The Broken Page 17

  ‘Come on.’ Sasha was practically dragging her daughter along now. ‘Home time.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Hannah called after them. Her voice sounded tinny and false in her own ears.

  Lily, her chubby arms clasped firmly around Hannah’s waist, watched them go without saying a word.

  17

  Now that they were finally about to meet her, Josh wished he’d never agreed to go to Sienna’s flat. It wasn’t just because Hannah was so clearly guilt-ridden, although that didn’t help. Trust Sasha to choose today of all days to try to do her a favour. There was also this horrible, anxious, rushing feeling that wouldn’t leave him alone, as if he was about to open a door he ought to have left closed.

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have agreed to go,’ he said.

  Hannah, who’d been gazing glumly through the car window as they circumnavigated Regent’s Park, swung around to face him.

  ‘You’re kidding, right? You were the one who pushed this through. I told you it was too soon. Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts now.’

  Josh sighed. ‘Sorry.’

  He put his hand out to squeeze her thigh, just as he had always done when driving back from friends’ houses or boring dinner parties where he’d spent the evening sneaking glances at Hannah and wondering what underwear she had on, or through the French countryside on one of the trips they used to do before they’d had Lily, getting in the car and driving from one town to the next, stopping whenever they saw a chateau they liked the look of, or a village square, or a bar. ‘Here!’ Hannah would cry out, the guidebook open on her lap, as they passed a signpost to a cluster of white houses on a rocky outcrop. ‘This is the one with that restaurant in someone’s living room. Let’s take a look.’

  How many times had they sat like this in pubs or trains or (less cheerfully) hospital waiting rooms – his hand unconsciously resting on the top of her leg, absorbing the heat through her jeans or skirt? Yet now it felt wrong, awkward. His hand felt like it didn’t belong to him, a grotesque prosthetic clumsily planted and now difficult to remove without drawing attention to it. Was it his imagination or had she stiffened her leg muscles, as if desperate for his hand to be gone?

  Somewhere around Westbourne Park Road, they got lost. Hannah hadn’t brought the reading glasses she’d only recently been prescribed and was too vain to wear, and the street names on the A–Z were too small for her to see.

  ‘Why don’t you get a sat nav, like everyone else?’ she complained, as they drove past the same deli for a second time.

  They were so snappy with each other, it seemed impossible that just weeks ago they’d made love – urgent, passionate and, in Hannah’s case, drunken love. Now they were once again miles apart. Josh knew he was partly to blame – he still couldn’t bring himself to talk to his wife about the nightmare going on at school, even thinking about it brought on a rush of nausea. The shameful secret was like a boulder between them.

  By the time they pulled up outside an ivy-clad, four-storey white stucco villa in a square of similar houses looking out on to a gated garden in the middle, they were coated in a thick, bad-tempered silence. While Hannah scrabbled on the back seat for her handbag, somehow contriving to grab it the wrong way up so that the contents tipped out in the footwell and had to be painstakingly gathered up, Josh reached for the wine he’d bought on his way home from school. In the shop he’d dithered over what to choose, not wanting to seem either cheap, or ostentatious. In the end he’d plumped for an £8 bottle of French white, but now, standing outside the glossy black-painted railings, gazing up at the high Georgian windows with their antique wooden shutters opening on to pale airy interiors, he wished he’d spent more. When Hannah finally appeared, flushed, around the side of the car, he noticed for the first time what she was wearing. It had all been such a rush when he got home, with both of them struggling to get Lily ready in time and Hannah locked away in the bathroom until the last minute, that he hadn’t noticed her outfit, but now he could see there was something peculiar about it. Normally Hannah was such a straightforward dresser – jeans for the most part, or for smarter occasions plain dresses, usually black, with striking jewellery. But today she had clearly dressed in a hurry, teaming a pair of dark, wide-legged trousers she hardly ever wore with a long, baggy, smock-style top. The effect was to make her look several sizes larger than she actually was.

  Dan came to the door, looking as if he had swallowed a smile too big for his mouth so it bulged out of his cheeks. ‘You made it out of north London. Did you have to show your passports?’

