You Can Trust Me: A Novel

by Sophie McKenzie

  PLS CALL. I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.

  It eats away at me.

  Julia passed away on a Saturday night, so why wasn’t she with Dirty Blond then? Why hasn’t he come forward since her death? Was there a fight? There’s no way Julia would have killed herself over a man—best treated as pets, men, bless them—but maybe she found out he was married, or something else equally abhorrent to her, and finished it. Dirty Blond might have turned nasty. But then why no signs of a struggle? My mind flashes to Julia lying peacefully on her sofa. It crucifies me to think how much she would have hated being discovered as she was—her sweatpants soiled, her hair a mess.

  I suggest to Hannah that she might want to go to the funeral to say good-bye to Julia, but she shakes her head.

  “It’ll all be grown-ups there, Mum,” she says. “I want to say good-bye just me and her.”

  I promise to take her to Julia’s favorite spot, overlooking the sea along the coast at Bolt Head. She told the kids she liked it because of the kites that so often flew there. She confessed to me it was also where she had met several handsome, well-heeled men whom she’d taken home for fast, furious sex. Hannah agrees to the kite trip, but I can see that it’s small consolation. I press on, telling her how we’ll sit on the cliff looking out to sea and drink those mock G&Ts Julia used to make for her.

  “But it won’t be the same,” Hannah says in a small, lost voice. And of course, she is right.

  Will is annoyed that Hannah knows about the suicide verdict—he would rather have kept the whole thing from her. We argue about it on Sunday, after which he remains tight-lipped for several hours. Hurt, I keep my distance. We thaw out by the time the kids are in bed, chatting about our holiday plans for later in the summer as we eat takeout together. This is typical of the way we make up, letting issues and tensions slide away rather than working them through. I’ve always liked the fact that we rarely argue, but today I’m aware that this is yet another occasion on which not talking means nothing under the surface has really been resolved.

  The following morning we’re dressing for the funeral when Mum phones from Bath full of flu. Despite her temperature and sore throat, she is still determined to drive to Exeter for the service. It takes me a while to talk her out of it. Mum was always fond of Julia, just as Julia always had a soft spot for her, for both my parents.

  “They’re my home away from home, Liv,” she once said. “You’ve no idea how lucky you are.”

  So, in the end, it’s just Will and me. We travel to the mortuary in a companionable silence. I’m lost in my own thoughts, running over the short eulogy that Joanie invited me to deliver at the funeral. After being left out of all the arrangements, at least I’ll have a chance to talk about Julia, to remind people what she was really like, but as the moment approaches the responsibility is weighing heavily. Will and I arrive half an hour early. The service isn’t until eleven, but Julia’s mother and brother are already standing outside with Wendy. After several dry, sunny weeks, the weather today is humid, the sky leaden with dark clouds.

  Robbie sees me and smiles. He looks nothing like his sister, his jowly face and balding head making him seem far older than thirty-six. Julia always enjoyed being mistaken for the younger sibling, teasing her twin for looking “ancient” before his time—taunts that never failed to get a rise out of Robbie.

  Despite the fact that he lets his hair grow too long at the back, presumably to compensate for its loss on top—Robbie is actually better-looking now than he was at any point in his twenties. Certainly than when we went on that disastrous date all those years ago when his skin was covered with acne. Will maintains that Robbie still has a crush on me. He is beaming at me now, dropping his cigarette as Will and I walk over.

  I glance at the glowing stub on the ground. Julia and I used to smoke too. I struggled to give up the year I married Will. Julia carried on cheerfully smoking until her thirty-third birthday when, for reasons she never really explained, she just decided to stop on the spot. As far as I know, she let go of her pack-a-day habit without any difficulty—becoming evangelically anti-smoking within the week. I never saw her with a cigarette again.

  Joanie offers us a miserable grimace as we walk up, but Robbie leans over and kisses me warmly, then shakes Will’s hand. Wendy, a gym instructor with a hard body and a face to match, just scowls. She looks as toned and severe as ever, in a long, fitted black skirt and boxy gray jacket. The masculine style of her dress is reinforced by her pinched face and sharp chin-length peroxide bob. Julia couldn’t stand her. Hitler in a blond wig, she used to say with a scathing chuckle.

