Around me, obscured by the softness of the leaves, the walls have vanished; then, as I watch, flowers start to open, one by one, like stars appearing as night falls, until there’s a whole mass of them. It’s eerily, surreally beautiful—but suddenly it changes. I hear the wind first, a distant howl that comes closer, sweeping past me, tearing at the leaves, and while I watch, the tendrils wilt and colors fade. The leaves start to drop, while the flowers wither, their petals falling in soft monochrome, carpeting the floor.
As the last of them fall like snowflakes, I hear a cry, and looking down, I see cushioned in their softness a baby.
Ella
“It’s only a cat.”
My father’s words, the day a beautiful black and white cat streaked across the road and under his car. I felt the slight bump as he crushed it. Was haunted by its ghostly cry for weeks afterward. Felt angry with him forever, because he had no right to say that.
“It’s only a cat.”
No cat is just a cat. It’s as alive, as deserving of life, as he is, like the ants he boils alive in the cracks between his paving stones and the swatted butterflies that have lost their way and come inside. The rabbits gassed in the garden and the pheasants he raises and then shoots for sport. His decision whether they live or die.
“Don’t make such a fuss. They’re just pheasants, Ella.” My mother’s words.
Not thinking for one moment that it was the first time I’d seen them strung up outside by their necks. Dead.
“Beautiful,” she adds, thinking of the meat that Gabriela will cook, after she’s plucked and cleaned them, not their brilliant colors and iridescent feathers and staring, glassy eyes.
“You really should learn to shoot.”
Everything about her is in that one sentence. Daughters have obligations to fulfill, expectations to meet, should be seen with the right people in the right places. Take part in the obscenity of killing for the sake of killing.
“My daughter shoots.” She’d love to say that. Why doesn’t she get who I really am? How I think? What I care about?
I open my mouth to tell her that no way, not ever, in my whole life will I kill a living creature just for sport when Gabriela catches my eye.
Gabriela’s the housekeeper, PA, and multipurpose filler in the cracks in my family. We are the family she always wanted, she tells me proudly. “Your father, so handsome, so successful! And your mother who is so very beautiful . . . But you, little Ella, will discover your own talents. . . .”
“Rock music,” I tell her pointedly. Unlike my mother, Gabriela already knows about the pink electric guitar at the back of my wardrobe.
But she shakes her head. “You are different, little one,” she says, her eyes wide, this intense expression on her face. “You don’t always have to listen to them.” She means my parents.
“It’s like they don’t know me,” I try to tell her. “You’ve heard them. . . .”
But Gabriela’s loyal, won’t hear a word against the beautiful singer and the successful surgeon. She holds a finger to my lips.
“No more,” she says firmly. “You’ll find your way. It won’t always be like this.”
16
2016
That I have April’s notes in my possession poses a dilemma that’s twofold: not only are they confidential, between April and her clients, but it’s likely, also, the police will want them.
I’m trying to prove April’s innocence, but I’m guilty of breaking into her cottage and potentially withholding information from the police, of blatantly flouting the law. But it’s a risk I’m prepared to take. I’m here not only as a lawyer. I’m here because I knew her.
In my room at my B&B, brushing aside my misgivings, I make a call I know can’t wait.
It’s answered almost immediately, by a woman who sounds young, which, for no logical reason, throws me.
“May I speak to Sadie Westwood?”
“This is Sadie.”
“Ms. Westwood? My name’s Noah Calaway. I’m a friend of April Rousseau’s. . . . I’m sorry, but I have some rather worrying news. . . .” I pause, aware of how fragile this woman sounded when she left her message on April’s phone. “She’s had an accident.” I pause, giving her time to take it in, before adding, “I’m afraid she’s in hospital.”
She gasps. “Oh . . . my goodness, that’s terrible. Oh, poor April. Is she all right?”
“It’s a little soon to say,” I tell her gently, then take a deep breath. “I was wondering, would you mind if we talked about her? I think she might be in trouble.”
“Oh! Of course. Anything—if it would help. Oh, poor April . . . What kind of trouble?” She sounds nervous, jittery, clearly shocked.
“I think she’s been framed for something she didn’t do.” I give her a few seconds to take it in.
“Oh . . . That’s terrible.” She hesitates. “Are you another therapist?”
“No. I’m her lawyer.”
At the word lawyer, there’s another gasp. I’m not sure what emotional landscape Sadie Westwood occupies, but I’d hazard a guess it’s an unstable one—which presumably is why she needs April.
“Oh. Oh dear. Yes.” She sounds confused. “Of course. If it will help her. But she’s always so calm—and such a happy person. She never has any problems, you know. She’s just one of those incredible people—who copes.”
“I’m sure she is. Did you ever discuss her personal life with her?”
“Not really, I’m afraid. You see, I haven’t been well; she was helping me. . . . It sounds so selfish, doesn’t it, when you put it like that?” Her anxiety is obvious.
“No. Not at all.” Telling her what she wants to hear, because even if April had confided in her, I’m not sure Sadie Westwood would have noticed.
