The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [53]
Kissing Rowan’s head, she lingers with her nose in his hair, which smells of apple shampoo.
“Did Daddy come home?”
“Not yet.”
“You said today.”
“Maybe.”
“Where is he?”
“Working.”
“At the bank?”
“Yes.”
Through the window she can see Polina hanging washing on the line. She’s wearing tight jeans and a blouse that looks too small for her. Her straight short black hair in a pixie cut and narrow neck make her look like a Russian gymnast or a child who has run away to the circus.
Elizabeth inherited her from her sister-in-law, although she could never understand why Inga had been so insistent. Yes, she’d been looking for a new nanny, but wouldn’t normally have chosen someone as pretty as Polina. It was something her mother had always told her—never hire pretty cleaners or nannies. Why put temptation in your husband’s way?
There were plenty of women, including some of Elizabeth’s own girlfriends, who would happily have slipped into North’s bed if she let the sheets grow cold. These were the same women who complained about their own husband’s sexual demands or their inattentiveness—getting either too much sex or not enough. That’s why Elizabeth made a conscious effort in that department, even during her pregnancy when she was “fugly,” as she called it. It was a maintenance thing: 1) Change batteries in the smoke alarms. 2) Check the air in the tires. 3) Have sex with North…
“Can I watch TV, Mummy?” asks Rowan.
“Have you finished your egg?”
“I only like the runny stuff.”
“That’s called the yolk.”
Elizabeth lifts him down from the chair and turns on the TV in the lounge. Polina has come inside, her cheeks pink with the cold.
“Good morning,” she says, “did you sleep well?” Her English sounds as if she is reading it from a phrase book.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Can I get you breakfast?”
“I can sort myself out.”
Polina begins clearing up Rowan’s crumbs. Composting the eggshell. Wiping the table. Elizabeth puts two crumpets in the toaster and feels Claudia moving again. What sort of husband leaves his wife a month before their baby is due? That’s not something North would do. He’s a sticker, a keeper, one of the good guys.
For weeks he’s been out-of-sorts, working late, leaving home early, stressed, secretive. She thought he might be having an affair. Then she discounted the possibility. Then she convinced herself. That was in the space of a few days. She hired a private detective. What a terrible wife! Faithless. Suspicious.
Twice she canceled her appointment, the guilt gnawing away inside her like a rat in a wicker cage. I’m being paranoid, she told herself. It’s the pregnancy. The hormones. Then she changed her mind and called him again.
Elizabeth smothers the crumpets with honey. Polina has gone to make the beds. She’s been spring-cleaning these past few days, clearing out the cupboards and drawers, airing old clothes and moving junk to the attic. Routines are important for everyone when a husband disappears.
Rowan has to be dressed. Polina will walk him across the park to his nursery school. Elizabeth has a doctor’s appointment: her thirty-six-week check-up. Her life is about numbers. Eight months pregnant. Seven years married. Five days alone. She can picture the last time she saw North. He went to work at the normal time. Kissed her goodbye. She lingered with her lips pressed against his. She and Rowan were going up to the Lake District to spend the weekend with her best friend from university. They didn’t come back until Sunday afternoon. She had tried to call North all day, but he wasn’t answering. She caught a cab from Euston Station and found the house in darkness. Inside it looked like it had undergone a subtle alteration, as if someone had cleaned up after a party but hadn’t managed to put things back precisely where they’d been.