.” She glanced up at the clock and picked her bag off the back of the chair. “His flight is due to land at seven.” She paused for dramatic effect. “So if I’m not back by ten, send out a search party.” She laughed at the unsmiling stony faces of her sisters, waiting in vain for the gag to sink in. “It was a joke,” she prompted dryly.

“Ohhh!” they sang, nodding in unison, not even remotely amused.

Leaving her stunned sisters alone in the kitchen, she snuck past the drowsy kids and left the house to embark on the next stage of her journey. It was just after half six. It took her exactly twenty minutes to get to the airport and another ten to find a parking space.

As she drove round and around the car park she practised her opening lines. Fin was right – Philip would be surprised to see her. She never collected him – he always took a cab and he would ask her why she was there: to which she would reply that they needed to talk.
‘We need to talk.’
No doubt he’d say something dismissive like:
‘Not now’
or
‘Can’t it wait?’
And then he’d probably lay on a lame excuse like he was tired or something. But she would have the advantage because he couldn’t escape or walk out like he usually did. She would have him belted into the seat beside her and would tell him straight out that she and the children had left the house and therefore him.
‘We’ve left, Phil. The children and I have moved out.’

It sounded reasonable enough on her own in the car as she drove the marked concrete course. She would take the long way home and that would probably give her thirty minutes with him, thirty-five tops, depending on traffic.

She didn’t want to hang around, didn’t want to listen to his bullshit excuses and certainly didn’t want to go into the house.

‘Don’t go. Please, Esmée! Don’t leave me.’

Then she would drop him and go. Simple as that! The less time she spent with him the less time he had to tell her she was mad, paranoid or useless.

The final walk into arrivals enervated her confidence, making her suddenly very apprehensive. Her heart raced and her stomach churned. This was it and she was early. Walking over to the monitors suspended overhead, she checked the aircraft’s progress:

EI268 Paris, Charles De Gaul expected 19:05

She checked the on-screen clock in the corner: five to. She had plenty of time. Selecting a chair with a good vantage point she sat down and waited and as she waited she watched.

They came out in groups, the travellers, and as they emerged through the glass doors most turned first left then right, uncertainly, seeking out friends or family, aware that all eyes were on them as they faltered in their tracks. Many eventually broke into relieved smiles as they recognised a familiar face. But her heart went out to those whose welcoming committee either hadn’t turned up or were just late. The anticipation of walking through those formidable doors was for nothing as they wandered crestfallen and sometimes angry to the seated area beyond the barrier. But it was those who marched through without stopping that she was most curious about: the voyagers who walked emphatically to the exit without hesitation. Where were they going? Home, perhaps? Business people, experienced travellers, just like Philip, who regularly came out through those doors expecting no one and seeing no one? She looked up at the monitor again: seven o’clock – the plane had just landed. It was early. Shifting in the hard acrylic seat she sat up, honed and alert. She would have to look out for him because he certainly wouldn’t be looking for her.

Five minutes, ten minutes . . . he should be coming out any time now. Fifteen . . . twenty . . .

She stood up and walked to the central barrier directly in front of the doors, straining to see if she could tell by the tags on people’s luggage or the writing on the duty-free bags where they had come from. They were exiting now in greater numbers and she scanned the faces of each and every one of them mentally checking them off one by one: No! No! No! No!

She thought she recognised his form approaching through the opaque glass only to be let down in the final seconds as the man rounded the opening left by the sliding doors. It wasn’t him.

The crowd petered out in waves with still no sign of Philip. Anxiously she moved closer to the barriers, pacing a little but without taking her eyes off those doors.

Shit! I’ve missed him!

For an excruciating twenty more minutes she scrutinised a further few hundred faces, letting the panic rise unchecked in her gut. She checked her watch once more and only then considered the possibility that he wasn’t coming through those mesmerising doors. Keeping a wary eye on them, she went to the information desk flicking her head around each time the doors opened: No! Not him.

“Excuse me!” she called to the ground hostess behind the oversized counter “I’m waiting for a passenger from the Paris flight, but he doesn’t seem to have come through.”

The manicured woman checked the screen in front of her, tap-tapping intermittently on the keyboard until eventually looking up from the display to confirm what Esmée in her heart already knew.

“They should be all through by now,” she said, the sympathetic puppy-dog look in her eyes nothing more than an unsuccessful attempt to placate her, “but I’d wait a while longer if I were you – there are always a few stragglers.”

“Right. Thanks,” said Esmée, and patting her hand on the counter she turned away, not quite sure what to do next.

Pulling her notebook from her bag, she checked to make sure she had got the details right. Maybe he’d missed the flight? Then, checking the monitors again she quickly established that there were no other flights due from Paris that evening. Gathering her thoughts she waited, just watching, until finally after an unproductive hour she walked reluctantly and with an air of uncertainty back to her car, with no option now but to go back to the house and wait. She certainly didn’t want to call his mobile – she didn’t want to lose the advantage of surprise.

It was well after eight by the time she got back to the house. Philip’s car was in the driveway just where she had parked it. It hadn’t moved. The curtains were still open and no light shone from the inside. Her previous abode was empty. She pulled up to the kerb, turned off the engine and snuck up to the window, like some kind of prowler, to peer cautiously inside.

“Where the hell is he?” she cried aloud and, pushing her key into the door, entered only to be met by an oppressive silence. The house felt stuffy and empty, missing the laughter and games of its recent occupants. She stood in the hall for a while, feeling like an intruder, unsure where she should go before eventually deciding on the kitchen. Putting on the kettle, she made herself some tea then sat at the breakfast bar and began the agonising wait for her husband’s return. Where was he? He had to have missed the flight! Getting up, she marched to the phone in the hall and checked the answering machine just in case he had called. No messages from him. It just didn’t make sense; she was sure he had said he was in Paris and returning on that flight. Certain, in fact. And even if she had missed him at the airport he should definitely be home by now. Perhaps they’d lost his luggage? Airlines were always doing that to him. She should have waited longer. Should she have paged him? Round and round her thoughts went, confused and erratic, ultimately imagining all sorts of disastrous scenarios. Maybe he’d been knocked down on the way to the airport or maybe . . . My God! Maybe he wasn’t coming back at all. He’d left
her
. First.