by Jane Robins
I move on, wandering about with my plates, and it occurs to me to look out for Scarlet. In our email exchanges, she said several times that this changes everything, that we’re entering a new phase, and, given the sense of urgency in her language, I was surprised when she said that she couldn’t attend Belle’s funeral. I suspect she’s lying—that she’s here, but that she doesn’t want me to know it. So I try to establish who all the young women are, and I find myself ruling people out on the basis of the way they look—too garish to be Scarlet, too scruffy, or too many piercings or too loud a voice. All my observations based entirely on a concocted idea of her, probably wrong. I take a plate of cucumber sandwiches and sit down in a corner, next to a refreshments table. But I’m there hardly five minutes when Tricia comes and sits beside me.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m Callie.”
She looks into my eyes, puzzled as though she doesn’t understand, her raw exhaustion at odds with her formal clothes and her neat chestnut bob. She says, “Oh yes . . . I remember. Bea described you to me. . . . One of the last conversations we had was about you. She loved it when you came to York.”
I think I might cry, and I sit still, brushing away crumbs of cucumber sandwich that have fallen onto my lap. I compose myself and ask Tricia what age she and Bea had been when they met.
“We were eight. It’s hard to believe that she was thirty-four, like me. She had a childlike quality, didn’t she? In her appearance, and her personality.”
“I loved her bee bag,” I say. “It was so sweet, like her.”
“It’s my fault she died.” Her words come out flatly, like she has no emotions left. “I shouldn’t have moved into her flat. . . . She discussed it with you, didn’t she? How I might escape?”
She sounds accusatory.
“She wanted to help.” I place my hand on her arm, just for a second. “Here . . .”
I reach into my bag, looking for a pen and a scrap of paper. “This is my address and phone number and email. If you need anything, I’d like to help.”
It seemed unlikely that she would follow up—but I’m trying to be more like Belle, kinder and helpful.
I realize also that Tricia is about to go through the horror of Joe’s trial, without her best friend beside her, giving her support. I want to say something reassuring, but nothing comes, and instead I just look at her, noticing that under her prim navy jacket her silk shirt is buttoned up on the wrong buttons. As she takes the paper from me, I notice too that her hands are bare: no rings or bracelets or varnish on her nails.
“Oh, look,” she says. And we both watch as Bea’s mother is led out of the room by a large man, sweaty in the face and wearing an ill-fitting suit.
“I didn’t talk to her.”
“Don’t worry . . .” Tricia is struggling to speak normally. “She can’t talk to anyone, or listen. She’s not taking it in. Send her a card and write about a lovely moment that you spent with Bea; that’s the thing to do. Here . . .” She takes the pen and writes down Mrs. Santos’s address and her own email. Handing it to me, she rises from her chair, picks up her bag and leaves—a ghost of a woman, weirdly dressed in executive clothes.
• • •
In the early evening I take the train back to London, miserably, in a carriage packed with shouty, drunk football supporters. At one point, they start singing, and it’s a relief to get away when we arrive at King’s Cross. At home, I run a hot bath hoping to wash away some of the awfulness of the day. I can’t find the strength to hang up my clothes, which lie strewn across the bedroom floor. I don’t care, and I’m about to step into the bath when my phone rings. It’s Wilf.
“Hello, sexy girl,” he says, his voice drawling, and I can hear a commotion in the background.
“Are you in the pub?”
“Yep. Fancy coming down?” I haven’t seen him since Belle died; he doesn’t know.
“No . . . I’ve had a long day.”
“Fair enough . . . I’ve been thinking of you, though. Just thought I’d tell you that. . . . Shall we meet up soon?”
I feel weary. Now isn’t the time to confront him about the story in the Mail. Belle’s death means that I don’t have the energy for it. Or the motivation.
“Let’s speak tomorrow, when I’m not so tired. Good night.”
“Good night, Callie.” He sounds affectionate but unbothered.
