It was just after 8am, and Laura was sat at the kitchen table, nursing a large mug of steaming coffee. She had relit the fires, fed the two ancient chocolate brown Labradors, and put a pan of water on to boil. She seldom took the time to make breakfast, but for some reason this morning she was starving and she planned to take full advantage of Ellen's well-stocked fridge. The cottage was silent, but for the snoring that was once again emanating from beside the Aga, and she knew from experience that it would be several hours until Ellen appeared. Indeed, if she were entirely truthful, it was partly for this reason that she so relished her time here. Ellen provided the perfect balance of company and solitude, and although they would certainly have a stroll this afternoon, Laura was longing for a decent walk on the beach, on her own.
The water was boiling and she carefully added an egg to the pan, checking the clock. She buttered and sliced her toast, her mind still preoccupied with the previous night's conversation. The routine soothed her, as it always did, and she ate slowly, savouring each bite. She wouldn't call him this morning. There was still too much to say, and she knew that he would be busy interviewing. He would be at work already, of that much she was sure, and likely as not, he wouldn't even glance at his phone until lunchtime. She drank the last of her coffee, and eyed the two overweight gentlemen next to the stove suspiciously,
"Anyone want a walk?"
Ben raised his head slightly, and raised an eyebrow, before settling himself back down on his paws. It seemed that the warmth of the kitchen was too tempting… Somewhat relieved - although she liked dogs, even their company this morning felt like a distraction - she went in search of a coat and some boots.
Laura loved the beach here. It was a strange place, washed up on the edge of the North Sea. Grey skies and muted sand slid together easily, and a firm breeze whipped along the channel of water between Walbeswick and Southwold. Old bloater huts punctuated the marshy flatland, dark structures now hollowed out by years of smoke and decay, and the inquisitive squawks of the juvenile herring gulls filled the air. The sun was pale and the beach was almost deserted. A few dog walkers, a fisherman packing up after a night watching his lines. She'd borrowed Ellen's walking boots, and the unfamiliar heaviness drew her attention to her steps. The shingle was fine, easy to walk on, and the receding tide left firm swathes of wet, compacted sand.
As she walked, the tangle of worries began to unfurl, and she tried to unpick her feelings. It wasn't that she had expected Robbie to explain away every missed opportunity, every awkward moment. Even she couldn't stomach the thought of a post-mortem on the entirety of their relationship of the last decade. It wasn't necessary, and it wouldn't help. No…all she wanted…needed…was to know why he had walked away after her attack. She understood that it had been difficult, that he'd questioned her honesty…that something had been damaged between them, but she didn't understand his coldness during the weeks after.
She'd taken up Ellen's offer of some counselling, dutifully attended the 8 sessions with her old clinical supervisor. He'd quickly understood that her post-traumatic stress was mild and that recovery was simply a matter of time, and their discussion had swiftly moved to her life in general. It had been hard, her choices held up so starkly for her to consider. But ultimately useful. It was only in his off-white studio, with the fake Edmund de Waal pots and conspicuous collection of prog rock LPs that she finally admitted to herself the place that Robbie Lewis had unwittingly carved out in her life. Admitted that he was the reason she couldn't move on, that he was what she wanted, that she had felt this way for years. It had been a painful truth, that had frustrated her as much as it brought peace. But somehow knowing, finally, what she wanted had made things clearer.
And yet he had so obviously stepped back from her. During the case, among the tears and the accusations, he had at least been present. She had been hurt, of course she had, but deep down she had known he was right to ask his questions, however much she wanted to punish him for them. But as she had sat shivering in a side-room at the hospital, the mud still coating her hair, the tears drying painfully on her reddened cheeks, it had been Hathaway who had waited to take her home. He had stayed while she showered, packed a bag, and he had driven her to her friend Geraldine's house. The next few days had been an exhausting mixture of interviews with an unfamiliar female detective, tests at the hospital on her injured shoulder and neck, and sleep, hours and hours of blissful, Valium-induced sleep. Every evening Hathaway would call her, check she was ok, ask if she needed anything. They'd laugh and joke about nothing in particular, he would talk to her about his upcoming gig and the nightmare they were having with their errant drummer. He'd taken her home, helped her with new locks, moved some furniture, and finally offered to sleep in the spare room while she readjusted. She'd never taken him up on the offer, but she had been grateful for his kindness.
After a few weeks off work, she'd insisted on being back in the mortuary. Running lab tests and reports at first, processing data, then back to the usual assortment of teaching, research and forensics. As her therapy sessions became ever more filled with discussion of Robbie, he had emptied from her life. It was nearly a month after that night, when Ligeia's body was released for burial, that she finally saw him, standing awkwardly at the back of the crematorium. He'd obviously waited until the service ended, and she'd hesitated, suddenly keenly aware of the truths she'd revealed to a stranger, but couldn't say to him. In the end she'd thanked him, he'd made some kind of attempt at humour and they'd walked, saying little, asking less. He didn't explain where he'd been, and in the absence of any explanation, she found herself wondering if she had any right to ask. And so they'd stumbled on, gradually resurrecting the trust between them, and now they were here…and suddenly his withdrawal all that time ago had become acutely painful. She'd always just assumed that he was disgusted with her, angry with the idea of her lying to him, and that finally he'd just got over it. But it hurt nonetheless. She'd never lied to him, never. And if he could walk away once, maybe he could do it again?
She looked up, aware for the first time that she had walked much further than she had intended. Her calf muscles were beginning to protest in unfamiliar boots. The morning scud had cleared entirely, and the pale autumn sun was flickering shards of glass into the sea. She turned, the breeze whipping her hair back, and began the trudge back to the car. In spite of her melancholy thoughts she felt strangely calm. Like a pebble in her shoe, she'd identified what was upsetting her, what she needed to ask. And she took solace from his calm, measured words of the previous night. Maybe he did have his reasons.