‘Not compared to many things here.’ I shake my head, confused. ‘They were special, though.’
The guards ask me to check the house for any missing property or other damage I might note. An extensive search reveals there is none. Nothing is missing. My tech, art and jewellery are undisturbed. There are no signs of a break-in. No broken windows, no forced locks, nor are any of the doors or windows unlocked or open. We find the bubble wrap and tissue paper in the bin. The bubble wrap is neatly folded, the tissue paper scrunched into tight, deliberate balls. I offer to make tea, and while the kettle is boiling, I ask, ‘What sort of intruder tidies away the packing?’ I’m mystified.
The guard who found me upstairs replies, ‘So you’re certain you didn’t put these dome things on display? You didn’t damage them or any of the plants yourself?’
‘No, of course not,’ I retort indignantly. It’s a strange question. ‘Why would I?’
‘And you don’t know who did damage them?’
‘Will you check the grounds?’ I deliver it more as an instruction than a request. I use my imperious voice so that I don’t betray how bewildered and spooked I am.
One of the guards goes outside, the other stays with me. He accepts the tea I offer but doesn’t sit to drink it. He stands, swaying left to right, changing the balance of his weight from one foot to the other. A pendulum swinging. The second guard reports back: there are no footprints on the garden beds, paths or tracks, despite it being wet and muddy. They ask if they can check the security camera footage. I have cameras trained on the paths and gateways. The footage shows me and Matthew leaving this morning in my car, me returning via taxi alone and the security guys themselves arriving just twenty-five minutes ago. There is no sign of anyone else arriving or leaving the property.
‘I don’t understand,’ I mutter. The guards shrug and exchange a look that says things could have been much worse and a few broken plants doesn’t warrant too much concern. ‘Do you think it’s a disturbed robbery?’ I ask.
‘That was my first thought,’ comments the thicker-set, older man. ‘But since we haven’t picked anyone up on the CCTV footage and nothing seems to be missing, I’m more inclined to think it’s a kids’ prank. Locals. High or drunk. Mindless vandals. Jealous, most likely, of this place. Got in the house and now vanished into the woods.’
‘You think?’
‘What else?’
I nod, because I don’t have any ideas of my own. ‘Actually, that is probable. A while back, the light bulbs in my outside garlands were smashed by vandals.’ I hadn’t thought much of it at the time but now the incident comes back to mind.
‘It happens. Do you want to call the police? You can, but …’ He trails off. The implication is clear: it seems like a bit of a fuss. What could the police do, since nothing has been stolen? I wasn’t harmed, there are no leads.
I see the security guards to the door; they say they’ll write up a report to help with the insurance claim. Once they’ve gone, I start to clean up. I carefully place the larger pieces of glass and concrete on newspaper, wrap them up neatly like little gifts, even though they are the opposite. Next, I get out a dustpan and brush, and sweep up most of the soil before vacuuming. I fill a bucket with scalding-hot water, then mop the floor. There are no footprints that need eradicating and the vacuuming picked up all the soil, yet my home doesn’t feel cleansed. I am exhausted. All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep for a long time. However, I don’t want to be alone. I consider calling Matthew. I’m holding my phone in my hand, internally debating, when his name pops up onto my screen as if I manifested it. I answer immediately.
‘Hey, you. I fancied a break and wanted to call you.’ He sounds warm and right and simply like himself once again. Not at all like he sounded when I left him at the station, vague and preoccupied. My shoulders melt down my back. I am so relieved. I thought I’d lost him. I can hear the sound of a police or ambulance siren, and someone shouts at him to ‘get out the effing way’; basically the symphony of London streets. It seems bustling compared to the silence of the countryside. I normally treasure the tranquillity, but tonight it feels solitary.
‘Oh, I’m so pleased to hear from you,’ I gush. I tell him what has happened.
‘Could it be the wind? Did you leave a window open?’ he asks.
‘No. I didn’t leave a window open. Besides, even if I had, you know how big and sturdy the plant pots are, right? How could all six of them have blown over but nothing else be disturbed?’
‘Could an animal have got in? A fox or a badger.’
‘I didn’t have any windows open,’ I repeat. I know I sound exasperated; I am. Matthew doesn’t seem concerned. In fact, his tone suggests he thinks I’m making an unnecessary drama. ‘Plus the bubble wrap was folded and in the bin.’
‘What a strange thing,’ he murmurs.
It feels like it’s more than that. It feels dangerous and threatening, rather than strange, but I don’t say so because I don’t feel his engagement, and whilst I have shared a special couple of months with him, I’ve been self-sufficient for years. I’ll process and manage this on my own if I must. I’m not in the habit of asking for help, and clearly I’m not good at it. I would take it, though, if it was offered. I wait to see if he suggests coming to stay tonight.