“Look, could I leave you my number? If you think of anything, can you call me?”
I recite the number twice because she gets it wrong, then end the call, irritated. Not just by Sadie Westwood’s assumptions that April’s life was easy and that April somehow mysteriously “coped,” but because something about her dimly reminds me of a small part of myself that only ever saw what it wanted to. A part of which I’m not proud.
* * *
The presence of April’s client notes continues to make me uncomfortable. They’re deeply private and confidential, yet with nothing else to go on and carefully avoiding more personal information, I know also I need to go through them.
After making a list of names, I speak to six clients initially, half of whom used to see her once or more weekly, though none of them recently, and learn nothing that appears significant.
The next morning, I return to the hospital. But as I go through the swing doors into the ICU and approach April’s room, I hear a voice, raised, as if in conversation just inside, and my heart twists in hope. Has she come round? Is a doctor with her? As I reach the door, I see it is a doctor, one I’d hoped not to see.
He looks up just as he falls silent, arms folded as he stands over her. There’s a policewoman there today, awkward as she looks uncertainly at him.
He’s still lean, his red hair prematurely grey, dressed for work in a suit, the ID that’s slung round his neck gaining him entrance where I was refused. I look for a flicker of surprise, but Will’s face is blank as he walks out and closes the door behind him.
“Noah . . .” He pauses. “I wondered if I’d see you.” His air one of indifference as he appraises me. “I had a patient to check on. I thought I’d call in, see how she is.”
This—after so many years, so many wrongs. As though nothing has happened. Minimizing, trivializing the part he played in it. As he stands in front of me, my searing hate is reflexive.
“Any change?” Not trusting myself to say more, because I have no more to say to him. From the way I curl up inside, I know with certainty, you can never truly forget the past.
He shakes his head. “Not so far. They’re running tests—as yet, they don’t know what damage was done to her inte
rnal organs. One thing is pretty clear, though. She didn’t intend on being found.”
I’m silent.
“Well, you’ve got to admit, it doesn’t look good,” he adds.
“Maybe not,” I tell him. “But the truth will come out. It usually does.”
I remember the way his eyes narrow, just slightly, in the corners. His voice is deceptively light. “You still believe she’s innocent?”
I hold his gaze. “Until proven otherwise . . . I do.” Watching his split-second hesitation before he glances at his watch.
“I have to go.” He reaches into his pocket. “If you feel like a drink sometime, give me a call.”
I stare at the card he’s handed me; then curiosity gets the better of me. “Just one question. Why did you call me?”
If I’ve caught him off guard, he hides it well.
He frowns. “I thought you should know.”
Which tells me nothing, as he turns and strides out, his footsteps fading down the corridor. I already know I won’t call him. Then pushing thoughts of Will from my head, I turn back to look through the slatted blinds at April, because this isn’t about him. It never was.
She looks the same as yesterday, just as small and lifeless, her existence simply a trace on the monitor she’s wired up to, her only movement the slight rise and fall of her chest, in time with the machine that’s breathing for her.
“Hey,” I say silently through the glass, like the last time. “It’s good to see you.”
I hold my breath, waiting for a sign that she’s heard me, wishing she’d turn her head toward me and open her eyes, so that I could watch them widen with disbelief.
Then I’m chastising myself for my choice of words. It isn’t good to see her, not like this. And what had Will been thinking, if not exactly shouting, then talking so angrily to her. Why didn’t that WPC stop him? In my pocket, my fingers find his card.
As I read it, a faint echo comes to me of April’s voice, warning me not to trust him. Clear enough that it startles me, so that I look toward her face as another memory comes back to me from a happier time, of the same words spoken a long time ago.
17
2000
“I thought I’d ask Will to be my best man,” I told April happily. “I mean, he’s my oldest friend. And you’ve known him just as long. He’ll make a great speech.” He would, too, with just the right blend of warmth and wit, laced with irreverence—just enough but not too much. “He’s the obvious choice.”
April seemed less enthusiastic than I was. “You think?”
“Of course. Why? Don’t you agree?”
She was silent, measuring her words. When she looked up, her face was serious. “Be careful of Will. I know you think he’s a good friend, but . . .” She broke off.
“But what?” I persisted, surprised by her reluctance, and added, “Come on . . . Tell me!”
“Just . . . there’s another side to him, that’s all. A selfish one. He has a ruthless streak.”
Half jokingly, and because none of us is perfect, I defended my oldest friend. “He’s single-minded and determined.... He’s always been like that.” Then as I looked at her, an unwanted sense of unease came over me. “Has something happened between you?”
Again, she hesitated, before saying, “No. Nothing like that. It’s just a feeling I have.” Then her voice changed as though she’d had a change of heart, but her smile was forced. “You know what I’m like! Anyway, you know him far better than I do. Honestly, forget I said anything.”
I let it go, when I should have pushed her. But I was too happy, too swept along by our wedding plans, eager to only see the best in Will and everyone else, and I let it pass.
* * *
I was foolish enough to believe that such happiness was my due. That I actually deserved it, giving it no further thought, as I rode the wave that just kept on going. Believing this was how my life was now, never for one moment stopping to consider that from such a height the only way was down.
