Fiona Barton - The Widow

“Hello, Terry,” she said, sounding manic as she overcompensated. “No, everything’s fine. Well, sort of. Look, we’ve got a slight problem. Jean has taken off. She left while I was writing. Pretty sure she has gone home, but we’re on our way . . .”

“I know . . .

“I know . . .

“I’m sorry. Call you as soon as I know more . . .

“How’s the copy?”

FORTY-THREE

The Widow

FRIDAY, JUNE 11, 2010

When I get home, the place feels small and dingy after all those deep carpets and chandeliers. I walk through it in silence, opening the doors and switching on the lights. I tell myself I’m going to sell this house as soon as I can. Glen is everywhere, like a faint smell. I don’t go into the spare room. It’s empty—we threw away what the police hadn’t taken. “Fresh start,” Glen had said.

When I come back to the hall I can hear a buzzing noise and I can’t work out what it is for a minute. It’s my mobile. I must’ve put it on silent earlier. I rummage in my bag for it. Bloody thing is right at the bottom, and I have to tip everything out on the carpet to find it. I’ve got dozens of missed calls. All from Kate. I wait for the buzzing to stop, and then I take a breath and call back. Kate answers almost before it can ring.

“Jean, where are you?” she says. She sounds terrible. Her voice is all squeaky and tight.

“At home, Kate,” I say. “I got a train and came home. I thought you’d finished with me, and I wanted to get back. Sorry. Shouldn’t I have come home?”

“I’m on my way over. Don’t go out of the house. I’ll be there in about forty minutes. Just stay put until I get there,” she tells me. “Please,” she adds as an afterthought.

I put the kettle on and make a cup of tea while I wait. What can she possibly want from me now? We’ve talked for two days, and I’ve had hundreds of photos taken. She’s got her story. The widow has spoken.

This is taking forever, and I’m getting a bit fed up, waiting. I want to go to the shops and get some food for the week. We’re out of almost everything. I’m out of almost everything.

When there is finally a knock on the door, I jump up and open it. It isn’t Kate. It’s the man from the telly. “Oh, Mrs. Taylor, I’m so glad to catch you in,” he says, all excited. I wonder who tipped him off I’m home. I look across to Mrs. Grange’s house and see a movement at the window.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” the telly man says, and makes like he’s going to come in. Then I see Kate coming up the path, storming up to us, all red in the face, and I say nothing, just wait for the row.

“Hello, Jean,” she says, pushing past Mr. Telly and taking me indoors with her. Poor bloke doesn’t know what’s hit him. “Mrs. Taylor! Jean!” he tries as the door closes. Kate and I stand in the hall and look at each other. I start to explain that I thought it was her at the door, but she interrupts, talks right over me.

“Jean, you signed a contract with us. You agreed to cooperate fully, and you’re putting the whole deal at risk by your behavior. What were you thinking of, sneaking off like that?”

I can’t believe she’s talking to me like this. How dare she tell me off like some kid, in my own home? Something gives inside me, and I can feel myself going red—can’t help myself. Could never be a poker player, Glen used to say.

“If you’re going to get nasty, you can go right now,” I say, a bit too loudly. It bounces off the walls, and I bet Mr. Telly can hear. “I’ll come and go as I like, and no one is going to tell me any different. I’ve given you your bloody interview, done all Mick’s pictures. I’ve done everything you asked. It’s all done. You don’t own me just because I signed a bit of paper.”

Kate looks at me like I slapped her. Little Jeanie has stood up for herself. Bit of a shock, clearly.

“Jean, I’m sorry if I was a bit heavy with you, but I was so worried when you disappeared like that. Look, come back to the hotel for one more night, until the story’s in the paper. You’re going to have the world and his wife on the doorstep when it comes out.”

“You told me giving you the interview would stop that from happening,” I say. “I’m staying here.” And I turn and go back into the kitchen. She follows me, all quiet now. Thinking.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll stay here with you.”

It’s the last thing I need, but she looks so miserable, I agree. “Just tonight, and then you can go. I need time on my own,” I say.

I go and sit in the loo while she makes phone calls to Mick and her boss. I can hear every word. “No one else’s got her. No, she hasn’t spoken to anyone else, but she won’t come back to the hotel, Terry,” she says.

“I have tried. For God’s sake, of course I’ve tried to persuade her, but she won’t. She doesn’t want another massage, Terry. She wants to be at home. Short of kidnapping her, I’m completely stuck. No. That’s not an option. Look, it’ll be okay. I’ll make sure nobody gets to her.”

There is a pause, and I imagine Terry raging down the phone to her. She says she’s not afraid of him—says he’s a bit of a pussycat really, but I don’t believe her. I see her put her fist against the knot in her stomach when he’s carrying on at her on the phone, rocking slightly. That tight smile says it all.

“How’s the copy?” she says to change the subject. She means the story. I’m beginning to learn the language. I go upstairs for a bit of peace.

Later, she comes and taps on my bedroom door. “Jean, I’m making a cup of tea. Do you want one?”

We’re back to square one. Funny how things go in circles. I tell her there’s no milk, and she offers to get some shopping brought around. “Shall we make a list?” she says through the door, and I go and sit in the living room with her while she writes down what we need.

“What do you fancy for dinner tonight?” she asks, and I want to laugh.

How can we be discussing whether to have fish fingers or chicken curry, like this is a normal home? “I don’t care. You choose,” I say. “I’m not really hungry.” She says okay and puts bread and butter and tea and coffee and washing-up liquid and a bottle of wine on the list.

“I’ll send Mick to get it and bring it around the back,” she says, and reaches for her phone.

She reads it over to him, and he seems to be taking it down really slowly so she has to repeat everything twice. She’s getting twitchy by the end and breathes deeply when she puts the phone down. “Men!” she says, and forces a laugh. “Why are they so bloody hopeless?”

I tell her that Glen never went shopping on his own, not even with a list. “He hated it, and he always bought the wrong things. He couldn’t be bothered to read the labels, so he’d come home with diabetic jam or decaf coffee by mistake. He’d only buy half the ingredients for a recipe and then get bored. He’d forget the tins of tomatoes for a spaghetti Bolognese or the meat for a casserole. Maybe he did it on purpose so I wouldn’t ask him again.”

“My old man’s the same. It’s just a chore,” Kate adds, kicking off her shoes and wriggling her toes like she lives here. “Ironic that Glen was shopping when the accident happened.” She calls him Glen now. It was always “your husband” at the beginning, but she feels she knows him now. Knows him enough to talk about him like this. She doesn’t.

“It was unusual for him to come shopping with me,” I say. “He never came with me before all this happened—he used to do football training with the pub team while I did the big shop. After he was arrested he went with me for a bit so I wouldn’t have to face people on my own. He did it to protect me, he said.”