What follows is like the feeling after someone dies. I’m stunned and numb. It’s not just losing Edward, it’s the cold, almost clinical way he did it. One week I was his perfect woman, the next it was all over. From adoration to contempt in the blink of an eye. A part of me thinks he’s refusing to admit how much he’s into me, that he’ll call any minute and say he’s made a terrible mistake. But then I remember that Edward isn’t Simon. I look at the pure, pristine walls, the uncompromising surfaces of One Folgate Street, and I can see his strength of will, his bloody-minded determination, in every square inch.
I stop eating. It makes me feel better, the hunger like a welcome old friend, the light-headedness an anesthetic against the sense of loss.
I clutch Slob and use him as a tissue, teddy, comforter. Upset by my neediness, he struggles free and stalks upstairs, only for me to retrieve him from my bed when I crave the warmth of his soft fur.
When he goes missing I’m frantic with worry. Then I see that the door to the cleaner’s cupboard is ajar. Sure enough, I find him in there, curled up on a can of polish in the dark, hiding from me.
That night, while I’m having a shower, the lights suddenly go off and the water runs cold. It only lasts a few seconds, but it’s long enough for me to yelp with alarm and fear. My first thought is that maybe Slob somehow dislodged one of the cables inside the cupboard. My second is that the house itself is doing this. One Folgate Street turning cold on me just as Edward did, showing its master’s displeasure.
Then the water flows hot again. It’s just an outage, a momentary glitch. Nothing to get worked up about.
I let my head rest against the smooth wall of the shower, my tears tumbling with the water toward the drain.
NOW: JANE
I return from my visit to Carol energized and happy. A corner has been turned. The future won’t be easy, but at least it’s clear.
I walk into One Folgate Street and stop dead. By the stairs is a Swaine Adeney leather overnight bag.
“Edward?” I say tentatively.
He’s in the refectory, staring at my mind map, the riot of Post-it notes plastered across the wall. In the middle I’ve stuck the sketch, the double vision of me/Emma I retrieved from the recycling bin.
He turns his head toward me and I flinch from the icy anger of his gaze. “I can explain,” I say quickly. “I had to get things straight—”
“Murdered—Edward Monkford,” he says softly. “Nice to see I’m only one of the suspects, Jane.”
“I know you didn’t do it. I’ve just come from Emma’s therapist. Emma lied to her and I think I understand why now. And I think I know why Emma killed herself.” I hesitate. “She did it to punish you. A final, dramatic gesture to make you feel bad about breaking up with her. And I imagine, given what you’d already been through, that she succeeded.”
“I loved Emma.” The words, so flat and final, explode into the air. “But she lied to me. I thought perhaps I could have the love without the lies. With you, I mean. Do you remember your application letter? How you talked about integrity and honesty and trust? That was what made me think it might work, that it might be better this time. But I’ve never loved you the way I loved her.”
I stare at him, shocked.
“Why are you here?” I manage to say. I know it’s hardly relevant, but I need time to process what he’s just said.
“I had to come up to London to see the lawyers. The first residents have moved in at New Austell, but they’re being difficult. They seem to think if they work together, they can force me to change the rules. I’m going to serve them with eviction orders. All of them.” He shrugs. “I brought us supper.”
On the counter are half a dozen paper bags from the kind of old-fashioned grocers Edward favors.
“It’s actually a good thing you’re here,” I say numbly. “We need to talk.”
“Clearly.” His eyes go back to the mind map.
“Edward, I’m pregnant.” I say the words flatly, to a man who’s just told me he doesn’t love me. In my worst dreams, this isn’t how I imagined it. “You have a right to know.”
“Yes,” he says at last. “How long have you been hiding this from me?”
It’s tempting to lie, but I refuse to give myself that cop-out. “I’m just over twelve weeks.”
“Do you intend to keep it?”
“They thought he might have Down syndrome.” At this, Edward runs his hand over his face. “Anyway, it turns out he doesn’t. Yes, I am going to keep it. Him. I’m going to keep him. I know it’s not what you’d choose, but there it is.”
He closes his eyes briefly, as if in pain.