  “How are you guys?” Robbie asks.

  “Okay. How are you holding up, all of you?”

  “We’re hanging in there,” Robbie says.

  I look at Joanie. She shakes her head, not meeting my eyes. Wendy pats her arm. I shuffle from side to side, feeling uncomfortable. Robbie opens his mouth, clearly keen to chat, but Will gets there first.

  “We’re so sorry,” he says. “We’ll see you inside. Come on, Liv.”

  He takes my hand and we head toward Paul, Becky, and Martha, who have just arrived and are standing on the other side of the parking lot. Over the next fifteen minutes or so, the area outside the funeral home fills slowly, mostly with people I don’t recognize. A smattering of Julia’s other friends and colleagues come over to talk in low voices. All of them have shocked, solemn faces.

  Another five minutes pass; then everyone goes inside. For some reason, Wendy—who said nothing to either of us in the parking lot—heads straight over as we’re standing in the aisle.

  “Livy.” Her bony fingers clutch at my arm like claws. The people on either side of her melt away. “I should have said outside, thanks so much for coming.”

  What? I bristle. I can feel Will beside me stiffening too. Who is bloody Wendy to be welcoming me to Julia’s funeral? After they fell out, she and Julia met only three or four times, mostly at the few family functions Julia was unable to extricate herself from.

  “Hi, Wendy.” I hesitate, indicating the room. “It’s great there are so many people here.”

  “Family.” Wendy offers me a thin smile. “Julia had thirty-three cousins, you know.”

  I did know. It was one of the many differences between us—Julia, estranged from her massive extended family; and me, an only child after Kara’s death, tied tightly to my parents and, now, to my mother alone.

  Wendy clears her throat. “Everyone’s here to support Julia’s mother, of course.” She shakes her head. “So selfish of Julia. Typical, really, to be attention-seeking even in death.”

  My mouth drops open.

  “That’s too harsh,” Will says emphatically. I feel his hand squeezing my shoulder, and my heart swells with gratitude. “We don’t know what was going on with Julia … why she would have—”

  “If she would have,” I correct him.

  Wendy offers up a contemptuous sniff. “Perhaps she wasn’t as close to us all as we thought she was.”

  This dig is clearly directed at me. I want to defend myself and Julia—to tell Wendy that we told each other everything. But I know it isn’t true. I did let Julia down. I didn’t call her back. I didn’t know what was on her mind that night.

  I wasn’t there when she died.

  The music starts up and Wendy wanders away. The funeral parlor is almost full. Trying to put the pointed remarks of Julia’s sister-in-law out of my mind, I turn to the row behind and speak to some of her journalist friends. At least these people genuinely care that she is gone. The fashion writers are dressed in snappy black dresses with shiny white gold jewelry and designer handbags on their arms. Most of the others are in summer coats and high-heeled sandals. Plenty look shell-shocked, but I get the same line from all of them:

  I had no idea she was depressed and drinking heavily. Did you?

  She wasn’t those things! I want to yell at them. But it’s no good. Even those people who are clearly devastated that Julia is gone still b
elieve she took her own life. I am the only doubter.

  It’s a big relief when Paul, Becky, and Martha slip into the seats beside us. Paul met Julia through me, when we were all at uni. They even slept together once, though neither of them were ever interested in taking things any further and I’m not sure if Becky even knows their history. During the period when Will and I spent a lot of time socializing with Paul and Becky, Julia was often around—though we hadn’t all hung out together for a long time. In contrast, Martha met Julia only a few times and is here, I know, simply to support me.

  All three of them are as shocked as everyone else that she is dead.

  “I wish I’d known her better,” Becky says softly. “But she was always quite private. A lovely person, though. Full of life. You’d never have any idea…”

  I bite my lip.

  Paul frowns. “I’m so sorry, Liv. This must be so hard for you.”

