by Alice Hunter
‘Hey!’ I shout. Blood rushes to my face. ‘What the—’
Before I can say anything further, I feel hands on either side of me, roughly turning me away from the flashing cameras.
‘Don’t,’ Adam says. ‘Let me.’ And he leaves my side and struts forward, approaching the journalists, seemingly unfazed by the long lenses being thrust near his face. Isn’t he worried he’ll be somehow linked to this shitstorm? To me? He’s been so reluctant to be seen with me in public before – afraid of the repercussions. Scared people would get the wrong impression. Surely he’s directly inserting himself into this now by confronting the press?
I don’t hear what he says; he’s speaking very quietly. Calm and assured, unlike me. I take a shaky breath in.
Within moments Adam is back by my side, the group dispersing.
‘What on earth did you say to convince them to leave?’ I remove my sunglasses so I can see Adam clearly.
‘Oh, I just reasoned with them. And said the nursery would sue each of them, individually, for taking pictures of their premises where any of their pupils might be snapped without permission.’
‘Good one,’ I say, managing a smile.
‘You’re shaking,’ Adam says.
I look at my trembling hands. ‘Adrenaline.’
‘I’m glad I turned up when I did. You looked like you were about to explode – and as much as it would’ve pleased me to watch those lowlifes get what was coming to them, I don’t think they’d have come off well, which means you wouldn’t have either.’
‘I was pretty angry.’
‘And rightly so. Bloody vultures.’
‘I was going to pop into the café on the way back because I promised Poppy some banana bread. Do you and Jess fancy joining me?’ I ask, then I remember. ‘Oh, God – sorry. They were meant to be having a play date – you’ll want to be making the most of the time on your own.’
‘No, actually. Why do you think I’m here?’
‘Oh, yes.’ I shake my head, confused. ‘I was supposed to be picking Jess up, not you.’
‘That was before I heard about the mob outside yours.’ Adam raises a brow. ‘I figured you might need backup.’
‘Thanks, Adam. I’m seriously grateful you stepped in when you did. That could’ve been a very ugly scene otherwise.’ I look around at Julia and the other yummy mummies. All of them are casting wary glances my way. ‘I need to do the rounds before the girls come out. Do you mind?’ I indicate towards Julia.
‘Absolutely – you go ahead. I’ll just be here, waiting. I don’t want to be a part of that. I’d rather face a pack of journalists,’ he says, giving a mock shudder.
‘Hah! You do make me laugh,’ I say, as I leave him sitting on the low wall away from everyone else. I do wonder why he doesn’t try and chat with the other parents. I know he says people treat him with kid gloves, that they avoid him because they still don’t know how to be around him following Camilla’s death, but I get the feeling it’s not them: it’s him. He doesn’t want to converse with the parents. It’s him hiding away avoiding them, not the other way around.
The nursery door opens within a moment or two of me approaching Julia and her posse. None of them have time to mention the scene moments ago, or to ask questions about Tom and how things are going. A quick ‘hello’ is as far as it gets, which works in my favour.
The walk to Poppy’s Place is laboured. Both the girls dawdle, stopping every few steps to gabble on about something they’ve seen, but it’s fine. It’s great to see Poppy being this friendly with another child; it’s reassuring. And anyway, Adam and I are happy to amble. The leisurely pace is restful in comparison to my earlier journey to nursery. I’ll take slow and uneventful any day.
‘How are you doing?’ Adam is walking in the road, and I’m on the pavement. Our heads are almost at the same level. I look into his eyes and see the same warmth and kindness which enabled me to open up to him before. I purse my lips together, contemplating. I turn to check where the girls are, and, happy they’re close but not likely to hear me, I take a breath and tell Adam about my visit with Tom.
Well, I tell him the basics, anyway. I daren’t share the entire truth.
‘Oh, Beth. I’m so sorry, that must’ve been really stressful. If that’s even the right word.’