  He was talking loudly, like a child projecting his words in a school assembly. Josh could see he was nervous and wanted to tell him to relax, but he didn’t quite trust himself to speak. The flat, which took up the entire raised ground floor, had high ceilings and dark-wood floors. The furnishings were an eclectic mix. A shocking-pink sofa smothered in mismatched cushions was complemented by a battered leather armchair and a couple of threadbare kelim rugs. On the chalky white walls, oil paintings in ornate gilt frames vied for space with modern silkscreen prints and arty black-and-white photographs, many of them showing the same long-limbed, high-cheekboned figure Josh recognized from the picture he’d seen on Dan’s phone.

  ‘Oh my God!’ The voice coming from the inner hallway of the flat was surprisingly deep and had the kind of husky tone that comes from a nicotine-based diet. ‘I’m such a total div, I’ve forgotten the ginger!’

  Dan threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘Never mind,’ he called, once he’d composed himself. ‘We’ll just have to imagine the ginger. Now come in and say hello.’

  There was the sound of a metal implement being banged down and then a blur of movement like butterfly wings flapping as Sienna appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands down the legs of her baggy grey sweatpants. Her caramel-coloured skin, glistening under a tight black vest, and the damp tendrils escaping from the tortoiseshell clip with which the rest of her hair was messily held up gave some indication of the heat in the kitchen from which she’d just emerged.

  Her make-up-free face was wide across the cheekbones, and when she smiled the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her neat, wrinkled-up nose joined together into one solid brown splodge.

  ‘I’m so happy you’re here,’ she said simply, and Josh got the impression she was holding herself back from hugging them, perhaps out of deference to the delicacy of the situation. He tried not to look at the wide strip of flat brown stomach visible between the bottom of her vest and the waistband of her sweatpants, set so low her hip bones jutted from them like knuckles.

  Dan was looking expectantly from them to her and back again, like a cookery-show contestant waiting for the verdict on his signature dish.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ said Hannah, in that voice she used when she was stressed, the one that sounded as if she’d clipped it on top of her real voice like an extra pair of lenses. Next to Sienna’s casual informality, Hannah seemed stuffily overdressed.

  For a second or two there was silence. Then Dan grabbed the bottle from Josh’s hand. ‘A situation this awkward calls for alcohol. Plenty of it.’

  Dan was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a nondescript T-shirt. On his feet he had a pair of black flip-flops, from which his toes protruded, long and shockingly white. Josh found himself focusing on the flip-flops. Last night they’d had the first winter frost. When he’d taken Toby for his late-night walk, his breath had come out in puffs of white cloud, yet here was Dan padding around with his pale, bony feet, the subtext obvious in every soft slapping step: This is where I live, I inhabit this space, and this woman. Josh looked down at his brown suede lace-ups and felt like his own father, jarringly out of step.

  They sat around the low coffee table piled with books and magazines and old coffee cups and phone-chargers. Josh wondered if Sienna was in any of the magazines, but he didn’t want to ask. There was a part of him that felt asking would draw attention to Sienna’s beauty, which would somehow
count as a win for Dan. How Dan would have won or what the competition was, he couldn’t have said.

  ‘Lovely flat,’ Hannah said to Sienna, her eyes travelling over the ceiling mouldings and the vast white marble fireplace with its cast-iron insert and white plaster Roman-style bust on the hearth.

  ‘Thank you! It’s a hideous mess, I know. I’m such a housework slut. But it scrubs up well, doesn’t it, baby?’

  Baby? To Josh’s amazement, Dan looked pleased rather than embarrassed. In fact, he was practically basking in the glow of Sienna’s attention. The two of them had positioned themselves so that they weren’t touching (was that deliberate?), but they kept stealing glances at various parts of one another – forearm, knee, ankle, the inside of an elbow – as if trying to commit each one to memory, as if they could caress each other with their eyes only.

  ‘Listen, you two.’ Dan had a serious voice on suddenly. ‘I just want you to know I really appreciate you coming. I know it can’t have been easy for you, and I really respect how much you’ve been supporting Sasha. But this means so much to me. Because you guys mean so much to me. And so does she.’

