‘Come on, let’s go and see what’s going on.’ James grabbed Evie’s hand and she felt her fingers tingle under the warmth of his touch. As he pulled her towards the house a figure emerged.
‘James,’ Mr Addlington barked. ‘Get here now. We’re leaving.’
James dropped Evie’s hand and scuttled to his father’s side, turning around to give her one last wave before running to keep up with the grown man stalking in the direction of the driveway. Evie looked up at the window, where her mother was watching them leave.
11
Rebecca
When Richard comes back out he’s avoiding eye contact, but I can’t tell if it’s the I’m-pretending-I-haven’t-been-crying avoidance or the I’m-messaging-you-pretending-to-be-my-dead-wife avoidance.
The wife. Richard’s wife? Makes sense, seeing as the person sending the messages is using Evie’s name. It’s possible Camille is the one contacting me, although I can’t imagine why she would. She’s got what she wanted now, surely. Why taunt me like this? Is she bored already? Without Evie to play with perhaps she’s moved on to a new target. Me.
‘Here,’ he says, but as he passes me the bottle my co-ordination betrays how shaken I am and it slips through my fingers, smashing on the concrete patio. Beer froths and spreads across the floor and I jump to my feet.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I say, bending to pick up the broken glass.
‘Leave it,’ Richard waves a hand but I carry on retrieving large fragments of the bottle, stacking them up to one side. ‘Becky, leave it, you’re going to—’
But before he can say the word one of the pieces of glass slices into the flesh of my palm, just below my thumb. I gasp as blood appears instantly from the wound, and Richard jumps up cursing and disappears inside. He returns almost immediately with a tea-towel to find me sobbing on the floor, blood flowing down my wrist. He kneels down beside me and takes my hand in his as I gulp air into my lungs. I feel like I’m suffocating.
‘Calm down,’ he says, and he seems sober now, efficient and clear-headed, more like the Richard I used to know. I’m staring at the blood that seems to be everywhere now, on both my palms as I try to hold the gaping wound shut. Richard wraps it tightly in the tea-towel, the pressure stinging.
‘Get it off,’ I say, only my words seem far away, like I’m hearing them through cotton wool. ‘Get it off me!’
‘Ssshhh, calm down, Becks. Calm down.’
He’s lifting me to my feet and guiding me to the kitchen to wash the blood off my hands but it’s everywhere, thick and red and it won’t go away. It won’t go away. Why won’t it go away?
And all the time I can hear my own voice, completely alien to me, screaming at him over and over.
Getitoffmegetitoffmegetitoffme.
12
Evie
Eleven-year-old Evie Rousseau adjusted the maroon blazer bearing the crest of her new school, looked at her mother and gave a nervous smile.
‘Does it look okay?’
Her mother gave a small nod, her eyes shiny with held-back tears.
Evie tried for a more confident smile. ‘Come on, Mama, I’ll be fine. It’s one of the best schools in the country. And remember what you told me? It’s like one huge sleepover. I know tons of girls there already, I have Jess and Harriet, it’s just going to be like prep school but bigger.’
‘And with no boys,’ her father’s voice came from the doorway of the drawing room. It was a mark of how special an occasion today was that Dominic Rousseau had stayed home long enough to see his only daughter off to her first term at high school this morning. He was usually out of the house by 7.30am.
Evie laughed. ‘And no boys. Thank goodness.’
‘I’m not worried about you.’ Her mother looked at Papa, who put an arm around his wife’s shoulder. ‘Can you believe how grown-up she looks?’
‘She is a real young woman now,’ Dominic agreed. Evie pulled a face.
‘Eurgh. Can we go now please?’
‘Of course. Phillip is bringing the car around. He bought a new hat just for today.’
‘Papa, no!’ Evie squealed. ‘You promised no driver!’
‘Oh Evelyn, he was so looking forward to driving you this morning. Right up to the gate.’
Evie was poised to continue her tirade when she saw her father wink at her mother.
