We leave the café moments after Thomas, Richard’s uneaten sandwich and still warm cup of tea discarded. I drive us in silence back to his house and don’t get out of the car when I pull up outside.
Richard gets out and looks at me expectantly. ‘Aren’t you coming in?’
‘I’ve got some work to finish, and I was going to go for a run.’
He pulls his best puppy dog face. ‘I was hoping you’d look for Evie’s passport for me. I don’t think I can face that office after this morning.’
I know the passport isn’t in there so agreeing to go and search for it seems like a fool’s errand, but I suppose it’s a good chance for me to weed out any other surprises she might have left behind, like a box of love letters or a bloody diary. Had she been thinking about anything but herself when she’d set off for Lulworth? Obviously she had no way of knowing that Richard would ask for her medical records, or that her solicitor would be able to get hold of them while she was still legally alive, but leaving the letters lying around was shoddy.
‘Fine,’ I say, thinking I’d have a look then ‘remember’ that Evie had sent it away to be renewed. I park up and by the time I get into the house Richard is already on the laptop.
‘Study’s unlocked,’ he says without looking up.
The room loosely termed ‘the study’ is basically a desk, a filing cabinet, three sets of bookshelves and a lower set of shelves filled with box files. In all the years I’ve known them I’ve never known either Evie or Richard to actually work in here, or study anything, so essentially it’s a paperwork storage room. Cabinet drawers marked ‘Richard Work’ are locked and I don’t bother asking for the key. Evie needn’t have bothered jumping off a cliff if she’d just opened one of those drawers; she’d have been bored to death.
On the desk there’s a notepad and I have a flip through, mainly appointments scrawled hastily before being transferred onto the main calendar. There’s a note to ‘CALL ANNA’ and I figure it must be someone from Richard’s work. In the unmarked filing drawers is a pile of bills – not one of them filed in any order. Another drawer is home to takeaway leaflets, screws and batteries. How long is reasonable to pretend to look for a passport? There’s nothing interesting in here. Well, except Evie’s impressive book collection.
I turn my attention to the bookshelves. Evie read, from time to time, although she was never what I would class as a bookworm, or an avid reader. These bookshelves and their contents were Evie’s attempt at being a homemaker. The study had all the elements it should, just as the kitchen had a coffee maker even though Evie and Richard both drank tea. This was the way she would be normal. The photograph on the wall – that was the only hint of the real Evie in the room. It’s a young girl, naked, only her head and shoulders visible, her hair and eyes wild. She looks over her shoulder at the camera with a haunting expression. The name at the bottom reads ‘Sally Mann’.
A memory shoves its way into my mind of Evie slamming the door and when I don’t react she opens it up and slams it again.
‘Something wrong?’ I ask, not looking up from my battered old copy of The Secret History.
‘That fat old bastard,’ she grumbles. ‘He does a session on the influential photographers of the nineties and the first thing he says about Mann is how good she looks for fifty-something. As if that’s what she has to offer the decade! Twat.’
I hadn’t known who Mann was then, although after an hour of Evie’s lecture on her controversial use of children in her work and the disparity between the beauty in the world and the uncomfortable truths I felt like I knew her intimately. Smiling at the memory of my friend’s passion, I turn my attention back to the bookshelves. Richard won’t mind if I borrow one of these, surely? Evie isn’t coming back for them, and I’m certainly entitled to take back the books she borrowed from me. When I pull out my copy of The Secret History something falls – not hidden but not in plain sight. Evie’s passport.
When I go downstairs, passport and book in hand, Richard is on the computer. I’m confused about what this means – I hadn’t expected to find it here at all, but I say, ‘Got it,’ and Richard barely looks up.
‘Oh good,’ he says – he was expecting nothing less. He sees no reason why Evie’s passport wouldn’t be in the house, and I can see no way it can be. Did she have two? A fake?
‘What are you doing?’ I ask. He glances at the notepad he has at the side of him, the words ‘Addlington fire’ scrawled at the top.
‘I’m looking for details about the fire Thomas told us about,’ he brings the laptop over to the sofa and I sit next to him. ‘Here.’
He slides a printout of a news article towards me. ‘This is everything I could get about the fire from the articles. It was an engagement party for Camille and James Addlington at the family home about a mile from Wareham. I’ve heard that name before. Somewhere recent.’
‘The Evelyn Bradley profile on Facebook,’ I remind him. ‘The only friend they had, since I blocked it anyway.’
Richard nods, deep in thought. ‘So do you think it might be her behind the profile? Pretty obvious, don’t you think? To only “friend” her own profile.’
That’s exactly what I’d been thinking, far too obvious if it were Camille behind the profile. Unless she wanted me to know it was her – which also didn’t make any sense. Why not ‘friend’ Richard, if she wanted him to know the truth about Evie? And why not just send him a message and tell him what she knew?
‘She was living in London at the time of the fire,’ I say, steering the conversation onto safer ground. I make a circle around the date of the fire and write next to it the year Evie started university. ‘We were already friends and yet she didn’t mention anything to me at the time. I don’t even remember her mentioning this event specifically but she was always going to parties when she visited home so—’
‘Wait,’ Richard makes a noise like a strangled dog and puts his head in his hands.
