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17

THE NEXT DAY (FRIDAY)

Marina

For obvious reasons, she hadn’t had time to bake a sourdough loaf the night before, but fortunately she had remembered to take a loaf of Aldi white bread out of the freezer. She lined up seven slices on the kitchen counter.

She was running a little late, rushing to prepare for the day before Ewan woke up for his morning feed—which she felt she should stop soon, he was fifteen months old, but she knew that once she finished with Ewan she was done forever. No more children to nurse, ever again. And after it was so difficult with Lucy Rose, nursing Ewan was a dream: his sweet little head on her chest, the way he curled in her lap, reached up and played with her ear softly, the dreamy look in his eyes.

But it had to stop soon. The parenting books and community health nurses all said you should breastfeed as long as you can, ideally until the child left home for university and your boobs reached your ankles. But the truth was that once a child could walk, people looked at you funny.

She didn’t get much sleep last night. Her thoughts wouldn’t stop whizzing.

She buttered all the slices of white bread and lined them up on the kitchen counter. She made Archie’s sandwich first: plain ham. She’d had great hopes for Archie, because when he was a toddler, he’d eat anything, including beetroot and radicchio, but the older he grew, the more it seemed that he’d inherited his father’s taste for bland food. Sometimes she tried to slip a vegetable into his pasta sauce, with varying success, but it was a work in progress.

Lucy Rose’s sandwich was leftover prosciutto, with cut-up green olives, cherry tomatoes, and arugula. She liked something she could get her teeth into, the spicier the better, even at age three. Ewan, still weaning, was also a work in progress, but she made his sandwich on one slice of bread, with cream cheese and a sprinkling of dill.

The fourth sandwich was for Xavier. After some consideration, she spread Nutella thickly on both slices of bread, and topped it with marshmallows, Gummi Bears, and chocolate chips. She had to press down hard on the bread to make it all stay together.

She cut the crusts off the sandwiches, cut them all into triangles, and wrapped them.

Once upon a time, and not that long ago, she hoped she’d be doing this morning routine one day with Xavier. He could make coffee and empty the dishwasher while she made the packed lunches. They could chat about how they slept, the dreams they had the night before, the day ahead.

Okay—so a man emptying the dishwasher might be a pipe dream, but surely coffee wasn’t too much to ask?

She heard a distant noise—a muffled thump. Instinctively, she looked at the baby monitor—the new one, the one she used for Ewan—but nothing came from that but a faint snoring. Ewan, her good sleeper. The sound hadn’t come from the children. So it would have to wait for now.

Carrot sticks and red bell pepper sticks (these were the only two vegetables that Archie would eat, except for ketchup, which didn’t count). Little boxes of raisins and cubes of cheese, and a homemade madeleine in each lunch bag. There were no juice boxes left, so she filled reusable bottles with water. Those were for the children. For Xavier, she added a half-eaten emergency packet of cookies, the plastic wrapper twisted shut, two packets of cheesy puffs, and a can of Coke from her own secret stash.

Her workdays used to be flavors and scents, knives and bubbling sauces, the kind of adrenaline that made you crave more work. It was hard to believe now; it felt like a fairy tale that happened to someone else. Her nineteen-year-old self never would have imagined that her life would turn out like this. Packing lunches made with white bread, and trying to ignore a hostage in the cellar.

In the distance, she heard a familiar raised voice, and a faint hammering. Apparently the bomb shelter wasn’t so soundproof after all.

She turned on the old baby monitor receiver, the one that she’d left the transmitter for in the bomb shelter.

“THERE’S A GODDAMN SKELETON—”

She turned it off.

She’d deal with it. But first, she needed coffee.

One of many things that they don’t tell you about motherhood in the books and Instagram feeds: from the moment your children were born, you would never be able to drink a coffee while it was still hot unless you made one before they woke up. That this would be the besttasting cup of coffee all day, and you still probably wouldn’t have time to finish it. And that you would usually drink it in the middle of a kitchen that was a chaos of cereal bowls, toast crumbs, used wipes, and discarded toys. Because one of the superpowers you developed when you were a mother—one of the many superpowers—was the ability to notice everything that needed to be done, and also to ignore it all for five minutes at a time so you could actually breathe.

She used Nana Sylvia’s state-of-the-art espresso machine to make herself a small, strong coffee. Then she slipped out the back door onto the flagstone patio, which caught the early morning sunlight. She sat on a patio chair and drank her coffee, sip by bitter, restoring sip.

