She glanced at the clock. How long had he been gone? Would he bring James back here, to welcome him into the family properly? The waiting was too much to bear.
31
Evie
When the front door slammed closed Evie jumped from her bed and practically threw herself down the stairs. Her father was waiting at the bottom, his face solemn.
‘Did you see him? What did he say? Was he excited? Scared? What did he say about the wedding?’
‘Evie, come,’ her father guided her into the small sitting room – the one they kept for themselves – and gestured for her to sit, and her mother followed them in and joined her, one arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder as though she were six again.
‘Did you see him? What did he say? Just tell me!’
Her father sighed. ‘Yes, I saw him, Evelyn. And I’m sorry that I did. As I expected, that boy is every inch his father’s son. He flat out denied that the baby could be his – as far as he was concerned you were sleeping with a host of different boys. I take it this isn’t true?’
His voice sharpened on the last sentence and Evie shook her head, tears swimming in front of her eyes.
‘I didn’t think so,’ Dominic’s voice softened again. ‘And I told him as much. James Sr said that should you wish to proceed with the pregnancy there is to be a DNA test after birth. If the baby proves to be James’ child they will support him or her financially – but outwardly they will not accept any child born out of wedlock into their family. I believe his words were “I will not let my son’s future be marred by a quick fumble.”’
The tears spilled down Evie’s cheeks now, and she pressed her head into her mother’s shoulder – her cheek uncomfortably wedged against a sharp collarbone.
‘I’m sorry, ma princesse,’ her father stroked her arm. ‘I can see how much the boy meant to you. But teenage boys – they are all the same. And having a child, it is something to be celebrated, brought into a loving home after much consideration. Not as an accident, always to be resented.’
Evie gave a sniff and looked up in time to catch her mother throwing her father the strangest of looks. Before she could question it, however, her father passed her her mobile phone.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take this, in case he tries to apologise. I really am sorry, my sweetheart. Why don’t you go and lie down. Your mother will phone the school to tell them you won’t be back this week. You have a lot to think about, and you need some rest and time alone. When you need us, we will be here.’
Evie nodded, still unable to believe what her father had told her was true. Was James just putting on an act for his father’s sake? From what he had told her, James Addlington Sr could be a cruel man, harsh in his opinions and quick to use force. Perhaps he would call her now, tell her how sorry he was and that they could work things out.
Composing her third message to him and still unable to find the words, Evie jumped as her phone vibrated in her hand. One new message – James.
How could you be so stupid? Did you do this on purpose? Did you really think I would marry you if you got pregnant? You are not the person I thought you were.
Each word was like a knife to her chest. He sounded so angry! She tried calling him but the phone rang and rang, so instead she typed back:
It was an accident. Please don’t be mad. We can make this work. I love you.
It felt like an eternity before her phone buzzed again.
U must be as stupid as U are easy. Don’t call me anymore.
Evie hurled her phone across the room with a sob and fell crying onto her bed. James was right – she was stupid and easy. And now everyone would know. She would be a laughing stock – the single mum, the girl who had tried to trap an Addlington into marrying her. She pictured Camille’s face at school, as Evie tried to cram her ever-expanding stomach under her stretching uniform. Thank God it wasn’t too late to put an end to this nightmare. She knew what she had to do.
32
Rebecca
When Richard told me about the baby I tried my best to look shocked, then looked away. I couldn’t bring myself to discuss the whys and hows with him, not knowing what I do. I’m finding it harder and harder to keep up this façade. Why had we not thought about the fact that I would be the one left here to pick up the pieces? Had we been so naïve to think that Richard would just blindly accept Evie’s suicide, question nothing? We’d talked about where she would go, how she would live, she’d squirrelled money away and hidden her passport in her suitcase, yet we’d never talked about what I would say or do when the time came. It was always just assumed that I would act surprised and devastated, and everyone would slowly move on. Which is why I’m reacting to the news of my best friend’s pregnancy with shock and confusion – just like the first time I found out.
My sister’s thirtieth meal has been planned practically since her twenty-ninth birthday, and although she’s texted me to assure me that she won’t be upset if I don’t feel up to going, I know that I’m expected to be there and put on a brave face. The whole family will be there, all wanting to ask if there has been any news, or how I’m coping, but no one wanting to be the first to dig for the gossip.
The first person I bump into in the car park is Sam, my older brother, and I’m hellish glad to see him. Although he was a horrible shit to me when we were younger we’ve grown up into a comfortable sibling relationship – he’s easy-going with no airs and graces. Unlike my older sister who has acted as though she’s too good for us ever since she married up, an awful prig of a man who reminds me a lot of Richard’s brother. Two of Sam’s boys, Alfie and Edward – Teddy – have already run off into the restaurant, leaving him holding two-year-old Harry who is fast asleep on his shoulder.
‘Bex,’ Sam offloads Harry onto his wife Jemma and pulls me into a bear hug. ‘I’m so sorry, mate,’ he mumbles into my hair. ‘I can’t imagine how you must feel.’
We break away and Jemma passes Harry back so she can give me an equally tight hug. She smells of baby wipes and bananas.