• • •
We don’t speak the next day, or the next. I don’t answer his calls or reply to his texts, as I’m still not ready to accuse him; instead I spend my time in the bookshop in a sort of daze. As I go about my routine tasks, I’m able to move only in slow motion. I say to myself, One thing at a time, replace books on shelves, empty the till, enter the new orders . . . Mr. Ahmed comes in, and I say to him as clearly as I can, “Thank you, Jeeves is next, Mr. Ahmed, shall I order that?” and he replies, “What’s the matter, Callie? Have you caught a cold?”
Most of the time, I’m not thinking of Belle, but I’m aware of a dead weight in me that signifies her presence, and when I do think specifically of her, images flash into my mind, of her standing at York station and waving when she spots my smiley face T-shirt, of her laying out her fleece on the ground so that we can have our picnic and then sitting down neatly, with her thin brown legs tucked under her, and her back perfectly straight as she reaches into her bag for our food and wine. I can’t quite believe that she’s gone, and when, in the evenings, I log onto controllingmen.com, I half expect to find a message from her, full of enthusiasm for our mission as befrienders.
Instead I find lots of chat about Bea Santos, specifically about her bravery. I learn that on the day of the attack Joe Mayhew had arrived at her house and hammered on the door, shouting up at the windows and demanding to be let in. When he saw Tricia peek out the window, he kicked the door and cursed, causing neighbors to come out of their houses and watch. When he still got nowhere, he retreated down the side passage, where he sat on the ground next to the bins, and waited. It was bad luck that Belle was out while the rumpus was going on, at Tesco buying food. And when she returned home, and was putting her key in the lock, Joe reappeared, shoving a knife at her throat, demanding that she let him into the flat. Belle screamed for someone to call the police, while he forced her through the front door. He stabbed her several times and took her keys upstairs to the flat, and had just unlocked the door when the police did turn up, having been called by a concerned neighbor some time ago. They were in time to prevent anything but a flailing lunge at Tricia, but it was too late for Belle, who died in the ambulance that was taking her to York hospital.
It’s good to know these details. I owe it to her. It’s strange, though, to see the fevered discussion on the website, page after page of it, by people who have no idea that she was actually a member, a proper befriender. Scarlet doesn’t let on, and neither do I. We don’t want them to claim her, to manipulate her story, to make her their own martyr.
My private emails with Scarlet are intermittent and unsettling. We seem so at odds with each other because Scarlet is in a rage, a fury, constantly hoping that Joe will rot in hell or, at least, spend the rest of his life behind bars. But I’m too exhausted to care about Joe, too drained by sadness. And any anger that I waste on Joe seems to eat away at the loving thoughts I want to devote to Belle, as if my emotions are finite, and I have to think carefully about where to direct them. And when Scarlet keeps insisting that she and I meet up, I repeatedly ignore her, unable to summon the motivation to have the conversation. After a week, though, when she returns to the subject, I do at last engage:
Why is this so urgent?
Belle is dead. Can’t you see how this affects us, you as a befriender, me as prey?
How are things with Luke?
I regret the question as soon as I write it. It comes not from curiosity, but more from a difficulty I have in assessing whether Scarlet’s situation is like a chronic illness, just an ongoing dysfunction, or whether it’s the relentless escalation of
danger that she claims.
She writes:
I told you before, he ties me up around my neck, and one day he will strangle me. And he leaves me in the flat, abandoned, tied up. What if I had some emergency while he’s gone? I could have an asthma attack and not be able to get to my inhaler.
This is the first time that she’s mentioned asthma.
What happens when you explain that to him?
I write with trepidation, anxious that I’ll receive a reply full of detail about depraved sex games.
It’s simple—he says “Sure babe” and then completely ignores me. In fact I think I suffer later . . . I have cigarette burns on my back btw.
What?! That’s dreadful.
Yes, it’s all dreadful. That’s why we MUST meet. I’m not going to end up like Belle. I could come to London on Monday—could you meet me then?
Maybe . . . I’ll let you know.
Please, let me know QUICKLY. I need to plan. Also I have to concoct a story for Luke, to explain my absence. Really, it’s ESSENTIAL that we meet.
