Richard, but now Andrew’s gone, I have to work twice as hard to keep the network and the consultancy going.’
‘I know.’
‘You hate it, don’t you?’ she said, standing up, her hands on her hips.
‘No, I understand . . .’
‘You don’t, though, do you?’
I stared at her. ‘Marie, why are you being like this? What did I do?’
She sank back into the computer chair and put her hands over her face. I realised she was crying silently. I tried to put my arm around her but she shrugged me off.
‘Please. I need some space,’ she said.
‘Is this about Andrew?’ I said. ‘I know you miss him.’
She wiped her eyes. The tears had stopped as quickly as they’d started. ‘I’m OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll be OK. Just . . . let’s just leave it.’
I stroked her shoulder. ‘All right. If that’s what you want. But if need to talk—’
‘I know.’
I turned to leave the room to make a drink and Marie said, ‘Richard, there was a message for you. Theresa Smith. She wants you to call her.’
I listened to the voicemail.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said. ‘I got the commission.’
On the sixteenth of October I had a second appointment with Theresa Smith. I had already sent her the photos and now she wanted to meet ‘for a chat’. I had spent the last couple of weeks working hard, taking and editing photos every spare minute I had.
‘What time will you be home?’ Marie asked, kissing me goodbye. Over the past few days she had seemed a little brighter, but busy with college work along with her consultancy. She spent half her life on the computer.
‘I don’t know. Five or six, I expect.’
I sat on the train and tried my hardest not to feel nervous. I needn’t have worried. The meeting went better than I could have hoped. Theresa wanted me to do more regular work, and we discussed a few initial assignments.
I walked back to Charing Cross with a spring in my step. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Marie. I tried to call her but there was no answer.
I tried to call her several more times from the train home. It wasn’t unusual for her to let her phone die, forgetting to charge it, especially if she was coding or chatting on one of the internet forums she frequented. I wasn’t too worried. With the money from the commission I decided I would take Marie away; it might help her get over Andrew’s death. I browsed holiday sites on my phone.
I took a taxi home from the train station and got the driver to drop me at the little supermarket up the road from my house. I bought a bottle of champagne and walked home, feeling buoyant .
‘Marie?’ I called. No response, just silence. I looked at my watch. Just after six.
I checked every room. I went back outside, that feeling that something was very wrong nibbling at my guts.
Back indoors, I tried to distract myself, flicking through a magazine, browsing holiday sites again on my phone. I was planning on taking Marie away somewhere hot and exotic, was going to surprise her. She’d been through a lot recently. She deserved a break.
The ominous feeling that something was wrong intensified, while at the same time I tried to stay rational. There was no sign in the house that anything sinister had happened. No signs of a struggle, no blood. Nothing out of place. I went upstairs and ran a bath, thinking the hot water might relax me. It was eight o’clock now and her phone was still off.
By ten I had reassured myself that she must have met one of her college friends and gone round to see them, maybe gone out to the pub, was enjoying herself, getting drunk. She deserved to let her hair down. I didn’t have any of her friends’ numbers, would have felt foolish contacting them anyway. I could picture them laughing about Marie’s over-protective boyfriend, teasing her about having a curfew, asking if she’d turn into a pumpkin if she wasn’t home on time. I needed to chill out.
I checked my phone numerous times to make sure it was
‘I know.’
‘You hate it, don’t you?’ she said, standing up, her hands on her hips.
‘No, I understand . . .’
‘You don’t, though, do you?’
I stared at her. ‘Marie, why are you being like this? What did I do?’
She sank back into the computer chair and put her hands over her face. I realised she was crying silently. I tried to put my arm around her but she shrugged me off.
‘Please. I need some space,’ she said.
‘Is this about Andrew?’ I said. ‘I know you miss him.’
She wiped her eyes. The tears had stopped as quickly as they’d started. ‘I’m OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll be OK. Just . . . let’s just leave it.’
I stroked her shoulder. ‘All right. If that’s what you want. But if need to talk—’
‘I know.’
I turned to leave the room to make a drink and Marie said, ‘Richard, there was a message for you. Theresa Smith. She wants you to call her.’
I listened to the voicemail.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said. ‘I got the commission.’
On the sixteenth of October I had a second appointment with Theresa Smith. I had already sent her the photos and now she wanted to meet ‘for a chat’. I had spent the last couple of weeks working hard, taking and editing photos every spare minute I had.
‘What time will you be home?’ Marie asked, kissing me goodbye. Over the past few days she had seemed a little brighter, but busy with college work along with her consultancy. She spent half her life on the computer.
‘I don’t know. Five or six, I expect.’
I sat on the train and tried my hardest not to feel nervous. I needn’t have worried. The meeting went better than I could have hoped. Theresa wanted me to do more regular work, and we discussed a few initial assignments.
I walked back to Charing Cross with a spring in my step. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Marie. I tried to call her but there was no answer.
I tried to call her several more times from the train home. It wasn’t unusual for her to let her phone die, forgetting to charge it, especially if she was coding or chatting on one of the internet forums she frequented. I wasn’t too worried. With the money from the commission I decided I would take Marie away; it might help her get over Andrew’s death. I browsed holiday sites on my phone.
I took a taxi home from the train station and got the driver to drop me at the little supermarket up the road from my house. I bought a bottle of champagne and walked home, feeling buoyant .
‘Marie?’ I called. No response, just silence. I looked at my watch. Just after six.
I checked every room. I went back outside, that feeling that something was very wrong nibbling at my guts.
Back indoors, I tried to distract myself, flicking through a magazine, browsing holiday sites again on my phone. I was planning on taking Marie away somewhere hot and exotic, was going to surprise her. She’d been through a lot recently. She deserved a break.
The ominous feeling that something was wrong intensified, while at the same time I tried to stay rational. There was no sign in the house that anything sinister had happened. No signs of a struggle, no blood. Nothing out of place. I went upstairs and ran a bath, thinking the hot water might relax me. It was eight o’clock now and her phone was still off.
By ten I had reassured myself that she must have met one of her college friends and gone round to see them, maybe gone out to the pub, was enjoying herself, getting drunk. She deserved to let her hair down. I didn’t have any of her friends’ numbers, would have felt foolish contacting them anyway. I could picture them laughing about Marie’s over-protective boyfriend, teasing her about having a curfew, asking if she’d turn into a pumpkin if she wasn’t home on time. I needed to chill out.
I checked my phone numerous times to make sure it was
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