  Here he snatched up Sienna’s delicate hand in his, and they gazed damply at each other for what seemed like aeons but in reality could only have been a second or two.

  Josh felt himself squirming on his tapestry-covered floor cushion. Please don’t let them start stroking each other.

  Sienna slipped off the sofa and knelt on the floor in front of the fire, which had already been expertly laid. Grabbing hold of a box of long matches, she bent forward to light the newspaper, her bottom in the air. Josh felt suddenly suffocated. It had been a mistake to come here, he realized now. They ought not to be endorsing Dan’s shitty choices.

  ‘The thing is, Dan,’ said Hannah, who was nestled into the leather armchair, ‘it is awkward for us to be here, and that’s no reflection on you, Sienna. It’s just the situation that’s tricky. But I really would feel more comfortable if we didn’t talk about . . . well, you know, about Sasha. It feels like a double betrayal. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Absolutely. No, we absolutely understand, don’t we, baby?’

  By this time, Sienna had thankfully leaned back and was sitting at Dan’s feet, the newly lit flames reflecting orange in the faint sheen of her cheeks as she nodded in agreement.

  ‘But I do just have to say one thing,’ Dan continued. ‘This latest claim of Sasha’s – that I burgled my own house! It’s a complete pack of lies. You do know that, don’t you?’

  Josh stared down at his wine glass, as if he’d spotted something unusual there.

  ‘She was very upset.’ Hannah sounded as if the words were being dragged from her. ‘Something obviously happened. And she went to the expense of changing the locks.’

  Dan had been waiting for this.

  ‘And guess who paid for that? Can you imagine – paying to be locked out of my own house? You know, it can’t go on, all of this. I’m completely skint, and Sasha is just out of control.’

  Josh gazed around pointedly at their surroundings – the flat in one of the best parts of town, the oil paintings, the rugs, the smell of old money wafting up from the cracked leather chair.

  Dan followed his gaze. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. This is Sienna’s place.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Sienna cut in, ‘I’m pretty much broke myself since I went back to college.’

  ‘You’re not modelling any more?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘Just the odd thing. But to be honest, I was never going to make a career of modelling. I haven’t got the look they’re after. I get the odd advert or fashion spread, but no more. And I need to do something with my brain now. It’s been too long in the wilderness.’

  ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘History of Art, at Goldsmiths.’

  Josh couldn’t help being impressed. She was obviously no slouch intellectually.

  ‘But the thing is,’ said Dan, ‘I need to be able to support myself. And I need to be able to offer September a stable home. She doesn’t seem to have that at the moment. I thought we could sort the money thing out through mediation, but Sasha refuses. If it carries on like this we’ll end up in court and the fucking lawyers will take everything. Tell me how that makes any sense?’

  ‘Well, maybe if you hadn’t taken your money out of the joint account she would have been more amenable to mediation.’ Hannah’s voice was measured, but the sharp undertone gave her away.

  Dan’s face flushed deep wine-red. ‘What choice did I have? I have to get her to be reasonable. She can’t expect to stay in that house and not even think about getting a job.’

  ‘She can if she’s the main caregiver.’

  ‘Well, she’s not going to be. She’s proved she’s not up to it. Fuck it, you two, I’m seriously worried about September. I’m going for fifty-fifty custody.’

  Hannah could hardly hide her shock. ‘You’ve never done the childcare, Dan! Who’s going to look after her when you’re off shooting in Morocco or South Africa? Who’s going to pick her up from school when you’re working a fourteen-hour day?’

  ‘I’ve thought about all that. I’ll get an au pair.’

  Josh snorted with laughter. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? You’re going to hire a complete stranger, even though Sasha is right there with nothing to do?’

  ‘I don’t trust her any more.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about this.’ Hannah sounded dangerously close to tears. ‘Josh and I are in an impossible situation. I didn’t come hear to listen to you badmouthing Sasha. She’s my friend, remember?’

