by Jane Robins
“Were you here when it happened?” I may as well come to the point.
From his attitude on the sofa, I can see that he doesn’t register the tension in me. He thinks I’m merely curious. “Yes. I’ve been staying for a few weeks—I have a job here. Another house.”
“Congratulations.”
“So, yes, I was here. She seemed like a nice girl. A bit intense and moody maybe, and quiet. But basically nice.”
I think that nice is the worst possible word for her. “So what happened exactly? I mean, I only know that she died in the pool. Tilda emailed me, about the fuss in the press and so on; but I don’t know any details.”
“Oh—okay. Well, she pitched up here wanting to stay, and I don’t think that Tilda had been expecting her; after all, they didn’t know each other well. They’d been students at drama school, as I understand it, but that was a long time ago. Charlotte seemed to think that she and Tilda had some special bond, and that Tilda would be delighted to have her as a houseguest; Tilda didn’t have the heart to turn her away—and Charlotte just settled in. She made herself useful, I guess, going down to the supermarket each morning, buying food, making our meals. And she’d work out which movies we’d watch in the evenings. She reckoned she could make it here as an actress—like thousands of young women before her, of course—but she didn’t seem to realize that she and Tilda are leagues apart. Tilda has something special about her. Charlotte didn’t.”
I’m noticing the differences between Lucas and Felix. He’s put his feet up on the coffee table and is drinking his wine too fast. And there’s something about the way in which he talks about Tilda, an element of admiration in his voice, and of supplication, that makes me realize that she has him under her control, and I pity him.
“So, that night . . . ,” he says, “Charlotte and Tilda were down at the pool. Charlotte, I remember, was wearing a long dress of Tilda’s, a gold-colored silky thing—it had a split seam, and Tilda said she didn’t want it anymore, that Charlotte could keep it. They’d been drinking, Charlotte had taken some coke, and they were swimming. It’s a famously lethal combination, of course. And they’d swum in their clothes, which, at the time, they’d thought was an amusing thing to do. Kinda crazy, in a good way. I was here, up at the house, making dinner for once. Anyways, Tilda came up from the pool, drenched, dripping wet skirt, making footprints on the tiles; she went upstairs for a shower, came down again, and was surprised that Charlotte hadn’t appeared. We called her from the terrace, but she didn’t come; so we walked down to the pool together, Tilda and I, and there she was, floating facedown, her black hair radiating outwards, the dress tangled up around her legs. I kinda went into emergency mode, jumping into the pool, and together we pulled her out.”
We sit silently, and I put my feet up on the coffee table, next to Lucas’s. I can hear my sister upstairs, the snap of a closing door, the scrape of a chair, and I say, “Do you blame Tilda?”
It’s a while before he answers, “No, not at all. Why would I?”
Then she calls out, “Come up, Callie!” in a voice that is too light, too fresh. So I leave Lucas on the sofa and ascend the stairs, to find Tilda waiting for me, standing at the door of a bedroom, bathed in a pinkish glow that is coming from an open door behind her, a door to a balcony. She’s wearing a thin white cotton robe over her naked body, and her feet are bare. Her long fair hair is freshly dried and glimmers at its edges, as do tiny specks of dust in the air. Her expression is sweet, a sort of tender bemusement.
“I told you not to come, little one. There’s far too much going on, and it would have been better to wait. It’s been difficult . . .”
She pulls me to her and kisses my cheek, not barely brushing it in her usual way, but pressured and long, like she’s missed me, and I’m not sure whether to feel cherished or used.
In any case, I don’t want to pull away. She smells of geranium and of orange, which I suppose is her shower gel or her shampoo, and I bury my face in her neck, to get more of it, as I hug her and say “I’ve hardly slept. . . . It’s making me feel strange, like you’re not real, like this house isn’t real.”
“LA is a little like that—it deals in fantasy.”
“I don’t mean that . . . I think it’s more that you are your fabricated self here, in an unnatural habitat.” Something I could never have said before Liam brought it into the open and made it true.
