She sighs. ‘He mentioned that.’
‘Are you okay with it?’
She pauses. ‘I’m not promising anything, Liv. Get everything else done and we’ll see.’
‘Okay.’ I fiddle with the handle of the cutlery drawer, plucking up the courage to ask about the archive. ‘Mum, it’s Saturday tomorrow…’
‘And?’
‘I go to the Baileys’ house to work on the archive on Saturdays…’
‘You know how I feel about that––’
‘Please, Mum. The Baileys don’t know who I am. There’s no need for them to know. And if I don’t do it, then someone else will, but they won’t care about it like I do.’
‘Liv, I can’t deal with this now!’ she snaps. ‘I’m still coming to terms with the fact you’ve been going through his private things. Behind my back. For months. I’ve just read all the articles you wrote. About the person I loved…’ Her voice wobbles. ‘And it’s been hard… really hard… to think about him again after all these years of desperately trying not to.’
She’s right. I’m being selfish. That must have been difficult. ‘Okay, I won’t go.’
As I go to leave the room, I think of all she has done for me. Reading my articles, talking to Paul, getting my job back. That must have been difficult for her. She deserves to know it wasn’t her fault.
I turn back. ‘You didn’t kill him, Mum. He killed himself.’
Her eyes meet mine. ‘Becauseof me,’ she says.
‘You think he did it because you split up with him?’
‘He kept calling, turning up at my flat. I couldn’t talk to him. I was a coward. It was easier to avoid him.’
‘It wasn’t because of you,’ I tell her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He didn’t do it because of you. I’m not saying he wasn’t upset about the break-up; he was, but… there was another reason.’
She pulls back slightly, her face slackens. ‘What other reason?’
Chapter 69
July 1999
Stan had an hour left on his shift. He was looking forward to going home. His wife was cooking lamb chops tonight. He loved living by the sea. He could afford to retire, but he hated sitting at home, so he took a few shifts at the pub by the local beauty spot. It kept him busy, and he enjoyed chatting with the tourists.
The pub had been empty all day; it wasn’t the weather for coastal clifftop walks. The clouds were so dark and heavy it was as if night would never relinquish the sky to the day. The first customer came in from the rain, bedraggled, his longish hair stuck to his face. He ordered whiskey and took it to a seat by the fireplace.
Stan tried to remember his training. All the staff had been taught to recognise the signs. Perhaps this young fella had simply got caught out by the rain and was drying off before heading home. A couple came in, laughing as they shook off the rain. They ordered a G&T and a pint of Fosters. He asked where they were from, even though he recognised their Newcastle accent. They wanted recommendations for things to do on a rainy day so he told them about the local theatre and the little gallery in the next village. He gave them a leaflet and served the G&T, but the Fosters ran out with the glass half full. Stan glanced at the fella in the corner. He wasslumped in his chair, his forehead resting on his wrists. But his whiskey was still untouched; he wasn’t going anywhere. Stan went down to the cellar and changed the barrel quicker than he’d ever done before.
But when he returned, the fella was gone.
His glass was empty, the cardboard coaster ripped to pieces and scattered across the table. Stan cursed himself. He should have talked to him first, the Fosters could have waited.
‘Did you see which way he went?’ he asked the Geordie couple. ‘That bloke, when he left, did he go left or right?’
‘He went left,’ said the man.
Left was the wrong direction. There was nothing that way but cliffs and sea. And a stunning view, invisible on a day like today.
Outside, the driving rain obscured the view in all directions.