‘It’s one word,’ I say. ‘Although stress wasn’t the overriding emotion. Honestly, Adam, the way he looked at me. Pleading eyes.’ I drag my hands over my face. ‘I don’t want to think about him.’
‘Change of subject then?’
‘Yes. Please.’
‘I can offer up the following topics for conversation,’ Adam says, turning and side-stepping alongside me. ‘Ready?’
I laugh. ‘Possibly not, but go on. I’m intrigued at least.’
‘Cheeky. I have in my arsenal: bedwetting trauma; dead pet trauma; work trauma,’ he puts his finger to his lips, ‘and … my pièce de résistance … getting stuck in a lift for three hours trauma.’ He stops to take a bow.
‘Oh, no! Really?’ I can’t help but laugh. ‘All of those ordeals – are you receiving therapy?’
‘You’re it.’
‘Oh, the pressure! In that case, I feel we should cover each topic in the order of severity. Which would you consider to be your most traumatic?’
‘Hard to say. The worst for Jess is the dead pet.’ His face takes on a serious expression.
‘Which pet? And does she know yet?’
‘Moby the goldfish. And no. I’ve managed to lie, like every good parent, and say I took him to have his water changed.’
I cover my hand with my mouth to prevent the giggle, but it’s too late.
‘Oh, thank you very much. Laughing at my misfortune.’
‘Adam – that’s the worst lie ever!’
‘I know, I know. I hang my head in shame.’ He does just that and I start laughing again.
‘Most parents would lie by replacing the deceased goldfish with a brand new one?’
‘I’m not good at lying. I couldn’t think anything up on the spot. Rubbish, aren’t I?’
It’s a simple statement, but it holds so much significance. I put my hand on his arm. ‘It’s a good thing, you know.’
‘What? A dead fish?’
‘No, Adam. That you find lying hard.’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
I shake my head. Is he that naïve? ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Oh? You sound as though you’re speaking from experience.’
It’s my turn to hang my head in shame now. Real shame. For some unfathomable reason, I find myself wanting to tell him. Suddenly, I’m eager to unburden my guilt to someone. It’s a huge risk, though. I’ll be opening myself up for judgement. Putting a new friendship under enormous strain. But in this moment, it’s something I feel needs to be done.
I stop walking and Adam does the same, his eyes narrowing, searching mine for a clue as to what I’m about to say.
‘I don’t really know where to start, or how to say this.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t, then,’ Adam says, concern flickering over his face, pinching his features. I can hear an uneasy edge to his tone. I hesitate. I should backtrack. Maybe I’ve got Adam wrong after all.
Then he looks to the girls and back to me. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Go on. It’s okay – you can trust me.’
I hope he’s right.
‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ I say.
Chapter 61
TOM
Now
If I close my eyes, I can still see her face the moment the life drained from it. The memory isn’t one hundred per cent accurate now – years of thinking about that night, turning it over in my mind, recalling the sensations I experienced when I realised what I’d done – they’ve altered the original slightly. It’s like re-watching an old favourite movie that’s been digitally remastered in high definition: the images are sharper, the colours are brighter, but over the years I’m likely to have embellished the incide
nt – edited it. It had been dark – I couldn’t really have seen her face clearly enough to watch the life slip away from it. And the fact she ended up in the water, drowning, means I didn’t actually witness her dying breath as I imagine it in my head. All my fantasies must’ve mixed in with the real events and become part of my memory.
Phoebe was my first.
You never forget your first, do you? It’s said you never truly get over them either. Phoebe assumed our meeting had taken place by chance, but I’d seen her around campus. I’d watched her during our first year at uni with her fresher mates: confident, loud, excitable; her long honey-coloured hair hanging loosely around her shoulders; her impish face alight with curiosity; full of life. She fascinated me right from the off. But I kept my distance and our paths didn’t cross that year.
It wasn’t until the second year – freshers’ week – in a club in town that fate gave a helping nudge. She’d lost her friends. Lord knows how; I’d been watching and they had stuck together like glue for most of the night. We were both drunk when she came back to mine, and we shagged like our lives depended on it. As dawn broke, I made love to her again, this time sober: slowly; sensually.