I look around her dark-wood bedroom, at the table with her makeup on the top, lipsticks and mascaras and foundations untidily scattered, the tops left off; at the bed, which is oddly low, the covers thrown back, the sheets and pillows dented, and at the open glass doors, the balcony beyond, with a view of nothing other than deep, waxy foliage, and the tiniest glimpse of the pool.
“You’re funny, Callie,” she says. “If you’re so tired, why don’t you lie on the bed? Actually, I might join you—I have time before the hair and makeup people arrive, I may as well rest.”
She unbelts her robe, lets it drop to the floor, so that I’m gazing at her naked body; finding myself filled with embarrassment, but unable to look away. Apart from a quick glance that day on the Thames, I haven’t seen her without her clothes since we were children, since we were prepubescent and shared an evening bath, and I’m unable to speak as she crosses the room towards the bed; I’m noticing everything about her as if for the first time, jutting little hips, the soft cupping curve of her breasts, the waxed skin down between her legs. It’s too much to take in, but I want to touch her white, white skin—no little ink spots now, just a few freckles clustered here and there, and the mole on her shoulder.
She gets in, pulling up the sheet, and I take off my shoes and my jeans, and I join her.
“Can I hug you?”
“Of course.” She opens her arms, and I move in, resting my head low on her shoulder, practically on her breast, and for a few blissful seconds I close my eyes and imagine what life would be like if my sister was an innocent person. I wriggle to get comfortable, moving my arm under her back, the other across her stomach, entwining my legs with hers, until we are one amorphous being, and Tilda says, “We’re like the babes in the wood.”
“I know everything.” I stroke her stomach with my finger, and then her bony hip.
“Really?” It’s that tender attitude again. “That’s good. You’re me and I’m you—so I guess it’s important that you know.”
“You didn’t always think that. . . .”
“No—but then I didn’t realize how well my plans would work out.”
“You were lucky.”
“I’m a lucky person, Callie.”
“This is how I understand it . . .” I move my hand up her body, caressing the side of her breast, then stroking her face and her hair. “You got the idea from the Strangers on a Train movie . . . the idea of swapping murders. If you could get someone to kill Felix for you, you’d kill in return.”
She laughs gently, a tiny sparkle of a laugh. “And why would I do such a thing? Why would I want Felix dead? My darling boy.”
“Oh, you never loved Felix. You wanted his money. . . . Your career was foundering—Felicity Shore told me that—you’d been behaving badly in London, like a prima donna, losing jobs, and you were desperate to make a fresh start here, in LA. So you married Felix, made sure you would inherit—”
“I’m proud of you, you know. I always have been, actually. You see things that others don’t. It’s your sensitivity.” She kisses the top of my head, pulls my hair back away from my face, almost roughly.
“But you didn’t mind using me, did you?” I say. “You’re ruthless, Tilda. . . . When I told you about controllingmen.com you saw how to haul me in—you told Charlotte to join up, and to befriend me, to take me further and further into my obsession with dangerous men and vulnerable women. That way, I’d keep quiet about Felix’s death—and you thought I’d be persuaded to kill Luke for Charlotte. You were outsourcing your side of the bargain to stupid me.”
“Oh, you hav
en’t got that bit quite right.” Now she was whispering. “Charlotte was practically psychopathic—she was keen to kill, she saw it as exciting . . . so I knew that if you didn’t go through with Luke’s murder, she’d do it anyway. There was no real reason for Luke to die, you see, other than Charlotte’s belief that if she and I were both bereaved, sharing a lethal secret, that we’d be bonded together for good. That we’d both have brilliant careers, sharing success; that’s what she wanted. She was a fool, Callie.”
I pull away, so that I can look at her face, and she gives me the sweetest smile.
“Charlotte told you about Belle, and how she was a nurse,” I say, “and you came up with the injections idea.”
“I’m so clever, don’t you think?”