‘Very funny,’ she folded her arms. ‘If you’re finished, can we go now, please?’
As predicted, high school had become an extension of prep school, and Evie and her friends had fallen into an easy routine. So far life without boys, who had been sent to a high school nearly a mile away, was so much easier. There were less distractions in class, and Evie found that the girls were more relaxed and amiable when not in the company of the least fair sex. Boarding was much better than being at home, in that vast lonely house with only Yasmin for company. Now there was never a quiet moment – Evie was never alone and she quickly became used to being surrounded by chattering voices, so much so that she dreaded going back to Wareham for the summer.
There had, thus far, been only one thorn in the side of young Evelyn Rousseau, one person who never failed to take the shine off her good mood, and her name was Camille Darlington.
Even at eleven years old, Camille Darlington was what Evie could only describe as a pretentious little bitch. The Darlingtons were old money, a fact that Camille enjoyed reminding Evie every chance she got. Until now Evie had never even known the difference, and when she’d asked her father he’d told her with a wry smile that it simply meant he had earned his money by building his company from the bottom up, rather than relying on a fortune he had inherited. Evie thought this was much more admirable, but the scorn in Camille’s voice when she said the words ‘new money’ made it sound much less so.
And to make matters worse, Camille was charming, intelligent, and perfectly adorable to every adult they came across. The teachers loved her, the other students loved her. Worst of all, Jessica and Harriet loved her. It seemed that Evie was the only person Camille showed her true self to, and she couldn’t for the life of her work out what she had done to deserve it.
‘My mother said that your mother is an alcoholic and an emotional basket-case and your father is a philanderer,’ she’d hissed at Evie once, when Evie had dared to score the same as her on an eleven-plus English test. ‘He probably slept with Miss Brady to get you that score.’
Evie had felt the elation of being joint highest in the year seep away. Imagine what Camille was going to say when she found out Evie had scored higher than her in maths.
‘God knows how you got yours then,’ Evie had replied with a scowl. ‘Because your father looks like he’s been hit by a bus.’ Her triumph at Camille’s face was short-lived however, when the other girl burst into tears.
‘What’s wrong?’ Miss Brady had scurried over, her face full of concern. Camille shook her head.
‘Nothing,’ Camille sniffed. ‘I just don’t know why we can’t all be happy for each other. Not everything is a competition,’ she aimed her last remark at Evie, and Miss Brady shot her a dark look.
‘That’s very true, Camille,’ she said, putting an arm around the girl. ‘Everyone’s journey is their own, and if people don’t have anything nice to say they should not say anything at all.’
And with that, Miss Brady led Camille away, leaving Evie shaking with fury.
13
Rebecca
The pub is practically empty when we arrive, which is good I think to myself – neither of us have been out in public much these last few weeks and I’d suggested somewhere quiet and a bit further from home on purpose, rather than our local where Richard is likely to be besieged by well-wishers. This place is more of a gastro-pub, better suited for families to eat in than the dark, sticky-floored Duke we practically called home in our uni days. It’s open-plan and the colour scheme is mock Farrow & Ball, with a large log burner in the centre. Despite being on the outskirts of London it looks like a country
side bistro. As we approach the table for four, Chris notices us and gives Sarah a nudge.
‘Richard, mate. Becky.’ Chris nods at me, Sarah hugs Richard and gives me a tight smile. I smile back, although I know she doesn’t like me, never has. Evie was always the one so easy to get along with, an anecdote for every occasion – I was always too quiet, people never knew whether I was silently judging them and it made them uncomfortable. The truth was, I was always content to sit back and listen to the stories being bandied around, just happy to be in the company of others. I never felt like I needed to offer them anything. Now though, now that I face a life without Evie, I wish I’d tried more. I wish these people were my friends too, that I hadn’t always been Evie’s plus one.