20
I call Wilf, and he answers with a note of laughter in his voice, as though I’ve caught him in the middle of a funny anecdote.
“Hey! Callie. At last . . . It’s been ages you know, since your impressive spadework in the garden . . . and afterwards . . . and everything. Can I persuade you to come out again?”
Raucous chatter in the background. “You spend too much time in the pub,” I say.
“Not the pub—it’s a going-away drinks in the office for Amy Fishwick—come and join us.” Then in a lower tone, “Really, come over. I’d love to see you, and maybe we can go out later, for a meal or something . . . or just go back to my flat.”
“Okay.” Even though I’m so low, I find myself applying makeup—eyeliner and mascara and lipstick—swapping trainers for my gray suede boots. And because I’m nervous about seeing Wilf, because of the leak to the Mail, I drink down a large glass of Strongbow.
At Willesden Estates it feels like the leaving party has passed its peak, is becoming stale. Drunk people in the street lean against the display window, and something unsavory is splattered over the pavement. Inside, rock music is playing, and the small groups of people still there look tired. Wilf sees me by the door and comes to collect me.
“It’s been so long,” he says. “Am I still okay for a kiss?”
“Maybe.” I give him my cheek, although it’s obvious that he’s expecting my lips.
“Come on in. I want to introduce you to people.”
“It’s you I want to see.”
“And here I am. But, please, Callie, I’d like you to meet my colleagues. I’ve told them about you, and they’re curious.” He puts his arm round my shoulders, and I flinch. He leads me into the office, picking up a glass of sparkling wine, and I take a gulp, feeling distant and detached—my new way of being.
He moves me this way and that, to introduce me to Bruce Oswald, whose handshake is clammy, and Tony Craig, the boss, who puts his face close to mine and slurs, “You need to keep an eye on that fella.” And then: “This is Amy, who’s leaving.”
“Hello, Amy who’s leaving.” I offer my hand, and as she takes it a flicker of a look between her blue eyes and Wilf’s blue eyes makes my chest tighten, and my question comes out too directly: “Are you going a long way away?”
She and Wilf laugh together, to the same beat.
“Oh,” she says. “I’d never go too far from the Wonderwilf. . . . The Maida Vale office.”
“The Wonderwilf?” I look at him, making a crazy face.
“She was headhunted,” says Wilf.
“I’m waiting to be headhunted . . . by a bookshop conglomerate.”
“Or a gardening multinational?” Wilf squeezes my waist, making me start.
I gulp more wine and whisper, “Can we go outside?”
“Hey, Amy,” he says, “catch up with you later. Urgent meeting . . .”
Again that flickering look, and Amy says, “Run along.”
Outside, the evening has somehow become warmer, and Bruce from the office has removed his shirt and is in the middle of a bare-chested rant about politics: “Wilf agrees, don’t you, Wilf?” He’s shouty, looking for a fight.
“Not now, mate.” Wilf steers me away.
“Let’s walk,” I say. But he just stands there.
“Something’s wrong. You’ve been avoiding me and now you’re kinda jumpy. . . . Am I being dumped, Callie?” He’s nervous, and for a second I want to tell him that everything is fine, and I want him to kiss me. But I check myself:
“Did you see that story in the Mail—about Tilda?”
“Yes . . . everyone saw it. It confirmed those worries of yours, don’t you think? Talking about giving up her career . . . hinting at Felix’s control problems.”
“Not many people knew about those things. I know . . . and you knew. Maybe no one else. . . .”
He’s a bit slurry because of drinking, and his voice goes too loud. “God . . . you don’t think I had anything to do with it?”
“I know they pay hundreds for a story like that.”
“For fuck’s sake—is that your opinion of me? Really? That’s your fucking opinion?”
He throws his wineglass in the gutter, smashing it into tiny pieces.
“Why did you have to throw that? Why?” I feel tears rising in my eyes; I’m reminded of Felix throwing the vase.
I walk away, Wilf shouting, “Don’t go! Come back, Callie, and let’s talk about this. . . .”
