Page 37 of The Perfect Son

It feels good to take control of something, and I wonder what else I can write down. At the front of the notebook, underneath the address for the phone company, I write:Hang-up calls. Who are they from? Call center or person?

On the next line down I keep scribbling. I write the date and the time of the call from the man. Thinking about it makes the pen shake in my hand, but I carry on writing, adding the little things that don’t make sense.

I continue to write:Flowers on my birthday without a note—from whom? Owe money to Ian—where is £100K? What is the money for? Why did we need it? Someone walking around our driveway in the middle of the night.

I look up and catch sight of the two white envelopes leaning upagainst the microwave—the ones Shelley left me to open after her first visit.

Before I can think too much about it, I pick them up and rip open the first one with such force that the letter inside tears too. It’s a solicitor’s letter. From Clarke & Barlow. At first I thought it had something to do with the form Ian dropped in at the weekend, but it doesn’t.

Dear Mrs. Clarke,

RE: Last Will and Testament of Mr. Mark Thomas Clarke

Further to my voice messages left on January 31, February 8, and February 19, I am now writing to request that you contact our offices at your earliest convenience. As you are Executor of your late husband’s Last Will and Testament, it is imperative that we arrange a meeting to discuss arrangements for the distribution of his assets.

Please call the number at the top of this letter to arrange an appointment.

Kind regards,

Jacob Barlow

The letter was sent weeks ago but it still causes a weight to drop inside me like a cement block. I barely have the strength to get through the day. I do not have the energy to handle your estate stuff.

I think about the form Ian dropped around at the weekend. Renouncing the job or whatever fancy word he used. Shelley made itsound so easy. Maybe I should sign it. I add a line to the notebook:Ian wants to be executor of the will—I need to decide what to do!!!

I move on to the second letter. It is from a bank but it’s not a statement.

Dear Mr. Clarke,

Thank you for your loan application dated December 18, 2017. We are writing to inform you that unfortunately you do not meet the requirements for a loan at this time.

Regards,

Dimitri Lipov

Loan Officer

The pen drops from my hand, clattering to the floor and rolling out of sight under the table.

What the hell, Mark? You applied for a loan and didn’t think to tell me? I don’t know why I’m surprised. You never told me anything.

That’s not true, Tessie.

I force my mind back to mid-December, searching for any conversation we might have had about money, but of course there isn’t one. You were stressed about work, you said, and I believed you. Late home every night, spending hours in your study, unable to sleep. Those whispered phone calls you thought I didn’t know about.

First the hundred thousand pounds Ian says he loaned us, and now a loan rejection.

What did we need the money for, Mark?

Ian’s words spin through my head.“If you knew your husband so well, why didn’t he tell you about the money he borrowed from me?”

We didn’t live extravagant lives, didn’t drive flashy cars; we didn’ttake all-inclusive cruises in the Caribbean like some of the sales team you worked with. I thought we were doing OK.

I stumble up the stairs, the solicitor’s plea forgotten. The loan rejection letter is gripped in my hand.

It’s too much. The phone calls—all those hang-ups and then the horrid voice of the man, and now this.

Suddenly I don’t want to think about it. I go into Jamie’s room and lie on his bed. It’s easier to be in here than in our room and the double bed with the side that’s always empty.