They were Richard’s friends first, Sarah and Chris, since they were about sixteen, although they weren’t together then. Yet he looks like he doesn’t want to be anywhere near them. Maybe it’s their good fortune he can’t stand – they are still standing there together, tonight they will go home and eat together, argue about what to watch on the television and then go to bed together, wake up in the morning and watch TV in bed with their children. Life for them hasn’t altered, and Richard looks like it causes him pain to be around such normalcy, to be reminded that life goes on, whether Evie is in the world or not. And how can that be possible? How can the people in the pub around him still be talking about last night’s X Factor or The Great British Bake Off when his world has received its punctuation mark? When a mass tragedy occurs, when multiple people die in one instant, the world grieves. Those people’s lives are celebrated on a nationwide scale, there are pictures of them on TV and in the news – their every good deed held up as a symbol of what the country had lost. Why did Evie warrant any less because she died alone?
I can’t help wondering if it was a mistake to push him into this, this façade of putting on a brave face – he wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t noticed him looking at the text from Chris inviting him to the pub and badgered him to accept. He agreed eventually, but only if I came with him, which gave me a small thrill, the thrill of being needed, wanted, especially after my breakdown a few days ago. I’m supposed to be the one looking after him, and yet it was Richard who bandaged the cut on my hand – which turned out to be nowhere near as bad as it looked – and called me a taxi to make sure I got home okay.
‘I can’t imagine how you must be feeling,’ Sarah’s soft voice cuts through my thoughts. As she reaches out to put a hand on Richard’s shoulder I can see him try not to flinch. ‘We all thought so much of Evie. I hope you haven’t been feeling bad about the argument, I’m sure it had nothing to do with what happened.’
Richard opens his mouth to thank her automatically, until I see her words register and I have to stop myself groaning.
‘What argument?’
I see Chris shoot Sarah a furious look and she winces.
‘I shouldn’t have . . .’ Sarah drops her eyes to the table. Too late now, princess.
‘No, seriously, what argument?’ Richard looks between them both. ‘Sarah? Chris?’
‘It was nothing, I’m sure. If you’ve forgotten it already . . .’
But Richard isn’t going to let it drop now, is he?
‘Forgotten what? Fucksake you two, spit it out.’
‘I’m sure it was—’ I start to interject but Richard shoots me the kind of look that tells me to shut it. Silence heavy with expectation sits between us at the table until Chris can’t stand it any longer.
‘We saw you,’ he says. ‘On the way up to the cliffs at the wedding. We’d been having . . . a walk.’
Once upon a time he’d have said they’d gone for a shag. They were those kinds of friends once, where conversation was easy and unfiltered. I barely knew Chris and Sarah but the few times I’d met them Chris had been loud and overtly sexual, Sarah more uptight, rolling her eyes and pretending she wasn’t loving it. Then Evie had thrown herself off a cliff and in just a few short weeks Richard had become the kind of friend you have to watch what you say around, someone fragile, ready to shatter if you say the wrong thing.
‘We were coming back down and we saw the pair of you arguing on the verge. You don’t have to feel bad, whatever it was Evie wouldn’t have . . . it wouldn’t be the reason she . . . Shit, I wish I hadn’t said anything now.’ Sarah puts her hands over her face, genuinely miserable, so she doesn’t catch Chris’ furious ‘didn’t I warn you’ look.
‘I wasn’t on the cliff with Evie,’ Richard says quietly. ‘So you couldn’t have seen us arguing. It must have been someone else.’
Sarah uncovers her face. ‘Someone else in a wedding dress and veil? Was there another wedding that day? There must have been, unless . . .’ She stops, realising the implication of what she was going to say. Oh do shut up, idiot.
‘Unless Evie was arguing with someone else. What time was this?’
‘Nearly an hour before the police arrived.’
‘Did you mention it to the police? Why didn’t you tell me?’
Chris looks uncomfortable. ‘We honestly thought it was you, mate. It was obviously Evie and we weren’t that close, we assumed she was with you. If you wanted the police to know you’d been arguing you’d have already told them, didn’t make much sense to stir things up for you, make you a . . . make things difficult.’