But I don’t turn back, other than to glance round as I turn the corner, seeing Wilf going back into Willesden Estates, back to the dregs of the party. I pick up my pace, half running home, to get away from him, to return to my flat and its reassuring solitude. I’m better off alone. It’s simpler and less painful.
At home, my bedroom is impossibly hot and humid. I open up the window to let the air in and switch on my laptop to compose an email to Scarlet.
I write:
Yes. Monday will be fine. I don’t work on Mondays, so I’m free all day—shall I suggest somewhere to meet?
She comes back straightaway:
This is the right thing to do, trust me. It’s important that we’re not noticed together though, so we should meet somewhere anonymous, where no one will pay us any attention. Do you know Kenwood House on Hampstead Heath? We could meet outside, where the benches are—the ones that have views of the heath and the lake.
I’m surprised that Scarlet knows London—I assumed she was Manchester through and through.
Yes, I know Kenwood.
Good. You’re going to think I’m being melodramatic—but I’m going to hide my identity. I’ll wear a head scarf like the Muslim girls do, and sunglasses. I suggest you do the same.
Really? It sounds a bit idiotic.
You’ll realize why. . . . Let’s say one o’clock. I’ll have a red head scarf, and I’ll be reading a book.
Okay. I have an orange scarf, so I’ll wear that.
In bed later, Wilf’s on my mind, and Belle, and my stomach is fizzing with too much alcohol. Also, it’s hot, and I’m covered in a thin film of sweat. Twice I get out of bed to drink water, and I don’t sleep properly, which means that I get up late, and panic about getting to work on time. I see in the mirror that my face is bloodshot and my eyes puffy, so I splash cold water on myself and head downstairs. The post has arrived—a traumatizing stiff white envelope with Tilda’s handwriting on it, and a small brown parcel addressed in a loose flowing script that I don’t recognize. I suppress my thoughts, put both in my bag and leave for work, jogging half the way there.
Daphne says, “What’s the matter? You look like you need a strong coffee—sorry, a hot chocolate.”
“I’ll make it.” I might sound a bit curt.
“There’s been something wrong lately, hasn’t there, sweetheart?” She rises from her position by the door, following me into the kitchen. “Let me do the drinks today.” She reaches
for the kettle, plugging it into the wall socket. “And guess what I’ve bought—Jammie Dodgers! Guaranteed to cheer you up.”
Something gives way inside me, and I blurt out: “I’m sorry I’ve been so useless recently. . . . A friend of mine died.”
“Oh jeez . . . I’m so sorry, Callie.” Her face collapses with concern. “I’ll put the CLOSED sign on the door, and we’ll sit down and you can tell me about it.”
So I do. I tell her about Belle and the day we spent together in York, and the way in which she died, protecting Tricia. I cry a little, and Daphne finds paper towels in the kitchen cupboard for me and tells me how shocked she is that something so terrible could happen. Then she makes our drinks, and I tell her everything I know about Belle’s life, about her care for her patients, about the presents she bought for Saskia and Alfie, and the breakfast she left for me in the kitchen, with the white napkins and the tulips in a vase. I go on talking about her until I’m utterly drained, and then Daphne and I distract ourselves by chatting more generally, in a gentle, friendly way. I tell her in confidence that Tilda is marrying Felix and that I’m sort of in denial about it, not wanting to discuss things with her. I couldn’t care less about her dress or the seating plan or the honeymoon. Then Daphne confides that she went on an internet date last night with “another Mr. Wrong. When I offered to go halves he hunched himself over the bill, like Uriah Heep, adding up the numbers . . . most unattractive.”
“Was there ever a Mr. Nearly Right?” I’ve never before asked her such a personal question, but an intimate space has opened up for us, because of my grief.
“Well, yes.” She’s looking down at her coffee. “A long time ago—but he’s my publisher now and married to the daughter of a lord; she has perfect taste, perfect teeth, perfect hair.”
“Grim.”
“How’s it going with Wilf?”
I don’t want an inquest, so I don’t say I think we’ve broken up, just: “Not so well . . . I don’t think I trust him.”
“Really? That surprises me. . . . I would say he’s a trustworthy boy.”