‘How are you?’ she asks, holding me at arm’s length and searching my face.
‘Shit,’ I reply, shrugging my shoulders. ‘And not in the mood for this.’
Jemma pulls a face as if she knows exactly what I mean. I like to think that if we’d lived a bit closer to one another Jemma and I would have been more like sisters than me and Lucy have been these last few years. Although I’m closer in age to Lucy, and she’s put having children on hold to ‘concentrate on her career’ (she’s a florist), Jemma is like the female form of Sam and I just feel more comfortable around her than I ever have in Lucy’s immaculate house with its Farrow & Ball walls and spotless kitchen.
‘Stay for an hour or so then fake a migraine,’ she grins. ‘Once Harry wakes up she’ll be so busy tutting at him crawling under the tables and the boys playing swords with the breadsticks that she won’t even notice you leave.’
‘Give him to me,’ I say, holding out my arms and the baby doesn’t even stir as Sam hands him over. His weight against my chest feels comforting and I didn’t realise how much I’ve missed him until this moment. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch more, Jem. He’s growing up so fast.’
Jemma’s smile is sympathetic. ‘You’ve had a lot going on. You know if it gets too much down there you can always come and stay with us for a bit? It’s a bit mental but you don’t really have time to be sad.’
‘Thanks,’ I take a deep breath as we go into the restaurant, just the kind of fancy-looking place that I’d expect my sister to choose with no regard to whether it’s appropriate for the children, or my parents who likely don’t spend this kind of money on their mortgage.
‘Becky!’
The minute I step into the private room reserved for our party, Lucy throws herself towards me in a completely uncharacteristic display of affection. She gives me a quick squeeze then plasters a look of concern onto her ‘sponsored by Benefit’ face.
‘How are you?’
She looks momentarily disappointed but recovers quickly.
‘Thank you! Big three oh – how scary! Come on, sit down, I’ve put you by me,’ she lowers her voice. ‘You know what some of them are like, they will just be after a bit of gossip.’
I look at Jemma and I know she’s overheard because she’s bowed her head and is biting her lip to stop her laughing out loud.
‘Thanks,’ I say and take my place.
Sam and Jemma are stuck down the end with the boys – which shows how little Lucy knows because now they are constantly running backwards and forwards to their nana and grandad. Mum and Dad are opposite me; Mum shoots me concerned looks and mouths ‘Are you okay?’ every five minutes or so, while Dad has spent the last ten minutes frowning at the menu and avoiding eye contact.
Lucy beams over at the doorway.
‘She’s here!’
As I look up to see who has come in, expecting perhaps Kate Middleton, given the delight on my sister’s face, fake aunty Barbara – Mum’s best friend from when they were kids – leans across the table and lays a hand on mine.
‘We were so sorry to hear about Evie, love.’
As she says my best friend’s name the figure emerges from the doorway and my breath catches in my throat.
She is wearing a long white dress saturated with water and clinging to her figure. Her veil trails limply behind her, hanging by one pin from tendrils of wet hair plastered to her face. Blood flows from both of her eyes, cutting bright red lines down her pallid grey cheeks. In her arms she holds a tiny baby, presenting her to the room like a trophy. They are both crying: Evie silent blood red tears, the baby high-pitched wails, razor-sharp like a piglet sent to slaughter.
I don’t even remember getting up but I’m on my feet. Everyone is looking at her, Evie, as if she is a prize, a special birthday gift just for me.
‘Evie,’ I say, her name catching in my throat and coming out as a croak. ‘Evie?’
She turns towards me but there is no emotion in her face, nothing but those silent tears of blood that pool at her feet. She looks down at the baby in her arms. The room begins to swim.
I feel a hand on my arm, hear someone speak but I can’t make out the words. Why is she just standing there? What does she want? The people at the table are looking at her but no one reacts. I look frantically at my sister, my mother, they are smiling as though they expected to see her there, as if it is all one big, wonderful joke, a joke that only I don’t understand. How can this be? How can this be?
‘Evie!’ I shout, and the buzz of excitement stops – all the sound in the room stops except the cries of the baby in Evie’s arms and I can feel everyone looking at me as I take a step forward and stumble. Someone catches me and begins to talk in my ear, the voice soothing. Strong arms wrap around me but I can’t look away from where my dead friend stands in the doorway.
‘Becky, Becky, listen,’ the words are urgent and at first I think they are coming from Evie but then I realise it’s the person in my ear, my brother Sam, who is whispering my name over and over. I look at my mother, at Lucy, they look aghast, no longer happy in their surprise. My father is half out of his chair, everyone is staring at me. I look back at Evie but she is no longer there. In her place stands another woman, the same blonde hair but much shorter and fatter than my best friend. Her hair is dyed blonde, black roots at least an inch down her head. She too is staring at me. In her arms is a newborn baby.
‘You came!’ Lucy rushes over to the woman, scowling at me as she pushes past the other guests.
I turn into Sam’s warm chest. ‘I thought . . .’ I mumble.
‘Ssshhh,’ he says, and leads me to the door, past the nervous-looking woman who doesn’t even vaguely resemble Evie any more and out into the fresh air beyond.