She didn’t allow herself to think about anything.

She let the sunlight warm her face. She listened to a solitary blackbird serenading the morning. There were parrots here in Richmond, sometimes: descendants of pets who had escaped to freedom. They filled the trees with color and noise, chattering dreams of the tropics.

Two minutes later, the jackhammers started up next door.

Marina sighed. Time to get back to the real world.

She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and went back inside. If she could raise three children by herself while her husband was off spending their money and screwing another woman, she could do anything .

Inside the kitchen, the thudding from below had become louder and also more regular. She made another espresso, tipped it into a mug, and added enough hot water to make an Americano. Then she added three spoonfuls of sugar. Mug in hand and lunch bag under her arm, she unbolted the cellar door and flicked on the light at the top of the stairwell. She closed the door behind her, and carefully started down the stairs with the coffee and lunch bag.

She mentioned last night that she used to hate coming down here because of the spiders. But you live and learn—it was amazing what little fears you could get over, when there was something bigger to be afraid of.

Like the possibility of losing your children and being put away for assault and kidnapping.

She put the packed lunch on a shelf next to a bottle of wine, opened the secret passage, and unlatched the hatch in the door a crack. The thudding stopped.

She couldn’t bear to look inside. Not yet.

“Good morning!” she called. She tried to sound light, cheerful, normal.

Silence.

Marina swallowed. A little bit of coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug.

“Sorry it took so long,” she called, and then she clamped her mouth shut.

No. No apologies. Opal was right: they were a bad habit. And anyway, she wasn’t sorry it took so long. She had to put her children first. And also, she deserved a quiet espresso, and she needed the caffeine. Who knows how the rest of this morning was going to go?

“I’ve made you a coffee,” Marina said. “And I’ve packed you a lunch. I presume you’re pretty hungry by now.”

“Marina? What the fuck are you playing at?”

He shouted it in a raspy and thirsty voice. She winced and opened the hatch enough to look through—keeping a distance, in case he grabbed for her.

Xavier had untaped himself. She couldn’t see much except for his face, because he was right up against the door. There was a pink mark across the bottom of his face from when he pulled the duct tape gag off. It probably felt a lot like having your eyebrows waxed, so Marina had sympathy.

He hammered on the door with his fists. Marina stepped back and waited for him to finish.

“You’re in a basement,” she told him. “The walls are thick, and also they’ve been soundproofed. So there’s really no reason to shout. I’m the only one here, and I can hear you just fine.”

He stopped hammering and swore.

“Have you been awake for long?” she asked.

“How am I supposed to know? You’ve put me in a fucking dungeon!”

“It’s not a dungeon. It’s a bomb shelter. Quite a nice one. Anyway, I told you there’s no point shouting. If you can’t discuss things like a rational human being, I’ll have to shut the hatch again.”

“Rational? You pushed me down the stairs, you cunt!”

She flinched at that.

“I really thought you were a nice man,” she said. “I thought you were different from the other men out there. I thought I’d struck it lucky.”

“I could have died!”

“But you didn’t, so.”

“You’re a psycho!”

“Do you want your coffee?” She held the mug up to the hatch, close enough for him to be able to smell it but out of reach.

He clenched his jaw in a way that made it look quite chiseled, and finally nodded. Turned out that when men had tantrums, the best thing to do was to stay calm and treat them like toddlers.

She turned the mug around and passed it to him handle-first, stepping back quickly. Xavier took a sip and grimaced. “It’s got sugar.”

“Are you thirsty?”

He glared, but he drank more. Obviously he hadn’t availed himself of the bar cart.

“How are you feeling?” she asked when he came up for air.

“How do you think I bloody feel?”

“I mean physically. Does your head hurt? I left you some ibuprofen and some juice. I didn’t get a chance to refresh the water supply, so I wouldn’t drink that.”

“My head hurts a lot. Was I unconscious?”

“Oh, yes, for a while,” said Marina vaguely.

“I need to go to the hospital! I might have a concussion. A skull fracture!”

“How many fingers?” She held up three.

“What?”

“Have you got double vision?”

He squinted. “No.”

“Do you feel sick?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s possible, but it’s unlikely that you have any brain injury. Drink some more of your coffee.”

“How do I know it’s not drugged?”

“I guess you don’t. But it’s not, and if you want anything to eat or drink you’re going to have to trust me, for the moment.”

