Page 36 of Insomnia

“Yes, that’s what they said. To do with your mother?”

“I’m sure you told us your mother was dead.” Alison casts a dark shadow across my office doorway, almost elbowing Rosemary out of the way to get inside. “Didn’t she die when you were a child?”

“Yes, that’s what I told you.” I glare at her. “And as far as I’m concerned, she did. I’m sorry if the police have been asking you questions, but my childhood was complicated to say the least and they’re just doing their jobs, even if they’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Rosemary looks down at her shoes, but Alison holds my gaze for a second longer. I’m just about to tell her in no uncertain terms to fuck off, when she shrugs. “Your family isn’t any of our business anyway. I certainly wouldn’t share any of my private history with people if I didn’t want to. It was bad enough when Jim left me and everyone was talking about that. I hope it’s sorted out soon.”

She disappears off down the corridor and I’m glad, because I’m suddenly biting back tears. Alison being relatively supportive. Who would have thought?

“Anyway, I’d better get on,” I mutter, letting my hair fall over my face so Rosemary can’t see how affected I am by Alison. “Just call me if anything comes up you need me for.”

“Yes, of course,” she says. “I’m sure it will all be back to normal by next week.”

Her spine is stiffer as she walks away, and I realize that whatevereasinessour relationship has had is gone. She might say that it’s not her business to know but she’s taken my omission of my past as a deception.

I close my bag and sling it over my shoulder. Sod her, I think, as I stride out of the office, my face straight ahead and chin high. It reallyisn’tany of her business.

29.

I’m so angry and humiliated when I leave the office that I get in the car and drive with no thought whatsoever, lost in a haze of arguments in my head and worrying about the police and thinking about Will’s drawing, and only when I turn onto a final street do I realize what I’ve done. I’ve driven to Caroline’s house.

I stare at her front door, wanting to go and knock, to see what she’s doing, to be in her company. Now that I’m here the urge is like a terrible itch. It reminds me of my nighttime routines. Somethingcompulsive. I sent her a text I don’t even remember. Why am I so keen to be her friend? I’ve never been a person who needs a lot of friends, but Ifelt somethingwhen we had lunch. Like she was a kindred spirit. Like we’re bonded. It was a definite spark, and now that I’m here I realize that it’s been quietly bubbling under the skin, through all the shit of last night, a longing to see her again. My palm is sweating as I reach for the car door handle. I pause. I can’t go and knock on her door without texting back. It’s too weird. She’ll think I’m a stalker. She’ll probably think this is sexual after the way I dragged her to lunch. She’ll maybe even think I’m crazy.

That’s the thought that stops me,I’m not crazy,and then moments later her front door opens and in a panic, I duck down into the seat, my heart racing. I lift my head slightly so I can just aboutsee, and I catch a glimpse of her, dressed for work, hair back in a tight bun, getting into her car.

Thankfully, she doesn’t look my way. I wait until she’s driven off and then sit up straight. What am I doing? It’s tiredness and trauma, that’s all. I wanted to see a friendly face. I check my emails on my phone, taking my time, and I tell myself it’s because I’m professional, but really, I’m giving her a head start. I’m a little bit scared I’ll follow her and then I reallywouldbe crazy.

After a few minutes, I’m laughing at myself for hiding in my car rather than saying hello, and my sense that I’d done somethingwronghas gone, but I don’t want to go home yet, so I decide that I might as well find somewhere to hole up and have some lunch. I consider calling Dr. Morris and telling her that I still can’t sleep but decide against it.Oh, the police think you may have killed your mother? No wonder the pills aren’t working.I head back into town and park, choosing a trendy hippy cafe that I know no one I work with would ever go into. It’s near the college and I’m about fifteen years older than the staff let alone the clientele, but the woman behind the counter is friendly and it’s the kind of place where you can nurse a coffee for an hour without anyone giving you filthy looks or telling you to get out.

I take a table in the corner by the window and wait for my soy milk cappuccino and organic carrot cake to arrive. I’m not even hungry, but I need some energy if I’m going to get anything done. There’s a gnawing in my stomach that won’t go away, and I keep checking my phone every few seconds in case I’ve missed a call from the police telling me that the swabs came back fine and my mother’s death was brought on entirely by her head injury. But I’m disappointed every time.

An hour passes and I pick at the cake and most of my coffee grows cold. I can’t relax. My insomnia is making me questioneverything, even my own guilt or innocence. My brain is constantly foggy and time’s been slipping away from me, I know that. I’ve fallen asleep at work. When I stare at something for too long it’s like I drift into somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I zone out. Could I have done it and forgotten about it? But surely I’d remember doingthat? And why would I kill her? I didn’t even know her.Because you hated her. Because you’re afraid you’re going mad like her? Because you don’t want to have a head full of her numbers.

My phone stays silent. Robert doesn’t call, the police don’t call, Phoebe doesn’t call, and neither does work. As I stare at my case notes for the Marshall divorce—I need to follow up on their mediation—the flash of a familiar red jacket through the window distracts me and I frown, confused. The red-jacketed girl takes a seat at a table outside the urban-chic-looking bar opposite and lights a cigarette.

It’s Chloe.

I stare at my daughter as she takes a deep lungful and exhales. When the hell did she start smoking? I thought the whole point of that vape that she carries around like a fashion accessory was that she wouldn’t smoke the real thing. That cigarettes wereso last century.

I’m also sure she didn’t leave the house in those clothes. Not a dress. She never wears dresses. She looks sophisticated. Older. What is she doing? I know the school timetable is pretty relaxed at the moment with some revision sessions in place of lectures, but I’m sure she’s supposed to be in a class right now. Has she snuck away to meet a boy?

I pull away from the glass in case she sees me. I don’t wave or go out and call over to her, because every mother’s instinct in my body is screaming at me that I’m watching something secret. Something that my daughter would rather cut an arm off than talkto me about. She looks nervous as she checks her phone. Nervous or excited? Maybe both.

And then she’s on her feet as the person she’s obviously been waiting for approaches, stubbing the cigarette out, and arm in arm they go inside. My stomach drops, lead-heavy, as the truth sinks in.

Oh, bloody hell, Chloe. Oh, bloody, bloody hell.

I order another coffee and drink it slowly, checking Chloe’s timetable on my laptop, now wide awake despite my burning eyes and racing heart telling me that under this adrenaline rush I’m really fucking exhausted. I force myself to be patient, and then once she’s left and headed back in the direction of the school I send her a text.

“Hey Chlo, I’m finishing early today. Don’t worry about getting the bus, I’ll pick you up. Give us time to have a chat before we get home. See you at two thirty. Love you, Mum.”

And then I wait.

“I told you that you didn’t need to bother.” She throws her bag on the back seat, takes a last puff on her vape—no cigarettes in front of her mother—and gets in, phone clutched tight in one hand as she drops the vape in the side door.

“I know I didn’t need to,” I say as I pull away. “But I wanted to. And we never seem to get time to ourselves anymore.”

She shrugs. “That’s because you’re always at work.”

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