  I smile gratefully at him. He sighs.

  “Leo wanted to be here too, you know that, don’t you?” Martha says.

  Paul nods. “That’s right, but it’s hard with both me and Will out of the office. He sends his love, though.”

  “Absolutely,” Martha adds.

  “That’s kind,” I say, not really listening. It is nice of Leo to think about Julia’s funeral at all. After all, like Martha, he met her only a few times. And it’s lovely of Martha, Paul, and Becky to have made the effort to come. Still, what does it matter who turns up to this funeral, if Julia’s memory is so badly served by it?

  Wendy, Robbie, and Joanie emerge from the waiting room and take their seats at the front of the room. The first two rows are reserved for FAMILY ONLY. I see this and feel like crying, even as I tell myself I’m being petty to care.

  What matters is Julia. And yet being sidelined because I wasn’t related to her by blood is heartbreaking. “I’m so glad Hannah isn’t here,” I whisper in Will’s ear. “She would be crushed.”

  He nods.

  Everyone is sitting down now. I’m at the end of a row, so it’ll be easy for me to stand and speak. A few butterflies flit around my stomach. At least I’m involved. My name is here on the order of service, toward the end, after Wendy reads a poem and Robbie offers a short eulogy for his sister’s life. I can just imagine Julia’s verdict on this: That dickweasel doesn’t know anything about my life. Still, that’s where I come in, to fill in the gaps.

  The service is going to feature two pieces of music—a song by one of those pop-classic Italian tenors I know Julia would have hated, and Air on a G String at the conclusion. Lovely, but not a piece of music I ever heard Julia listen to. Joanie walks past me as I think this. She’s leaning heavily on Robbie’s arm, her face pale and drawn. I sigh, feeling guilty. Maybe Air on a G String means something to them.

  The only G-strings in my life get played with in bed, honeypie. I can almost hear Julia’s ironic drawl as the chatter in the funeral home dies down and Joanie, Robbie, and Wendy take their seats right at the front. And then the coffin is brought in. My breath catches in my throat to see it—to think that Julia’s body is inside is both surreal and horrific. I’m so angry. This funeral shouldn’t be happening. She shouldn’t be dead. This is all so wrong.

  A man from the crematorium leads the service, then invites Wendy to speak. She actually reads her poem well, her harsh voice carrying clearly across the room. There are a few mournful sniffs after the Italian tenor sings. Then Robbie stands. He scowls as he talks. At first I think he’s just self-conscious about his grief; then I realize he’s resentful. It’s not apparent in what he’s saying—all anodyne stuff about Julia being clever and successful as a freelance journalist—but in his tone of voice. He is furious with her. Wendy’s earlier words drift back into my head.

  So typically selfish of Julia to be attention-seeking, even in death.

  Robbie is communicating the same, angry sentiment with every adjective. I can’t believe it. He tells no anecdotes and recounts no instances of Julia’s warmth or generosity. He speaks for less than three minutes outlining Julia’s career and making a snide connection between her “many trips away from home” and her dislike of commitment in her romantic relationships. As he sits, it occurs to me that though he hasn’t mentioned how Julia died, her suicide is all around us.

  The funeral director calls my name. The weight of serving Julia’s memory feels heavy on my shoulders. My legs tremble as I walk to the front of the room and take my place beside the coffin.

  I gaze out over the faces. Some are in tears. They all think she killed herself, and somehow I have to make them realize she didn’t.

  The paper trembles in my hand. I take a deep breath and fix my gaze on Will. He smiles encouragingly. I have written down what I want to say about Julia, but now that I’m here, the words I’ve prepared seem hopelessly inadequate so I don’t look at them, letting my feelings well up instead.

  “It’s hard to believe Julia is gone, when she was always so very much here,” I say. “People talk about people being full of life and energy, but Julia really was. She was the funniest person I ever met.” I pause. There’s a story I wanted to tell, but I’m blanking on it, now that I’m in front of everyone.