They were protecting him, and he hasn’t twigged yet. They hadn’t wanted to give the police a motive, make him a suspect.
‘Anyway, the police said she was alone when she . . .’ Sarah can’t finish the sentence. ‘So it doesn’t matter who it was, does it?’ She looks desperately between Chris and Richard for a sign that she hasn’t caused a massive issue. I hope to God she hasn’t.
‘What did he look like? Did you hear what they were saying? Could it have been her father?’
Chris shoots Sarah another furious look but Richard doesn’t care and I know why. If Dominic Rousseau had seen his daughter a few minutes before she’d died then he’d lied to the police.
‘I don’t think so,’ Chris replies. ‘He’s quite tall, isn’t he? I don’t know, mate, I’m sorry. If we’d realised it wasn’t you we’d have looked better.’
‘He was wearing a black wax jacket,’ Sarah speaks suddenly and my heart pumps faster. What is she going to say? ‘And grey suit trousers like yours. He might have been a bit taller than you but they were on a slope so he looked smaller, Evie was up higher. She was crying a bit and you – I mean he – was waving his arms around, gesturing at the cliff. I heard her say something, or I thought I did, I couldn’t have been sure and anyway we didn’t realise it was important—’
‘What did she say, Sarah?’
‘She said it didn’t make any difference. Whatever it was he was saying to her didn’t make any difference. I’m really sorry, Richard, that’s all I remember. I wish I could tell you more . . .’
Richard sighs and sits back in his chair. ‘It’s fine, thanks for telling me now. You’re probably right, whatever it was wouldn’t have made Evie do something drastic – we all know she didn’t do anything without some kind of reason. I just wish I knew what the reason was. If she’d left a note or something . . .’
‘And she definitely didn’t? There was no indication?’
Richard shakes his head and picks up his coat – my cue to do the same. We’ve been here less than quarter of an hour – I should have known better.
‘I’m sorry, guys, I can’t really . . . It’s too soon for all this. I just need some space.’
Sarah nods sympathetically but Chris looks troubled.
‘Look, mate,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything we can do. Anything at all. You know you can talk to us.’
Richard attempts a smile but the result looks alien to his face and it comes across as more of a grimace.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything stupid.’
Sarah shakes her head frantically. ‘He didn’t mean that. We know you wouldn’t . . .’
‘Thanks, I a
ppreciate it.’
They both stand and embrace him, giving awkward nods to me. I can sense their relief that it’s over. They can walk away now back to their homes, their lives, safe in the knowledge that they’ve done their duty as friends while he goes back to his empty home, his empty life, his Lidl substitute for his Waitrose wife trailing behind him. But the last fifteen minutes have changed things for Richard – I can see that and it worries the hell out of me. Now he has a purpose. He will want to find out who Evie had been arguing with – probably the last person who saw her alive – and find out why they haven’t come forward. And if he does he’ll find out why his life had been imploding without him ever even realising.
14
Evie
A long, lazy summer heavy with promise stretched ahead of the three of them; Evie, Harriet and Jessica. Their sixteenth year and everything was changing. In September they would join the lower sixth, their transition into womanhood marked by the replacing of maroon shirts with white – an important distinction that separated them from the youth of high school. They would begin studies for A levels and choose universities, but for now they stood teetering on the cusp of womanhood – ever increasingly aware of the extra inches they were growing and the emerging mounds under their T-shirts.
The beach was heaving with teenagers making the most of the warm weather, mums with pushchairs so laden with supplies that they looked like they were spending a week camping rather than a day of sunbathing, and old age pensioners still as wrapped up in their coats as if it were mid-November, sitting on benches eating sandwiches peeled out of tinfoil.
‘Over there,’ Harriet pointed to the far end of the beach, next to a cluster of rocks which jutted out into the sea. Evie could just make out shirtless figures climbing over the slick boulders.
‘That’s miles away,’ Jessica moaned. ‘And there’s nowhere to sit.’
The Night She Died Page 5