33
Evie
It was done now, and all she felt was a searing emptiness. Her mother had gone with her to the clinic. Papa had driven them – today there had been no driver – and waited outside in the car. The whole thing had taken less than fifteen minutes, although the doctor had insisted she stay in that stark cold room for observation for forty minutes, a lifetime of her mother wringing her hands and asking if she was ‘okay’. There were too many answers she could have given, too many sarcastic comebacks that would have slipped from her lips without thinking before today, but Evie was too drained to even answer. She felt as though her energy, her soul, her very life, had been tethered to her like a balloon and the doctor had snipped the string. She heard the doctor and her mother speaking in hushed tones outside the door, talking about her, and she couldn’t care less what they were saying. It was done, there was no undoing it now.
The tension sat between them all on the drive back home, making the air thick and uncomfortable. Evie curled up on the back seat, her seatbelt undone and her knees pulled up to her chest, making herself as tiny as possible. For once, her father didn’t complain or tell her to buckle up – even though Evie wished he would, anything to bring some normality back.
This is normal now, she told herself. This secret, thick and bitter between them, this burden of what she – what they – had done. The doctor had been pleasant, nice even; he’d told her that thousands of young women made this choice every week, that it was her body and she should be in complete control of what happened to it. But she didn’t feel in control. She felt as though her thoughts were spiralling in her mind, bashing into one another, so none of them had a chance to become coherent. She didn’t know how she felt because none of those thoughts had room to translate into feelings of relief, pain or grief. She felt empty and full all at the same time and it was exhausting. But she knew there was something that would help, something that would take her out of her own head. And thanks to her mother’s apathy for finding new hiding places, she knew where to find it.
34
Rebecca
I dreamt of Evie again last night. After lying awake for hours I had come to think that sleep had all but been murdered – that might be preferable to the dreams I had been having of flower beds filled with writhing snakes and falcons being plucked from the sky by owls. Instead I woke with fragments of a dream, as though it had been torn up into pieces and thrown in the air, and I could only catch one or two. On one piece we are standing in a square in London. It’s raining and I know this isn’t just a dream, it’s a memory, of a time I had almost forgotten. We are soaked to the skin, the only two people watching as a group of street artists perform under a tarpaulin held up by two tall planks of wood. Evie wants to join in, she’s tugging at my arm and laughing, asking me what’s the worst that can happen. Another fragment now, and the dream switches to another memory, this one of the day before, the reason I had lain awake so long and fought sleep. The dream I feared would come.
I’m walking down a street in Kensington, on my way back to Richard’s house and keeping my eye out for a shop that I know Evie used to love, when there she is.
Evie is standing in the darkened shop doorway watching me. I can’t explain how I feel when I see her, I should be confused, of course, but should I be this scared? My hands are trembling so much that my grip on my purse is weak and someone pushes past me, knocking it to the floor. Instinctively I swoop down to grab it and when I look up again Evie is disappearing into the throng of people crossing the main road.
‘Evie!’
She doesn’t look back, so I give chase. She’s moving quickly and doesn’t slow when I call her name again. Where is she going? Why doesn’t she stop? I see her blonde head turn into a side street and I break into a run – first I will confront her, then together we will work out what happens next. We were always stronger together – I’d almost forgotten that. I’ve got no reason to be afraid, she’s my best friend, and despite the dream that lingers in the back of my mind – You could have saved me – she wouldn’t hurt me.
I sprint into the side alley – it’s empt
y. It’s not even a through road, it’s a complete dead end, and there is no one in here, not the dripping, decaying Evie of my dream or the smiling, teasing Evie of my reality. No one.
Am I going insane? Maybe. Probably. Grief, confusion and guilt will do that to a person I suppose. Am I to blame for what Evie did? Are these visions my mind’s way of telling me I’ll never be free of her? No, I don’t think one person can take responsibility for the actions of another – Evie’s death is not my cross to bear. And if she has survived – which every day is looking less and less likely – she wouldn’t be lurking in abandoned shop doorways or disappearing into thin air in alleyways. I wouldn’t have to find her, she would find me.
Taking a few steps backwards – why don’t you want to turn your back on the alleyway, Rebecca? If she wasn’t real, why are you afraid to turn around? – I step back into the bustling street, take one final look at the empty alleyway, and run home, not wanting to be anywhere near Richard or the house where Evie no longer lives.
I wake drenched in sweat and with my own screams still ringing in my ears. Am I losing my mind? When will this all end?
35
Evie
Time, it turned out, wasn’t exactly the healer everyone claimed it to be. Evie returned to school, thanked her friends for their concern and flowers – she was feeling much better now, thank you, and yes, it was quite the flu and hadn’t it been going around? – and no one was any the wiser. Despite how different, how raw and bruised and tarnished she felt inside, not one person saw that reflected in her face or in her smile. And because of that, because no one knew to pity her or show concern, and no one – least of all her closest friends – could understand her abrupt change in attitude, why she seemed to care so little for her school work or her sudden rudeness towards the teaching staff.
The Night She Died Page 11