“Then you introduced Felix to Charlotte—you told him she was a medic who could administer your vitamin injections. And, what? She came round to Curzon Street a couple of times—in my imagination she’s wearing a white cotton coat and has her hair pulled back in a ponytail, looking so professional—and you both had harmless injections, it didn’t matter what was in them. . . . You were simply getting Felix accustomed to the idea that Charlotte was authorized to inject him. And when he said he was going to attend a conference at that hotel, you seized your chance. You told him that Charlotte was nearby, that she could come round for his injection, that it would be good for him, keep him at the top of his game.”
“You’re right. I even used that cliché—you’ll stay at the top of your game, darling.”
I pull my head up from her breast, and rest it on the pillow so that we are face-to-face, so close that our lips are nearly touching, our eyelashes almost brushing each other.
“It was all so perfect,” she says. “When Felix died, the police suspected nothing. That stupid Melody Sykes woman called me up and asked me about the marks from the injection, and I told her—vitamins, both of us had vitamin injections. And she accepted it—I could scarcely believe it. Then it turned out that Felix did have some sort of heart condition. Sykes told me that they do cause of death on a balance of probabilities—nothing more. I thought that was utterly hilarious.”
I think of her playing the grieving widow, gray with suffering, scarcely able to stand, struggling to formulate words. I remember her bearing at the funeral, the melancholy bride, the excruciating sorrow. Tilda is a brilliant actress, I have to give her that.
We are so close now that I feel her breaths on my face, and I realize that this moment is rare, special, because for once she isn’t acting, she’s being honest.
“It’s such a relief,” she says, “to be with you . . . I could fall asleep in your arms I feel so relaxed and happy.”
But I’m not going to let her get away with that, and I ask, “What happened with Charlotte? Did you hold her down under the water . . . was it difficult?”
She kisses my lips, whispers, “It was so, so easy, Callie. She was out of her head, drugged and drunk, and I think she wanted me to do it. Deep down, she knew we couldn’t be together, that she’d always be inferior . . . that’d she’d feel forever bitter, betrayed even. And I didn’t want her around, reminding me of our dirty little secret.”
I move in closer still, holding her so tightly that she gasps, then I release her and turn onto my back, staring at the wooden ceiling as I think about what to do.
“What about me?” I don’t look at her as I speak. “Don’t I remind you of your secret? Won’t you resent me for that?”
“No, little one. Of course not. You’re an extension of me . . . you know that.”
“I’m wondering whether I should go to the police. If I call Melody Sykes and tell her everything, all the detail of it . . . she’d have to believe me.”
“Really? You think so?” She’s getting out of the bed now and is walking towards the open doors, saying, “Watch this—this will tell you what you need to know.”
She doesn’t pick up anything to cover herself up, walking outside, onto the balcony—it’s dark out there now, just a faint silvery light, unnatural, like it’s from a lamp in the garden; I get out of bed too, following her. In the corner a thin pole connects the side of the balcony to an overhanging roof—and Tilda climbs up onto a chair, holds the pole, and then steps up onto the metal rail that runs the breadth of the balcony. Holding on with one hand, she swings herself outwards, towards the black trees and the foliage, and she’s balanced precariously there. I automatically step forward to look down, and see that the drop is a long one, that there’s concrete below, and nothing to break a fall.
“I’d rather you pushed me,” she says, “than go to the police. You see, I’m not afraid—I’m exhilarated when I think of death—I do like to flirt with it, just as I told you on the memory stick. . . . That bit is true.” She’s swinging back and forth now, recklessly, seeming not to mind that the slightest slip would kill her.
I don’t feel alarmed as I watch her wild movements, her rocking white body; instead I feel comforted. This is the Tilda I recognize, so deeply, like I recognize night or grass or sky, something that would make you die if it was taken away. This is the impulsive, crazy girl, who can mesmerize you whenever she wishes, who will switch from ethereal to intense in a second, who believes that she has a God-given right to be a star.