  “Sometimes being witty got Julia into trouble, but she hated meanness as much as she hated people being late.” There are a few nods here. Julia’s impatience with unpunctuality was well known—she once walked out of an interview with a top designer because he’d kept her waiting while he took a phone call. “So … Julia had strong opinions.” I hesitate. This isn’t what I want to say. “What I mean is, Julia was my best friend. We talked. All the time. She told me everything.” My voice cracks. “She wanted to talk to me the night she died, but I wasn’t there.…” I gaze out over the mourners. Nearly everyone is looking at me. Most of the faces I see are full of sorrow and sympathy. I catch Becky’s eye. She smiles at me. Paul squeezes her hand and smiles gently too. On his other side, Martha wipes away a tear and gives me a supportive nod.

  Encouraged, I carry on. “What I’m trying to say is that Julia was generous—with her time, with her money, and with her love. She was brittle and acerbic and she didn’t suffer fools, but she was also wise and kind and fun. We met when we were at college, so I’ve known her since she was eighteen, and she was always full of energy. Of course, she had down days, but she had such an appetite for life. Her work as a journalist, clothes and handbags … she loved those … and her home, her flat … Most of all, she was loyal to her friends. We talked about getting older together. How, if we ended up alone, we’d live in a flat together with a couple of smelly cats. And she adored my children.…” My voice cracks again, and tears well up. “There’s just no way she would have done … what they think she did … it’s … it must have been something else…” My voice is choked. I can’t get the words out. The people in the mortuary swim blurrily before my eyes. Most are looking concerned, glancing at each other. Embarrassed.

  And then Will is at my side. My knees buckle and I lean against him, letting him lead me back to my seat. There’s a hushed silence. I catch sight of Wendy and Joanie and Robbie as I pass the front row. They are watching me with pity—and, in Wendy’s case, contempt.

  A terrible grief swells inside me. I have convinced no one. If Julia were here and the situations were reversed, she would have found the words to tell the world I could never have killed myself. But I have failed to make anyone see the truth. I have failed Julia. Tears stream down my face. Those we pass avert their eyes, unwilling to witness the rawness of my pain. Will stops as we reach our seats. I glance to the back of the room. People are standing behind the last row of seats, packed in on either side of the exit. All of them are watching me, not quite meeting my eyes.

  All except one. He is tall and ruggedly handsome in a dark suit. Even before I clock the giveaway shaggy blond hair and the fact that he’s clearly a few years younger than most of the other guests, I know instinctively that this is Julia’s Dirty Blond.

  Our eye
s lock on to each other. His burn with fury. His whole body radiates it. As I stare at him, he tears his gaze away and leaves the funeral parlor. Will presses me into my seat. I feel flushed. Will doesn’t seem to have noticed the man.

  He leans over, his hand on mine, whispering in my ear. “Are you okay, Livy?”

  I nod, wiping my eyes. The undertaker offers us the chance to take a minute’s silence to pray or to reflect on our time with Julia. Then Air on a G String begins and the curtains in front of the coffin close. I look around again, but the blond young man has definitely gone.

  Before I know it, the service is over and everyone is leaving the mortuary. Will puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me outside. The air out here is fresher than before, the sun fighting to emerge from behind the clouds.

  Julia’s family avoids me, but several people do come over: friends and colleagues of Julia and both the ex-boyfriends. Martha, Paul, and Becky are particularly sweet. They offer me sympathy and hugs and reassurance that I didn’t let Julia down in any way. I hate that this is how my supposed eulogy has come across—a plea for exoneration. None of the mourners here allow for the possibility I might have been right about Julia’s death. I ask a few if they know the name of the blond guy who was standing by the exit, but no one does. That furious look he gave me stays in my mind’s eye, sending anxious shivers down my back.

  What was he so angry about? Does he know something about her death?

  I try to explain my suspicions to Will, but he won’t listen. He thinks I’m wrong about Julia—that my perspective is skewed by guilt and grief. He also points out that I am only guessing that the man at the service at the funeral was Julia’s Dirty Blond.

  “The state you were in, you could easily have imagined the angry look,” he suggests.