by Nicci French
Chapter Fifteen
‘Do you think,’ I asked, ‘that it would be a good idea for me to go through Milena’s emails and check there aren’t any more nasty surprises waiting to jump out at you?’
Frances had just discovered that she and Milena had been expected at a client’s large house in Kingston upon Thames to discuss plans for her daughter’s wedding. Even from the other side of the room, I could hear the woman’s voice coming down the phone, high and irate.
‘Milena never mentioned it,’ said Frances, dejectedly, after she had ended the conversation and promised she would be there the following day. ‘She was supposed to write everything in the office diary.’
‘Can I see the diary?’ I asked. ‘Just to double-check things.’
‘Would you?’
I took the large, hard-backed book, which had a page for each day and was covered with scrawls, crossings-out, reminders, and tried to memorize appointments so I could cross-reference them with Greg’s chart, but I soon gave up. I’d have to write them down later.
Frances had no objection to me sifting through Milena’s messages, but the computer did. I found that to access her email I had to enter a password. ‘What was it?’ I asked Frances.
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘Oh.’ I stared at the screen in frustration. I had this idea that the answers I needed were locked in that slim little box, if only I could find the key. Idly, I tried the names of her two step-children, with no success. ‘No ideas?’ I asked Frances.
She shrugged helplessly. ‘You could try her maiden name. Furness.’
‘No,’ I said, after a few seconds.
‘Her date of birth: the twentieth of April 1964.’
So she was forty-four, a decade older than me. I typed it in. Nothing.
‘She used to talk about a dog she had when she was a girl.’
‘What was its name?’
‘She never said. But, look, aren’t there ways round things like this?’
I couldn’t help smiling at that. ‘Probably, but if there were, do you really think I’d know about them?’
‘Oh, well, I guess we’ll just have to hope there aren’t other appointments waiting to be missed. In the meantime I need to get quotations on marquees before tomorrow morning.’
That day I had told Frances I needed to leave early. Even so, when I hurried up the road Gwen was waiting at my door, several carrier-bags at her feet. ‘Happy birthday!’ she said, kissing me on both cheeks. ‘But where’ve you been? I was worried you’d forgotten or got cold feet.’
‘Just trying to catch up with a few things,’ I said vaguely.
She looked at me curiously. ‘You’re being rather mysterious.’
I felt flustered. ‘I don’t mean to be. It’s just I’ve been having to sort out things, like – like money.’ Untrue, although, of course, that was what I should have been sorting out, and if I thought of my financial situation, I felt dizzy with anxiety.
‘Horrible for you,’ Gwen said sympathetically.
‘It’s got to be done.’ I fished my key out of my pocket. ‘Let’s get inside out of the cold. I’ll carry some of these. What’s in here? I thought you said just a few people.’ We went into the kitchen.
‘That’s right. Fifteen, twenty at most.’ She started unpacking the bag on to the kitchen table. ‘Hummus with pitta bread, and guacamole. I’ve bought the avocados for that. Tortilla chips with salsa, pistachio nuts. Nothing much to do except put them in bowls.’
‘What time is everyone coming?’ I was filled with panic. I was used to being Ellie-and-Greg facing the world together. I’d lost the ability to cope on my own – unless, that is, I was pretending to be someone else, in which case I seemed to be managing much better.
‘About six, six thirty.’
‘What shall I wear?’
‘Calm down. It’s just your friends. We’ll have a poke through your wardrobe in a moment, but it’s casual. People will be coming straight from work. You can wear what you’ve got on now, if you want.’
‘No,’ I said, with a sharpness that surprised even me. Because I was wearing my Gwen-clothes: my black trousers again, the stripy grey shirt, a sleeveless jersey over the top, and slouchy black suede boots. ‘I can’t wear these. I’d feel all wrong.’
‘I’ve got something for you,’ Gwen said. ‘A birthday present.’ She held out a small packet. ‘Go on, open it.’
I tore off the wrapping paper and found a little box. Inside there was a plain silver bangle. ‘It’s beautiful.’ I slid it over my wrist and held up my arm so Gwen could admire it.