At first, anyway – then it became clear she enjoyed the wilder side. Rough sex was her thing too. I couldn’t have been more satisfied that night: she blew my mind. She’d left before the sun rose fully; before I was even awake. No ‘it’s been great’; no goodbye. No promises we’d meet up later. But I knew she would want me again. I bet no one had screwed her like I had.
‘Hey, Phoebe,’ I’d said casually when I saw her out at a club later that week. I’d told her it was the one my mates and I went to regularly, so I knew she’d turned up there hoping to bump into me. But her face hadn’t shown her usual enthusiasm. She’d given me a look of disdain, which I hadn’t expected or appreciated.
‘Oh hey, you good?’ she’d said, before walking off without waiting for my response. I’d lingered at the end of the bar until I saw her heading to the toilets on her own, then I’d chased after her.
‘Thought we could hook up again after?’ I’d said to her. She’d frowned, and her pretty features had puckered into an ugly expression.
‘Um, no,’ she’d said, in a tone that smacked of repulsion. Like it was the most ridiculous suggestion of all time. ‘Oh, come on. You and I both know it was a drunken one-night-stand … er …’ she’d hesitated, opened her mouth to say my name, but then didn’t bother – clearly she’d forgotten it. Perhaps I hadn’t told her, I’d tried to convince myself. She’d walked off, leaving me standing there like a twat. My face burns now as I remember.
The slag.
Phoebe had spent the rest of the night hanging off some bloke – snogging him openly, just to belittle me. I hadn’t wanted her to know she was getting to me, so I found my own bit of fun. Got drunker and drunker to cover up my humiliation.
I’d left the club before her, but I didn’t go far. I waited for her along the path by the river that I guessed she’d take back to her accommodation. Luckily, she hadn’t left with the guy she’d been with, and her friends had done another disappearing act – what kind of friends were they anyway? I’d jumped out in front of her as she walked along the riverbank. The shock, then fear, that crossed her face was satisfying. I let her know what a slut she was, leading me on that way, then discarding me.
‘You’re fucking insane, mate,’ she’d said, pushing past me. I ran to catch her up; darted in front of her again.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ she’d slurred. ‘It was one night – get over yourself. You do know about uni life, don’t you? You’re bloody deluded if you think I’m seeing you again. You’re a weirdo.’
It was a hard fall.
I’d watched it happen in slow motion, adrenaline pumping fiercely through my veins as she bumped and bounced like a ragdoll, tumbling down the embankment. The end of her journey was marked with a sickening thud. I’d only shoved her once. I swear she was just trying to make it more dramatic than it was – she must have wanted to make it look like I’d been violent. Backfired on her, though. She must’ve broken her ankle on the way if the snap, followed by the scream, was anything to go by.
It hadn’t taken a lot to finish her off; she barely put up a fight in the end as I gently held her face under the water. Her alcohol level must’ve been off the scale, let alone whatever drugs were undoubtedly in her system.
I’d realised it would look like a drunken fall. No foul play. There were no CCTV cameras along that path back then. I’d wondered about fibres from my clothes, but from the way she’d behaved in the club, I knew mine wouldn’t be the only ones they found. The water would probably make it difficult to collect samples, too. Or that had been my hope when I rolled her in bodily, anyway. Mainly I was confident because there was no reason for the police – or anyone – to suspect me. As far as I was aware, no one even knew we’d met. No one had seen me with her – she hadn’t even remembered my name, so it was doubtful she’d told her friends about me.
The only thing that could link us was her uni sweatshirt. She’d left it in my room after she snuck out. I’d intended to burn that, but when it came to it, I was unable to. I kept it as a reminder. Some might say it was a trophy. Her scent remained on that sweatshirt for years: I could get off on smelling it; reliving the night she fell, over and over. Beth had found it once, but I’d said it was mine – that it’d shrunk in the wash. She always used to believe everything I told her.