“It could be poisoned. If you’re crazy enough to push me down the stairs and keep me hostage, you’re capable of anything.”

“Xavier, if I wanted to poison you, I would have put something in your glass of wine and wouldn’t have bothered with the stairs.”

He narrowed his eyes and finished his coffee.

“Do you feel a little better?” Marina asked. “You were probably quite dehydrated.”

“Is this what you do? Do you find men and date them and then hold them captive? Is that what this skeleton is?”

“No, I found the skeleton in the cellar. I think it’s one of those scientific ones.”

“What do you want? Money?”

“I don’t want your money, and also I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Is it a sex thing?”

“Ew, no.” She held up the bag. “I made you a packed lunch.”

“I don’t understand,” said Xavier, his voice gaining a pleading tone. “What are you doing, baby? I thought things were going so well between us.”

“Oh, they were.”

“Then what’s all this? Why did you hurt me?”

This honeyed, wounded tone was hard to resist. If it was a little-boy act, it was a very good one. And she felt pretty terrible. All of this was her fault.

But it was one of the rules: she couldn’t let on what she knew about him, or why she’d pushed him down the stairs. Xavier didn’t seem to know yet that Opal and Lilah had been here, too. He must not have heard anything.

“I’m sorry if you’re still in pain,” she said. “The ibuprofen should be on the shelf next to the gin.”

“It hurts too much,” he whimpered. “I think I need to go to the hospital. And ibuprofen gives me a stomachache.”

“I don’t have anything else, except for Tylenol.” What dosage of cherry-flavored liquid Tylenol would be sufficient for a grown man? If Archie had one small spoonful when he had a fever, and Archie weighed, oh, say, ten times less than Xavier, then...“I should have bought a bigger bottle.”

“Please, baby? Can we go to A&E? It hurts so bad.”

“Maybe later, if you don’t feel better.”

“C’mon, baby. You can let me go. Are you worried about getting in trouble for pushing me? I won’t say anything. I’ll say it was an accident. Which it was, right? You care too much about me to do anything to hurt me.”

Marina didn’t answer.

“You and I are good together, you know,” he continued. “I’ve been so lucky to find you. I—I meant to tell you, I was going to tell you tonight. I haven’t felt this way about a woman since Stacey.”

According to Xavier, Stacey was his dead wife. When Xavier talked about this fictitious “Stacey,” was he actually thinking about Opal? Or was “Stacey” another woman who he’d duped? How many of them were there?

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you,” said Xavier, and his voice was sweet and rough and vulnerable and so, so incredibly sincere.

Opal was right: he was very good at this. He knew exactly what buttons to push. What woman didn’t want to hear those words from the man she’d been dating?

Well...as of yesterday: Marina, for one.

“That’s very nice of you,” she said.

“I mean it, Marina,” Xavier said. “I know we’ve only known each other a little while, but when it’s right, it’s right.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“I know this is all a big misunderstanding. You didn’t mean to push me, or lock me in the basement. It was an accident, and then you panicked.”

“It wasn’t an accident.”

“That’s okay. I’m not angry. And Marina, I forgive you. I’ll forgive you anything. Because I love you.”

He said I love you as if the words were a magic spell that would get him anything he wanted. To be fair, for him they probably were.

“So just let me go, okay? We can put this all behind us and talk about our future.”

“About thirty seconds ago you were calling me a psycho cunt.”

“I was angry, okay? I think that’s understandable. I was scared and in pain. But I know that you’re not a bad person. I love you.”

“I don’t think that you do, Xavier.”

“I do! I think you’re an incredible, compassionate, kind, nurturing, clever, sexy, gentle, ethical person who always tries to do the right thing! You’re amazing, Marina! You’re such a good mother and you’re a wonderful chef! Any man would be lucky to have you in his life! You’re so strong, and caring, and—”

While he was saying this, Marina pushed the packed lunch through the hatch. It landed with a thud.

“—and you genuinely care about other people, you know, you’re always looking out for others, which is why you deserve someone to look after you, to pamper you and make you feel good, and love—”

“I’ve got to go upstairs now,” she interrupted. “But I’ll check on you in a little while to see if you want anything else to eat.”

“Wait. Wait, no! Don’t go! Don’t leave me alone down here! Please, Marina—”

She shut the hatch. Then she thought twice, and opened it a sliver.

“Xavier?” she said through the opening. “You were being more honest when you said that I was a psycho cunt.”