Her face changed, but not in the way I’d expected. ‘Ellie, you’ve taken off your wedding ring.’
I felt a terrible flush spreading over my face and down my neck as we stared at my bare finger. ‘Yes,’ I said finally.
‘Is that because -’
‘I don’t know why,’ I said. ‘It’s in my purse. I might put it back on. Shall I?’
‘God, Ellie, I don’t know. We’ll talk about it when everyone’s gone home. Now we’re going to choose your clothes.’
In the end I dithered and fretted in front of the mirror until Gwen chose for me: jeans and a thin white shirt that was quite new and I’d never worn because it was too nice, too crisp and clean, and I was always saving it for a special occasion. I brushed my hair and piled it on top of my head. ‘There, will that do?’
‘You look gorgeous.’
‘Hardly.’
‘No, you do. I invited Dan. Is that all right?’
‘Who’s Dan?’
Gwen blushed deep crimson. ‘Someone I met.’
‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘As long as Dan knows how lucky he is to be invited by you.’ Gwen didn’t have much luck with men. I always told her she was too good for them and, in a way, it was the truth. Men, I thought grimly, go for women like Milena, who treat them badly, who don’t care. It’s caring too much that’s our downfall.
The doorbell rang.
‘Who’s that? Is it time already? I wish it was nine o’clock and everyone had gone home and it was just you and me again, discussing how it went. And Dan, of course.’
‘It’ll be Joe. He said he’d arrive early with the drink.’
Sure enough, it was Joe, his car parked by the pavement with the boot open. He gave me a bear-hug; his stubble scratched my cheek and his overcoat itched against my skin. ‘How’s the birthday girl?’
‘Doing fine.’
‘Right, I’ll put it in the kitchen, shall I? Twelve bottles of champagne – well, sparkling wine, to be honest. Twelve bottles of red.’
‘That’s twenty-four bottles, Joe!’
‘You can keep the rest for later. Let’s open a bottle now, shall we?’
He peeled off the foil and wire and eased the cork out of a champagne bottle, letting the foam rise out of its mouth and subside. Then he poured three glasses, which we lifted and chinked together. ‘To our dear Ellie,’ he said.
‘To Ellie,’ said Gwen, grinning at me fondly.
Why did I feel so much like crying? Why did my eyes sting and my sinuses ache and a block of sorrow lodge in my throat?
People arrived in dribs and drabs, and then a small flood, leaving umbrellas in the hall, tossing overcoats over the banister and on the back of the sofa. Soon my little house was full of people. They were in the living room, in the kitchen, sitting on the stairs. They’d all brought presents: whisky, biscuits, plants, earrings, a little ceramic bowl. Josh and Di arrived with a rocket that they set up in readiness in the garden, even though the instructions said it had to be fifty metres away from any building.
These are my friends, I thought, and this is my life now. Fergus was a bit subdued but very sweet and affectionate, Joe was in expansive mood, throwing his arms around people, pouring too much wine into their glasses. Gwen was talking to Alison, but glancing surreptitiously at her watch every few minutes because Dan had not yet turned up. Mary had cornered Jemma and was telling her what to
expect from childbirth in every agonizing gory detail. Laurie and Graham were playing chess in the corner. I went from group to group with a bottle in my hand. That way I didn’t have to stay with anyone for long: just enough time to say hello and kiss them before I moved away. I didn’t drink and I didn’t talk to anyone properly – and no one mentioned Greg. He was the ghost in the house.
At seven thirty – just after Gwen had answered the door and returned, shy and pink, with a man I assumed to be Dan – Joe clinked his fork against a glass and stood on a rather flimsy chair, which creaked ominously beneath his weight. ‘Gather round,’ he roared.
‘Oh, no.’
‘Don’t worry, Ellie, this isn’t a speech, just a toast.’
‘Good.’
‘You don’t know what Joe means by “toast”,’ warned Alison, standing beside me.
‘No, really – all I wanted to say was you’ve had a terrible time and I know I can speak for everyone when I say that we’re always here for you, through thick and thin. Happy birthday, Ellie.’
‘Happy birthday,’ came the ragged chorus.
‘Speech!’ someone shouted.
