Our House by Louise Candlish (33)

34

‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:59:07

Did no one else suspect Bram of anything criminal back then, even if I did not? That’s right, my mother helped us with childcare and was probably in and out of Trinity Avenue more than anyone else, but certainly not her, no. I would go so far as to say that not only was she oblivious to any illegalities but she also privately wished for a reunion between us. Not that she had any desire to see her daughter humiliated, of course, it was just that she regarded his second infidelity as I had regarded the first: not excusable, but maybe, just possibly, pardonable.

‘It seems to me he’s going out of his way to make things nice for you,’ she said. ‘The lilies he left for you were beautiful.’

This was undeniable. After the Kent weekend, he’d left a huge and stunning bouquet for me, even using my favourite vase. The last time he’d bought me flowers, well, I couldn’t remember; before the betrayal, certainly. He’d been too exposed afterwards, risked being accused of empty symbolism.

(You’re probably thinking, God, the poor man can’t win, but I think we already know that he found a way.)

‘You’re obviously on his mind,’ Mum added. He still loves you, was the subtext.

I don’t say any of this in order to criticize her. No one could be more grateful to a parent than I am to her. It’s more to try to show you that we were all susceptible to Bram’s charms one way or another. (Alison always said this included Polly, whom she suspected disliked him because she feared an attraction.)

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying he was psychopathically charismatic or anything like that. He didn’t set out to use his powers for evil.

More likely, his powers were no match for the evil he chanced upon.

*

I’m bracing myself now, because I know that more than any other scene I’ve described this next one will make you question my intelligence. I mean come on, you’ll think, how could you possibly not have suspected?

It was a few days after we’d come back from Kent, the first week of November, when in the evening, just before Harry’s bath time, the doorbell rang.

A fortysomething couple stood on the doorstep, well-mannered and hopeful. ‘Sorry to interrupt your evening,’ the woman began. ‘This is a bit cheeky, but . . .’ And I thought at once it might be a scam, some apparently respectable pair with a broken-down car needing £20 for a taxi. ‘. . . We missed the open house and happened to be passing and wondered if we could have a quick look around now? We’ve been looking in this area for months.’

‘Open house?’ I said.

‘Yes.’ They exchanged looks. ‘This is the one for sale, isn’t it? On the market with Challoner’s?’

Ah, not a scam, an honest mistake. People like us, after all. ‘No, you must mean number ninety-five,’ I told them. ‘I don’t know which estate agent they’re using.’

As the couple retreated, apologetic, I felt sheepish for having jumped to conclusions. Until the recent spate of crimes on the street, I’d prided myself on giving strangers the benefit of the doubt.

Minutes later, Harry was in the bath and Leo was doing his reading homework while balancing on the banister and there was the usual chaos and clamour, so when the bell went again I didn’t bother going back down.

Later, when I remembered the episode to Merle, she told me, ‘Don’t be silly, there are a thousand possible outcomes to every one of our actions. Say you left Harry in the bath and got involved in a conversation on the doorstep, what if he’d hit his head and slipped under the water? Leo might not have noticed, he might have followed you downstairs or wandered back into his bedroom. That would have been far, far worse.’

‘You’re right,’ I said.

And, to be fair, I did look at Challoner’s website a day or two later and there was no listing for Trinity Avenue. On Rightmove, the Reeces’ place was still there, now with an ‘Under Offer’ banner across the photo.

The only other listing for Trinity Avenue was one of the flats in the block on the corner with Wyndham Gardens. I remember wondering if it was the same one that had been ransacked a few weeks earlier and what would become of the tenants if they were to be given notice. A burglary and then an eviction in the space of a few months.

I reminded myself that I was one of the lucky ones.

Bram, Word document

I could delay no longer in breaking the news to Fi about the car.

‘Our insurance claim has been turned down,’ I told her, at our next Friday handover.

‘What?’ She flushed with shock. ‘Why?’

‘They weren’t a hundred per cent clear about it, you know what they’re like, but it seems to be to do with the keys. Because we couldn’t say exactly where they were, there’s a case that we were negligent.’

‘That’s unbelievable! We thought we were going to get, what? Twenty thousand? Even ten would have been something. What now? We’re just supposed to magic up the funds ourselves after years of paying premiums?’

‘Or do without.’ I couldn’t have felt more wretched. She’d been right when she’d suggested there was a required period – twenty-eight days in our case – before the adjustor released payment. The policy was in my name and the cheque had been issued to me.

‘Those bloody keys. If we’d known, we could have got our stories straight about them,’ she railed. ‘I bet they talked to that detective who questioned me. I made it sound like we had no clue who had them and when, like we just handed them over to the first passing criminal.’ In her eyes, distress hardened into determination. ‘Let’s take it to the ombudsman, shall we?’

‘To be honest, Fi, I don’t think there’s much they could do.’

‘You don’t want to at least give it a try?’

‘I don’t, no. It’s all in the small print, we haven’t got a leg to stand on. And don’t forget there’s always a chance the car will still turn up, in which case we can get it fixed at our own expense. Better than nothing.’

Fi nodded, still very agitated. ‘When do we have to return the courtesy car?’

‘Tomorrow. I’m sorry. I’ll come over and take care of it.’

‘So soon? This is crap timing with Christmas coming up – money’s getting so tight. And it’s all going to be so much more of a pain in the dark and cold, schlepping around on packed buses with the boys.’

‘They won’t mind,’ I said. ‘Kids just accept whatever grown-ups say is normal. The main thing is they have two parents who love them and are there for them. It’s not about money or presents or new cars.’ While this didn’t sound at all like me, it benefited from being exactly the sort of thing Fi might say herself.

‘That’s true,’ she said, reaching for a sense of humility. ‘We have our home. We have our health.’

I tried to agree, but struggled to yield any intelligible sound.

She gave me a concerned look. ‘How long have you been sitting on this, Bram? Have you been worrying about telling me?’

‘A bit.’

‘Is that why you bought the flowers? There’s absolutely no need to shield me from this sort of thing. Where the kids and the house are concerned, we’re still a team, remember?’

The fierce loyalty in her expression was almost too much to contend with; I had a ghastly kaleidoscopic flash of Mike, of Wendy, of Rav, of the couples who had viewed her beloved house.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I’m really sorry.’

*

I turned off the phone. It was my policy now, whenever he mentioned the boys.