‘What? What is it?’
‘Look at the date again,’ he says, without looking up. ‘And think.’
48
Evie
‘You are not serious?’
Evie raised an innocent eyebrow. She’d anticipated Harriet’s reaction perfectly. ‘What?’
‘You can’t go dressed like that! It’s a real party – not one of your grimy student raves.’
‘Seriously, Harriet, don’t ever say rave again,’ Evie laughed, opening up her backpack. ‘Drink? Fine, I’ll drink it myself then.’
She twisted the top off the cheap vodka she’d picked up from the off-licence outside the train station and swigged it neat. The liquid stung her throat and she screwed up her face in disgust.
‘Besides, I’m not going to party, am I? I’m not even sure what I’m going for. Just to say hello, and congratulations.’
Harriet raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re going in the hope that James will see you and realise that that bitch Camille doesn’t hold a candle to his darling Evie and call off the engagement. Which he’s not going to do if you turn up looking like Cinderella before she meets the fairy godmother.’
Evie glanced down at her light blue jeans and baggy white vest.
‘I didn’t bring anything else. I wasn’t prepared for a party. I’m not even staying long – I don’t want to stand out.’
‘What, and you won’t stand out looking like you’re going to the beach in a crowd of evening dresses? At least stick this on,’ Harriet rooted through her wardrobe and tossed her a black blazer. ‘And some heels. Here.’
‘Fine.’ Evie shrugged on the blazer. It was a size too small but luckily not designed to do up over her larger-than-Harriet’s breasts. The silver Louboutins fit perfectly. ‘Okay now?’
Harriet gave her an appraising look. ‘Perfect for a shopping trip, but it’ll have to do. None of my dresses will fit you and it’s too late for the shops. We could always call Jessica . . .?’
‘No,’ Evie’s voice was firm. The last thing she needed was her fath
er turning up at the party to escort her home. ‘I told you – the fewer people that know I’m here the better. I’m just going to sneak in, tell them how happy I am for them, and leave.’
She took another swig from the bottle. As always, this one didn’t burn quite as much. By the fourth swig it would be almost like drinking squash.
‘Yeah.’ Harriet sounded as if what she’d said couldn’t have been further from the truth. ‘You keep telling yourself that.’
49
Rebecca
It wasn’t unusual, back in our uni days, for me not to see my best friend for a week or two. Long lonely days of real life drenched in sepia tones, my life at the age of eighteen was divided into two: With Evie and Without. If I’m making it sound as though my best friend was my first, last, and everything then I’m exaggerating – memories tilted by the slant of hindsight. Because although that’s how it feels when I look back – that Evie hit the pause button on my existence every time she left my student digs – my life plodded on without her there. So much so that during one of her absences I met a boy, and fell in love.
I suppose I have Evie to thank for that too, despite her not having replied to any of my calls or messages all week. She may have been physically AWOL but her presence was there in the form of her semi-nude photographs of survivors of life-threatening illnesses, some permanently disfigured, others forced to amputate limbs to stay alive. I’d been hanging the photographs around the Student Union after spending hours searching for the perfect frames and was in the process of re-ordering them for the third time when a voice behind me dragged me from my work.
‘I thought they looked better the first time.’
My shoulders sagged, crestfallen. I’d known as I was tinkering that I should have stuck to the original placement, now I couldn’t even remember what it was.
‘Can you remem—’ As I turned to see who had spoken, I registered the boy’s grin. ‘Oh, funny.’
‘It doesn’t matter what order you hang them in; they’re beautiful.’
I looked back at the picture I’d been hanging. He was right – Evie’s work could have been hanging in a toilet stall and it would still be breathtaking. It continued to amazed me every time I looked at this series and saw the pain, anguish and hope all emanating from one subject. Emotions played out in her art as keenly as if the words were scrawled on them with black marker.
‘You’re right, it doesn’t matter. I just wanted to get it perfect.’
‘It’s an artist’s prerogative.’
My cheeks burned at his mistake. ‘Oh, no, I’m not . . . these aren’t my photos. I’m just hanging them for a friend.’
The boy smiled and I looked at him properly for the first time. He wasn’t tall, just a little taller than I was, and his hair was floppy – a style that hadn’t been ‘in’ for years – and a sandy brown colour. He had dark eyes which were just like the rest of him, unremarkable, but he looked kind and his dress sense – blue polo shirt and jeans that were just shy of fashionable – suggested that he didn’t just walk up to random girls and hit on them. He felt . . . safe.
‘Well your friend is lucky to have someone who takes such care with her work.’
I laughed at that, at the idea that Evie was lucky to have me rather than the other way around.
‘Yes, I suppose she is.’
‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you anyway,’ he took a few steps back but didn’t turn to leave. ‘I just couldn’t help myself. Tell your friend good luck with the art.’
‘Wait.’ I’m still not sure why I stopped him – I didn’t feel any instant attraction, none of that ‘spark’ you read about in books or see in films. All I knew in that moment was that I didn’t want him to walk away. Maybe I should have let him. Maybe everything would have been different. Maybe Evie would still be alive.