‘Just… thank you,’ I said. ‘All of you.’
‘More wine,’ commanded Joe.
‘Here.’ At the other end of the room, Fergus pulled a cork out of a bottle and a spume of froth flowed over its neck and on to the small table by the window. ‘Oh, shit, I’ve spilt it – what is this, anyway?’
‘Oh,’ I said, cursing myself for not having put it away. ‘That’s – Well, it’s my chart.’
Fergus bent over it, dabbing at the wine with his sleeve. ‘It’s very colourful. Is it work?’
‘No.’ I hesitated. ‘Actually, it shows where Greg was during the last few weeks of his life.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck, Ellie.’ He seemed dazed. ‘It’s amazing. It must have taken for ever. But why?’
‘Because…’ I was glad I hadn’t put out Milena’s chart: it was still a work in progress.
‘What is it?’ Jemma had joined us and so, a few minutes later, had most of the others in the room.
‘There’s almost no time unaccounted for!’ Josh sounded either impressed or scared, I couldn’t tell which.
I took a deep breath. These were my friends, after all, and suddenly it seemed important to make a public declaration. ‘I did it because I wanted to work out when Greg would have been with that woman. And you see…’ I waved at the chart ‘…he wasn’t. There are barely any gaps. He simply didn’t have the time.’
I stared at them. Nobody was smiling or nodding; everyone was looking at me gravely, or with embarrassment. ‘So, something else was going on,’ I said ominously, hearing my words fall into the silence. ‘Something bad.’
‘Bad?’
‘I think he was murdered.’
You could have heard a pin drop.
‘Let me pour you some wine,’ said Joe at last, taking the bottle from Fergus.
‘No, thanks. You all think I’m mad, I can tell.’
‘No!’ said Fergus. ‘We think you’re…’ I could see him searching for the right word ‘… tremendously loyal,’ he concluded. Jemma, beside him, nodded urgently.
‘I made a cake,’ Mary said, into the awkwardness. ‘Is now the right time to cut it?’
Everyone made over-enthusiastic noises; I blew out the symbolic candle on top of the coffee and walnut sponge, then slid in the knife.
‘It’s bad luck if we hear it touch the plate,’ warned Di, just as the knife audibly clinked against the china.
‘Fuck that,’ said Joe, scowling at her as if she was a criminal. He wrapped an arm round my shoulders. ‘It’s only good luck from now on,’ he said, kissing the top of my head.
‘Do you think I’m mad?’
‘Not mad. Sad.’
‘And a bit of a party-pooper.’
‘Meet Dan,’ said Gwen, appearing beside me. ‘Dan, this is Ellie.’
He was big and shy, with a quiet, rumbling voice. I liked him at once for the way he looked at Gwen.
‘Josh is about to light the rocket,’ said Gwen, tucking her arm through mine. ‘Come out and see it, and then I’ll send everyone home. Right?’
‘Right,’ I agreed, for suddenly I felt desperately tired and dejected. And lonely, too – lonelier now, in this crowd of too-eager friends, than I ever did when I was alone.
‘But I’ll stay and clear up. We can get a takeaway or something if you want. So steer clear of that cake for the moment.’
That was the best bit of the party: after everyone had left and the glasses were washed, the empty bottles put out for collection, sitting at the kitchen table with Gwen and her nice new man, eating curry out of foil cartons and not having to make an effort any more. There aren’t many people you can just be silent with.
At several points, I nearly told Gwen I had stolen her name and was passing myself off as an unsettled-maths-teacher-turned-office-assistant to the business partner of the woman who had died alongside Greg. But I stopped myself. It made me sound crazy.
Chapter Sixteen
After Gwen and Dan had left, I did the last of the washing-up and took out a bin-bag full of slimy, smelly party relics. I made a mug of tea and put the TV on, and by the time I got to bed it was after two. It didn’t matter because the next day was Saturday. My plan, if it could be called a plan, was to sleep until I woke and then to go back to sleep. If I left my bed it would be to eat and then I would return to my state of hibernation. Instead, I was woken from strange dreams – grey, hard-edged, dark, slow – by the doorbell. I pulled on a dressing-gown and went down the stairs, muttering to myself like a bag-lady. I was expecting to have to sign for something but instead I found Fergus on the doorstep.