The weeks had gathered momentum, and with just days to go, I was flying. How many people had ever felt like I did, at that moment? I was in our South London flat, having taken leave from the high-profile law firm I’d joined a few months ago, two days from marrying the woman of my dreams in the most romantic country-house setting I’d ever seen. Even the weather was on my side. It was June, high pressure established over the country, meaning we were guaranteed sun. It didn’t get better than that.
It had already been quite a year. Moving into the home we were still renovating, our spare time filled with wedding planning, tasting menus and wines, making decisions, then changing our minds again, making last-minute changes to the seating plan as the number of guests oscillated. I was secretly looking forward to it all being over, to the process of actually being married and away on our honeymoon, then starting out on the rest of our lives.
“Hey! We’ve had more cards. Want to open them?” April’s voice drifted through to the kitchen, where I was deep in thought.
She appeared, framed for a moment in the doorway, her eyes bright, her long hair untidily caught up, before coming over to kiss me briefly on the cheek, then depositing the mail on top of my paper before going over to the sink.
“There was a call from the hotel this morning. I told them you’d call back,” I told her, starting on the cards.
“Oh? Did they say what about?”
I shook my head. “I would have asked, only it was that bossy woman who doesn’t like me. I thought I’d leave it to you.”
It had made sense to leave the finer details to April. Once we’d booked the venue, she’d become absorbed in planning the place settings and the flowers. I knew it was going to look beautiful.
“Noah! Emma’s not bossy. She’s just organized—which, seeing as you’re not, is just as well.”
Feeling slightly guilty, I put the cards down and got up, walked over and got out a couple of mugs. “I did book the honeymoon, remember? It’s just that you have such impeccable taste, I think it’s far better if you make these decisions. I trust you. Completely.” Wondering if she knew, I was talking about far more than the wedding.
“Really . . .” She arched an eyebrow at me as I put my arms around her, pulling her close, breathing in the scent of her as I kissed the slender line of her neck.
“Noah . . .” She tried to wriggle out of my arms. “I have to go out again. In ten minutes.”
“You said you would be here this afternoon. And I thought everything was done.”
“It is. Almost. Just one or two last-minute . . . small things. That’s all. Okay? Now quickly, coffee or tea?”
“I’ll make coffee. Anything I can do?”
She shook her head. “Really. It’s nothing. And I shouldn’t be long.”
I let my arms fall away. There were aspects of our wedding day that were out of bounds to me, at least until the big day itself. And it didn’t matter. After Saturday, when the wedding was over, we’d have the rest of our lives together.
She drank half her mug before picking up her keys and dashing out. I called my mother’s care home, to confirm the transport we’d booked to the wedding for her and one of the carers, who was coming along to look after her. That done, after tidying the kitchen I was restless, eventually pulling out a file I’d brought back from the office about a domestic abuse case I was working on, a case that interested me on several levels. The wife was a smart, educated, accomplished woman. I couldn’t understand how someone like her had married such a violent man. Had he hidden it from her all that time? Or had love blinded her to the truth?
* * *
Engrossed, I didn’t notice the time passing. Only after the sun slipped lower in the sky and I was straining my eyes to read the text did I register how late it was.
April had said she wouldn’t be long. Hours ago. Suddenly I was filled with unease, followed by guilt, because I hadn’t noticed. Finding the phone, I called her mobile. There was no reply.
A train of s
tartling thoughts rushed through my head, of terrible scenarios, imagining her hit by a car and taken to hospital—or worse—as I hunted around for Bea’s number. If she was anywhere else, Bea’s place was most likely where she’d go.
“Hello, darling.” After leaving school, Bea had gone to college and reinvented herself. Effortlessly glamorous, she called everyone “darling” these days.
“Bea. Have you seen April? This afternoon? She told me she was going out—ages ago. She’s not back.”
I broke off, suddenly paralyzed by fear. What if she’d had second thoughts? What if she wasn’t coming back?
“We spoke earlier.” My fears escalated as Bea paused. “Lunchtime. She told me she was on her way home. Noah, look, you know I adore both of you. And it’s not really any of my business, but . . .”
I wasn’t listening—I didn’t want to, not to the seriousness in her voice, the unspoken suggestion that something was wrong. Hearing keys in the front door, I cut her short.
“It’s okay! She’s just walked in! Cheers, Bea. See you on the big day!”
I went to meet April, filled with relief that my fears had been for nothing, pausing to watch her pull off her jacket and hang it up just inside the front door, before draping her scarf over the top. Feeling so much love for her, I thought she must be able to sense it even from there.
“Did you get it done? Your mystery deed?”
Her head down as she slipped her shoes off, she said nothing. Then she stood up, turning so that I saw her face. As I looked at her, I felt my blood run colder than ice.
There was a terrifying sadness in her eyes, worse than any blackness I’d ever seen there. Fear struck me again, only far harder this time. Before I knew it, I was beside her, my arms tightly round her.
The Beauty of the End Page 9