I really hadn’t intended to kill Phoebe – not before the opportunity came up. But once it happened, something inside me, which must previously have been dormant, reared up and fought to be released. I pushed the urges away; struggled with my desire to replicate the feeling that had surged through me that night; tried to carry on a ‘normal’ life. I kept it all under control.
Until Katie.
Then, the night it came out she’d cheated, the demon inside me came out again too.
Chapter 62
BETH
Now
I can’t say the words out loud.
‘You all right, Beth? You’ve lost all your colour,’ Adam says.
It’s the fear – of opening a box I can’t close again. ‘Yes, sort of. I … well.’ I sigh deeply, my eyes averted. A car drives slowly past us, and any other words I had are stolen from my mouth by a shout from the window.
‘You’re her, aren’t you?’ the man in his mid-twenties yells through the half-open driver’s-side window. He doesn’t wait for an answer, though; he just spits at me as the car screeches off. I wipe the back of my hand over my cheek, mopping away the stringy blob of saliva. I gag.
‘Jesus!’ Adam runs into the road and after the car. It’s a waste of time, I think – he’ll be long gone. But I realise Adam’s got his mobile in his hand. As he comes back to me and the girls, breathing heavily, he says he got the registration number. ‘Sorry, girls.’ He crouches down beside Jess and Poppy and smiles. ‘That was a very rude man and he shouldn’t have done what he did.’
‘He is a bad boy,’ Poppy says, her eyes wide. She comes to me and wraps her arms around my thighs. ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. His mummy will tell him off.’
After some smoothing over and encouraging words from Adam, my shaking subsides. I don’t want them to know how angry I am; how hurt. That has got to be the most gross thing that’s happened to me.
‘I think he’ll be on the naughty step for quite a while,’ I say, giving Poppy a squeeze. ‘Right, let’s get that banana bread. Put a step on it, girls – or the café will be closed before we get there!’ I try to sound unaffected; light-hearted. Looking at Adam’s face, I know I’m not fooling him.
Lucy seems stressed when we walk into the café. Without her usual bandana, her hair is wild; strands of loose hair are falling around her face. Her red face. She’s flustered – rushing from table to counter, her movements jagged. Oh, God. I’ve caused this.
‘You guys take a seat. I’ll get some drinks and treats,’ I say,
smiling at Adam and the girls, then hurrying over to Lucy.
‘I’m so sorry for leaving you to cope with all this, Lucy.’
She doesn’t even look at me; her head is bowed as she makes a latte. ‘Yeah, well – it’s not been easy.’ I can hear the threat of tears in her voice.
‘I should shut up shop for a week, give you some recovery time. I know you’ve had an awful lot of stress thrust on you – I really am sorry.’ I put my hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs it off.
‘Whatever you think,’ she says. Then she turns to face me, her expression softening. ‘Or perhaps reduced hours instead? I don’t want your hard work building this place up to go to waste.’
‘Oh, Lucy. You’re such a star. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.’
‘I’m sorry for being a grump. What with the Tom thing, then the police asking Oscar all sorts, it’s set me on edge. I know any other time I’d be fine with working here on my own, it’s just—’
‘No, Lucy. You shouldn’t have to.’ Her mentioning Oscar reminds me about the car Tom apparently borrowed – I need to try and contact Jimmy, his mate from the bank. He should be back tomorrow. ‘I’m wrong to put that on you – increasing your responsibilities at such a challenging time. It’s not like I’ve just left you to it while I go on holiday, is it?’
‘Nope. It really isn’t,’ Lucy says, her blue eyes watery. ‘I know it’s not easy for you. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I heard someone saying just now that there were journalists hanging around the nursery. Poor Poppy – she must wonder what’s going on.’
‘Yes, it’s awful. I’m managing to keep her fairly sheltered from it all, I think, at the moment. Although I have literally just been spat on by someone in a passing car.’