‘Did I wake you?’ he said.
I was still fuddled with sleep. ‘Did you forget something?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ he said.
‘What time is it?’
‘Breakfast time,’ he said, smiling. ‘Can I come in?’
I was genuinely tempted to say no and slam the door. But I stood aside for him, then went upstairs, had a shower and tugged a pair of jeans up over my tired, pale legs. I put on an old sweatshirt of Greg’s and found some slippers in the back of a cupboard. I could already smell coffee.
When I came down to the kitchen Fergus had cleared the kitchen table and laid out mugs and plates. ‘I found a muffin in the freezer,’ he said. ‘I’m defrosting it. Unless you want bacon and eggs.’
‘I don’t even want a muffin,’ I said.
‘Of course you do,’ he said. He took the muffin from the microwave and spread it with butter, then raspberry jam, and put it on a little side plate and gave it to me. He poured a mug of coffee for me and one for himself. He sat down opposite me.
‘Am I that bad?’ I said.
He smiled and sipped his coffee. I felt cross and tired and blurry, and his insistent cheeriness was irritating, like music playing too loudly. ‘We’ve been having a conference,’ he said.
‘We?’
‘The usual suspects. I was the one delegated to come and see you. Well, I delegated myself, really.’
‘It’s the chart, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I should have put it in a cupboard.’
‘We’ve not been looking after you properly,’ he said.
‘Everyone’s been looking after me,’ I said. ‘You came to my birthday party. I’ve been invited to dinner. People have put up with my deranged behaviour.’
‘You’ve not been deranged,’ said Fergus.
‘I’m just going through the stages of mourning: anger, bargaining, denial. Lots of denial.’ I paused. ‘Are they really the stages of mourning or are they the stages of dying? It doesn’t matter. I think I’ve had enough help. Maybe it’s time now to help myself.’
‘I’m not allowed to take no for an answer,’ said Fergus.
‘Says who?’
‘Says me and Gwen and Joe and Mary
and no doubt other people as well.’
‘This is since the party?’ I said.
‘Some of it was at the party. But the lines have been buzzing as well.’
‘I wish people would just talk to me.’
‘I am talking to you.’
‘So what’s the plan? Is someone going to take me to the seaside? Are you clubbing together to pay for a massage?’
‘You shouldn’t be sarcastic,’ said Fergus. ‘It’s the lowest form of wit. The immediate plan is for you to eat your muffin, then show me round your house.’
‘You know what it looks like.’
‘Please, eat up.’
I nibbled at the muffin, feeling like a child who had been told off. It was dry in my mouth, hard to swallow. ‘I don’t need all this help,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t need it. He was your friend. You knew him much longer than I did. Losing him must have been as bad for you as it was for me, maybe worse.’
Fergus looked reflective. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever have a friend like him again. I couldn’t. It was something about who’d seen me drunk and being embarrassing, at my low points.’ He smiled. ‘And there were good things as well. Trips, girlfriends… Well, I probably shouldn’t go there. Anyway, this isn’t a competition.’
‘I should be looking out for you,’ I said.
‘First things first,’ said Fergus. ‘That’ll do. That’s enough muffin. Let’s go upstairs.’
As I walked upstairs with him, I suddenly remembered being about seventeen and my mum coming into my bedroom. ‘You’re meant to have tidied your room,’ she would say.
‘I have tidied it,’ I’d say.
‘Well, it doesn’t look like it.’
And so it would go on. It seemed to me that I had spent days and days dealing with my affairs, sorting out Greg’s stuff, generally getting things ordered, but as I saw my bedroom, the junk room and the spare bedroom through Fergus’s eyes, I had to admit that it didn’t look like it. If there are stages of mourning, there are also stages of tidying. The first stage is your basic untidiness. The second stage is deciding to do something about it. The third stage involves getting everything out of the drawers, cupboards and shelves so you can see what you have to deal with it. The third stage necessarily looks much worse than the first. I wasn’t sure about the fourth because I hadn’t yet got to it.
