The Girl Before

All these men who loved Emma, I think. For all her problems, men were fixated on her. Will anyone ever feel like that about me?

“Not that being loved did her much good in the end,” Mia adds. “But for what it’s worth, I think you’d be far better off with someone like him than with your crazy architect.”

“Me, with Simon?” I snort. “Hardly.”

“He’s solid and dependable and loyal. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

I say nothing. My feelings about Edward are still too complicated to parcel up into a neat sentence or two for Mia’s inspection. His cold anger has made me feel vaguely ashamed of myself for digging away into Emma’s death behind his back. But if he could find a way to free himself from her, would he perhaps be able to see the situation with me more clearly?

I shake my head, as much in disagreement with myself as to get my mind empty of these thoughts. Wishful thinking.

THEN: EMMA

Bye then, Em, he says.

Bye, Si, I say.

Despite what he’s just said, Simon lingers a bit longer at the door of One Folgate Street. I’m really glad we talked, he goes.

Me too, I say. And I mean it. There are too many things I never said to him, too many things I kept locked up inside my head. Perhaps if we’d talked more when we were together, we might not have split up. There was a part of me that always wanted to kick Simon or push him away and I don’t feel that anymore. Now I’m just grateful for someone who doesn’t judge me.

I’ll stay if you want, he offers quietly. If it makes you feel safer. If this bastard Deon or whoever shows up, I can take care of him.

I know you can, I say. But honestly, you don’t need to. This house is built like a fortress. Besides, one step at a time, yes?

Okay, he says. He leans forward and kisses me, a little formally, on the cheek. Then he gives me a hug. The hug is nice.

When he’s gone the house is silent again. I’ve promised him I’ll eat something. I fill up a pan with water to boil an egg and wave my hand over the stove.

Nothing happens.

I wave again. Same result. I look under the counter to see if there’s some kind of override for the motion sensor. But there isn’t.

Simon would know how to fix it and I almost reach for my phone to call him back. Then I stop myself. Being a frail female who depended on men to sort her problems out was partly what got me into this mess.

There are a couple of apples in the fridge so I get one of those instead. I’m just biting into it when I smell gas. Even though the stove didn’t light, the part that makes the gas come out is clearly working and now it’s gushing its explosive fumes into the house. I look for a way to turn it off, waving my arms frantically over the counter. Suddenly there’s a click and a ball of flame shoots into the air, blue and yellow, engulfing my arm. I drop the apple. There’s a moment of shock—no pain yet, but I know that will come. Quickly I push my arm under the cold tap. It doesn’t come on. I run upstairs to the bathroom. There, thank goodness, the water does work, cold on my burning skin. I let it run for a few minutes, then examine my arm. It’s sore and red but the skin hasn’t blistered.

This is not my imagination. It can’t be. It’s like the house didn’t want Simon to come around for our talk and this is its way of punishing me.

It’s a fortress, I’d said to Simon. But what if the house itself decides not to protect me? How safe am I really?

Suddenly I’m scared.

I go into the cleaner’s cupboard and shut the door behind me. I could barricade myself in here if need be—the mops and brooms could be wedged against the door to keep it shut; from the outside, you wouldn’t even know I was here. It’s cramped, cluttered with tins and equipment, but I need a safe place and this is going to be it.

12. In a well-run society, there have to be consequences for those who break the rules.

Agree ? ? ? ? ? Disagree

NOW: JANE

I’m lying in bed, half asleep, when I feel it. As tentative and hesitant as a tap on the door; barely more than a flutter in my belly. I recognize it from Isabel. The quickening. Such a beautiful, biblical term.

I lie there, enjoying it, waiting for more kicks. A few come, then a tumbling movement that might or might not be a somersault. Maternal love and wonder wash over me, so much so that I start to cry. How could I ever have considered aborting this child? Looking back, it seems almost inconceivable. I smile through my tears at the pun.