He yawns, and then starts telling me about his evening and the work he has managed to get done. After ten minutes or so he says, ‘Well, perhaps you should get to bed. I’m sure it will all seem less of a mystery in the morning.’ I don’t see how that will be the case, but as he’s clearly not going to offer to come here, I suppose I have no choice but to follow his advice.
Once again I check all the doors and windows are securely closed and locked. I set the alarm, take a couple of Temazepam and get into bed. As I pull the duvet up to my chin and sniff the air, I can still smell it, the strange, moist matter that I don’t recognise and can’t quite identify. Something like antique shops, or wet dogs, or damp woods. The cloying smell sits in the back of my throat.
14
When I wake the next morning, my first thought is that the Temazepam must have had quite an effect, because the light coming through the windows is solid and open, suggesting it’s about 9 a.m. rather than 5.08. I must have slept through the alarm. I grab my phone to check the time. It’s 8.42. I have a Zoom at 9.00 and I look far from presentable. ‘Crap,’ I say aloud. I’m in the habit of talking to myself. I sometimes wonder if I should get a pet to fill the void. I leap out of bed and almost throw myself into Matthew, who is standing in the doorway of my bedroom holding a breakfast tray. I curse again and jump about a foot in the air. ‘You scared me!’ I yell.
‘Good morning, babe,’ he says with a gentle smile. His voice is almost a hum, as though he’s soothing an infant. ‘Sorry, sorry. That was thoughtless of me. I didn’t think you were awake. I was planning on gently rousing you.’
‘How did you get in?’ I demand.
He looks embarrassed. ‘After we spoke on the phone last night, I felt awful. I realised you’d been through something and I hadn’t got it. Can I?’ He signals to ask permission to place the breakfast tray on the bed. I nod. The tray is loaded with toast, freshly squeezed orange juice and black coffee. I sniff the air. The strange stench from last night has been replaced with the tantalising smell of coffee beans, and under that, notes of freshly baked bread. Am I imagining that?
‘Did you make this bread?’ I ask. There are a lot of questions to be answered. I’m not sure why I lead with this one. My head is fuzzy and I’m aware I need to get a move on; my meeting starts soon.
‘I noticed your breadmaker at the weekend. I thought it was criminal that I’d never seen it in use, so I decided to make some for you.’
‘But that means …’
‘Yes, I arrived last night. After we spoke, I felt like a prat. I wasn’t kind to you. Babe, I have this thing …’ He looks awkward. ‘Some might say I’m an emotional cripple. It’s just that I prioritise crises. I grade them. You know, after …’
‘Becky,’ I say flatly.
‘Exactly. You said you weren’t hurt and nothing of value had been stolen, so my first thought was that you didn’t need any help. The whole incident felt like a storm in a teacup.’
I feel the hairs on my skin rise. Yesterday they had done so out of fear; today it’s more irritation. What is he saying? If I’m not actually dead, then I don’t need help? At least he seems to notice my annoyance, because he puts both hands on my shoulders.
‘I’m so sorry. I was wrong. Bad call.’ I relax into his touch a fraction, somehow relieved to feel known and accessible. I hadn’t realised I wanted to be either thing until I became both to him. The annoyance melts further as he continues. ‘I started to think how scared you must be feeling following a break-in and being out here on your own in the woods. I realised I’d got it all wrong, so I got the train back to Heidi and Leon’s and collected the car. While I was there, I asked Leon for the spare key to your house so that I could just let myself in.’
‘You told Leon and Heidi what happened?’ I wonder why Heidi didn’t call me.
‘Heidi wasn’t about. She was out walking the dog, I think. I just spoke with Leon. He’s a great guy, isn’t he? Anyway, I explained to him that there might be a chance you’d be asleep.’ He glances at the bottle of Temazepam on the bedside table. ‘I know you take those sometimes. I didn’t want to be hammering on the door in the middle of the night giving you a scare. Another one.’ He smiles, tilts his head to one side and stares into my eyes. Seeing if I’m with him, seeing if I think he made the right call. He goes on. ‘Although as things turned out, even if I had tried hammering at your door, I’m not sure I could have roused you. I sneaked up here last night hoping to crawl into bed with you, but you were out cold. I guess taking Temazepam on top of all you’d had to drink really had an effect.’
I look at the floor, discomfited by the thought that he might not have been able to rouse me. I try not to feel judged, but I’m not used to people noting all my habits. Since I hit the perimenopause, I’ve slept poorly; about once a week I resort to Temazepam. It’s not ideal, but I’m busy and I have to function, which is hard on broken sleep. I hadn’t realised Matthew had clocked it. I don’t want to have to explain all this to my younger boyfriend. It would draw attention to my chaotic hormones, my age, something we don’t often discuss. A sense of awkwardness that feels a lot like shame crawls through my body.