‘I was just about to get a drink,’ I told him, motioning to a free table. It was mid-afternoon and the Union was practically empty, I had nothing to do and suddenly the idea of returning to my twelve-by-twelve cell of a room seemed beyond depressing. And what did it matter to me if he said no? In a university this big I’d probably never have to see him again anyway. ‘Would you like to join me?’
He hesitated and for a second I thought he was going to leg it, regretting ever speaking to me. Instead he smiled again, the third time in a few minutes, and this time I realised it made his whole face more attractive.
‘Sure, why not?’ He held out his hand in an awkward yet endearing way. ‘I’m Richard. Richard Bradley.’
50
Evie
Evie tipped the taxi driver generously, squeezed the empty vodka bottle down the side of the seat and swallowed hard as she pushed open the taxi door and climbed out, wincing at the slam it made when it closed. The Addlingtons’ house loomed before her, every bit as vast as her own, but whereas Evie’s family home was a sprawling old country manor, James lived in what her mother would call a modern monstrosity, all glass and cladding, plonked on the landscape rather than grown from it. Tonight the huge iron gates were open, security abandoned in favour of convenience.
Taking a deep breath, she stumbled towards the house on unsteady legs and unfamiliar heels, noting the deluge of sports cars scattered across the driveway and on the grass. Quite the turnout for the happy couple.
As she rounded the garden to the back of the house – there was no way she was about to ring the doorbell knowing she would be turned away – Evie’s heart began to thump. In her head she hadn’t got any further than this, and now she was here she had no idea what she was going to say to James when she saw him. It suddenly all felt so idiotic, turning up here based on a brief fling between a couple of kids. What if it really had meant as little to him as he’d said when he’d found out about the baby?
The baby. It still hurt as much now as it had then, that he’d been so callous. But he had been scared, probably under pressure from his father. She needed to give him a chance to explain – to draw a line under the past and move on. Anything else . . . she didn’t let herself dare to hope.
The back garden was bathed in the glow of solar lights and outdoor heaters. There was already a smattering of people on the lawn, smoking and chatting. Evie pushed past them and through the open patio doors as though she was perfectly entitled to be there. The alcohol in her system was giving her confidence now, and she knew from her mother that if you acted like you belonged no one would ever question you.
The kitchen was an open-plan oasis of sleek silver appliances and marble worktops. More people in here, most of them in matching black T-shirts and trousers – catering. The Addlingtons had pulled out all the stops for this soiree and it stung.
Evie moved beyond the kitchen into the hallway, pausing when she came to the doorway of what was clearly the heart of the party, a large reception room full of people. A string quartet was playing in the corner of the room, and everywhere was decorated with crystal and white roses. In the centre of the room, talking to a group of men old enough to be his father, was James.
Still the sight of him took her breath away. She could practically feel the warmth of his lips on hers – the only boy she had ever loved. Evie watched as he was joined by a familiar face, a floor-length black sequined dress hanging from Camille’s emaciated figure. She’d lost weight – it didn’t look good on her. Evie allowed herself a thrill of satisfaction before her heart plummeted as she saw James beam and lean over to kiss his wife-to-be. Camille practically purred. One of the men made a comment and the group laughed good-naturedly as James put an arm around her shoulder. He didn’t look miserable – trapped in a loveless engagement because he had let the real love of his life slip through his fingers. He looked . . . happy.
Evie blinked back tears. What was she doing here? What had she expected? That she was so wonderful, so irresistible that James would dump his fiancée and declare his undying love for her? Did she really think that she was so much better than her rival?
Taking a deep breath she tur
ned to leave, but not before Camille looked straight at her, her face contorting into a scowl.
51
Rebecca
‘Richard,’ I say. ’Stop being a dick and just . . .’
‘That,’ he says, pointing to the date of the party on his pad, ‘was a couple of weeks after me and you, um, after we met.’
When we started going out, I want to say. When we were sleeping together. But I let go of that a long time ago – we’d barely been together a couple of weeks when Evie . . .
‘That’s when she tried to kill herself,’ I say, looking at the date. ‘Two and a half weeks after you and I met. Which means that this week,’ I point to the week before, ‘was the one she went home, without telling me. She’d already been away from uni two weeks, remember? That’s why she’d never met you, why she didn’t know who you were that day.’
Picking up my notes, I checked both dates. ‘She was supposed to go back to lessons on the Thursday, then on Friday I got a text to say her mother was ill and she had to go and see her. If you’re right about the date we met, of course.’
‘I am,’ Richard says, not looking at me. ‘I remember because the day I went to the Union was the anniversary of my dad’s death.’
‘God, Richard, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you say at the time?’
‘I just met you that day, it’s hardly the best chat-up line, is it? Then the day was over and there didn’t seem much point in talking about it.’
I don’t know why but it hurts that I’d never known that that day was a difficult one for him. My memory of my short relationship with Richard is clouded; it’s almost as if he was someone else, or as if my mind has made him someone else, so that seeing him fall in love with my best friend wasn’t so hard. Then something will happen to remind me that once I almost fell in love with him, and he hadn’t been even close to loving me.
The Night She Died Page 15