She laughs as she pulls herself back to safety, clambers back down onto the chair, and the floor, saying, “Well, that’s enough of that! I think you get the point. Now, scoot, Callie, the makeup person will be here soon. Go and chat to Lucas.” She picks up her cotton robe and covers herself, saying again, “Go on!” So I do. I leave her alone so that she can preen and beautify, create the person she so admires.
50
I’m standing on a pavement, squashed in a crowd, straining to see the stars who parade the red carpet, pausing for the cameras, lit and sanctified by white flashing lights. Knowing poses, shining eyes, a flick of hair and a backward glance, again and again, a parade of goddesses in flimsy gowns and impossible shoes. Tilda appears and, like the rest, she has that entitled, self-regarding smile, always for the cameras, scarcely registering the fans crammed behind the metal barrier, the contemptible civilians.
“It’s Tilda Farrow,” says the obese woman next to me, her breath smelling of gum. “She was in the press—some girl died at her house, and now she’s got this big new role in a movie called The Stranger.”
Tilda hadn’t told me, but I’m not surprised. Of course her dream has come true. It was inevitable, I suppose, because of her determination, her power. I stand on tiptoe, to get a better view, hoping she’ll spot me. But she doesn’t, she’s concentrating on giving an interview to a man in a tux holding a microphone. I can’t hear, but I can imagine what she’s saying: “Yes, I’m excited about this new part. It’s challenging, but I’ll be working with some amazing people.” All the deceiving platitudes of her profession delivered with ease and self-absorption. Then she turns to go into the building, and it’s only now that I realize that she’s wearing the golden dress with the crisscross straps going down her back. She rescued it from the pool, had the seam repaired.
I turn my back on the revolting scene and make my way back through the crowd. I’m going home, to England, and Wilf and gardens, to Mum and her bad paintings, to Daphne and Willesden Green, even to Liam. Now that I’ve found him again, I’m not going to let him go. I plan to live the life that Tilda imagined for me all those years ago, back in Gravesend, when she identified my “calling.” One day I’ll be in a house with a good man, maybe Wilf, with children and dogs, and I’ll give myself to ordinary things, everyday loves.
But I do know—how could I not?—that I’m the keeper of a secret that puts sinfulness at the heart of me, that I’m eternally tainted. I’ll have to live with that, because I’m not going to betray my sister. It would kill her if I did; she’d fall off that balcony, stage a beautiful death. I can’t allow it. Instead I’m choosing to believe that she’s done her harm; that now she’s moving on. She’ll discard Lucas, of course, he’
s a temporary crutch; and thanks to Felix’s money she’ll become a film star, surviving on my silence, on the absence of normal life and endlessly craving the adoration that sustains her in the darkness.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my brilliant publisher, Tara Parsons at Touchstone, along with her assistant, Isabella Betita, and copy editor Erica Ferguson. I’m grateful, also, for the fantastic contributions made by Lisa Milton and Sally Williamson at HQ in London. In addition, I’d like to thank my agent, Natasha Fairweather, for her wisdom and editorial guidance, Elyse Cheney for supporting White Bodies in the United States, Lucy Kellaway for her encouragement and perceptiveness, and Kate Wilkinson for her many vital editorial adjustments. The other Wilkinsons and Molly Robins, over glasses of prosecco, helped me choose a title and reject several others including The Train on the Girl, Oughtn’t it Be, and What I Didn’t Know; Agnes Makar was a first-class PA and reader; Dr. Stuart Hamilton gave me valued advice on heart conditions and forensic pathology; and Paula Southern and Andy Banks once again allowed me to write in their room with a glorious view. This is my first novel and I could not have made the switch from nonfiction without a fellowship awarded by the Royal Literary Fund. At home, where most of the novel was written, Tom McMahon kept me going with his love, intelligence, wit, and kindness.
A Touchstone Reading Group Guide
White Bodies
Jane Robins
This reading group guide for White Bodies includes an introduction, discussion questions, ideas for enhancing your book club, and a Q&A with author Jane Robins. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.