  For a moment it looked as if Dan would continue, but Sienna squeezed his knee and he sat back, resigned.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ said Sienna brightly. ‘Let’s talk about . . . I don’t know . . . bagels. What’s your favourite type of bagel?’

  ‘Cinnamon and raisin, without a doubt,’ Dan countered instantly. ‘Josh? Where do you stand on the bagel issue?’

  ‘The fruit-flavoured bagel is an abomination, in my opinion. I put it to you that a bagel with fruit bits in it is nothing more than a jumped-up teacake.’

  They were all trying so hard to make this work, to keep things bright and breezy and reassuringly superficial, painting a hard shell over the things that weren’t being said. And for a while it worked. They chatted about work, about the latest viral dance craze, about whether Toby the dachshund had Munchausen’s Syndrome because he kept limping for no reason. They sat around the long dark-wood Gothic dinner table and ate the gingerless stir fry and declared it a triumph nevertheless. They drank the mid-price white wine Josh had brought, and Hannah made them all laugh with a story about doing a phone interview with a television personality while Lily was at home ill – the rising hysteria as she fed biscuit after biscuit into the surprised child’s mouth to keep her from making a sound. Sienna countered with an amusing anecdote about arriving to shoot a skincare commercial sporting ‘a spot the size of Brazil’ on her forehead, stylists squealing in horror and attacking the monster with paints and potions.

  Josh concentrated on the food and the chatter, and tried not to look at Sienna’s hand resting in Dan’s lap or notice the way his eyes followed her greedily when she got up and left the room.

  They were drinking coffee from the most enormous cafetière Josh had ever seen when the crash came. One minute he was sitting with both hands around a chipped mug that read ‘I love New York’, feeling absurdly rebellious to be drinking coffee so late in the evening, and the next there came a noise so violent he thought someone had been shot. When he turned his head, one of the panes in the enormous sash window in the living room had been smashed, a jagged crack running from the bottom left-hand corner up to a hole in the middle, framed by the still-open wooden shutters. Josh was too stunned to move, but Dan jumped up and ran for the front door, wrenching it open. They heard the creaking of the heavy communal door just as an engine started up outside and a car pu
lled away.

  ‘Can you see anyone?’ Sienna sounded like a small, frightened child and Josh fought back an insane urge to pull her on to his lap and hold her and stroke her hair.

  Dan, reappearing in the living room, shook his head. His face was noticeably paler than when they had arrived, and Josh realized just how much of a shock they had all had. He glanced over at Hannah. She was sitting stiffly upright, not saying anything. One of her long fingers worried away at the eczema patch which stood out raw and red on her forehead.

  ‘She’s gone too far this time.’ Dan was staring down at the large pebble that he’d picked up from among the shards of glass on the wooden floor.

  ‘Who?’ Hannah’s voice was sharp.

  Dan looked up, frowning. A dark groove ran from his forehead down between his eyes. ‘Sasha, of course. Who else would throw a fucking great rock through the window? How many other psychos do we know?’

  ‘That psycho is still your wife.’ Hannah was half standing, as if unsure whether to walk out. ‘There is nothing at all to say that was Sasha. It could easily have been local kids.’

  ‘Local kids? In Notting Hill?’ Josh wasn’t sure if he was trying to make a joke, but it was obvious it didn’t go down well.

  Hannah turned on him. ‘Don’t you start. I can’t believe you’re jumping to conclusions about Sasha. She had no idea we were coming here tonight. There’d be no reason for her to turn up.’

  ‘Oh don’t be naive, Hannah.’ Dan sounded angry. ‘You know she’s been spying on us. What about that text she sent?’

  ‘That text didn’t prove anything – except that you’re totally paranoid!’

  ‘Hannah’s right.’ Sienna had crossed the room and looped her brown, toned arm around Dan’s waist. ‘We don’t know it’s Sasha. It could be anyone.’

  Dan shook his head. ‘Too much of a coincidence,’ he muttered.

  Sienna put up a gentle hand to his cheek to hold his head still. Eventually he shrugged and held up his hands. ‘OK, OK. We’ll chalk it up to coincidence, if you insist.’