by Paula Daly
To my total mortification he withdrew the Players’ tin from his pocket and began, slowly and carefully, as was his way, to assemble one.
Penny straightened her spine. She placed both hands on her knees, took a deep breath in and steadied herself before speaking. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘All right, I’ll explain as best as I can . . . We are not awash with money, David and I. We are not what you’d call a rich family.’
‘Join the club,’ muttered my dad with a half-smile.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Quite,’ and she shifted in her seat. ‘My husband and I decided very early on, though, that we would forego the luxuries afforded to other families, instead making Sean and Lucy’s education paramount.’
I think she may have been expecting plaudits of some sort here, because she paused. When none were forthcoming she went on.
‘It has not always been easy. In fact on occasion it was nigh impossible to scratch together the money necessary for two sets of weekly boarding-school fees. But I’m proud to say we managed it. And Sean has made us exceptionally proud of him by attaining the results he has.’
Sean got three As, by the way. History, English and Economics. Bastard.
‘And now that he’s got the chance of fulfilling his dream of becoming a lawyer,’ said Penny, ‘I would hate to see anything get in the way of that.’
‘And you think Natty will get in the way of that,’ proposed my dad.
‘Exactly,’ she answered. ‘I think any distractions at this stage of Sean’s education are best avoided if at all possible. And Natty, while we remain incredibly fond of you, and would hope that you and Sean can still be good friends, we would like to see an end to the relationship as it stands.’
I felt as though she’d slapped me.
My dad raised his eyebrows. He blew out his breath, saying, ‘You don’t think Sean is going to be distracted by other girls for the next three years?’ he asked. ‘Just Natty. That’s what you’re saying?’
‘Mr Odell, I realize that it might sound a little far-fetched to you. So, no, I don’t think Sean is going to’ – she paused here, trying to find a suitable word – ‘abstain completely whilst away, but what worries me is the intensity of Sean and Natty’s relationship.’
Sean and I traded glances at this assessment of our union. Intensity. It’s a word we both found rather pleasing. We were happy with what we had created; happy that it was taken seriously enough for his mother to deem it necessary to try to pull us apart. We felt accomplished.
My dad lit his roll-up and inhaled deeply. ‘What if she refuses?’ he asked her. ‘What if Natty refuses to give up her place? She might not want to leave it till next year . . . she’s a mature girl, mature for her age, like you said, and she might not want to wait a year to study with the younger kids.’ He looked to me. Tried to throw me a lifeline. ‘What d’you say, Nat?’
Penny didn’t give me time to answer. ‘Well, then we’d have to reconsider Sean’s place at Manchester,’ she said abruptly.
Sean bolted upright. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘I’m completely serious, Sean,’ she replied. ‘I had very much hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but if Natty is intent on—’
‘I won’t go,’ I said weakly, pretty tearful by now.
‘Of course you’ll go,’ argued Sean.
‘No, it’s not fair on you. You’re the one with the good grades,’ I said. ‘You’re the one with—’
My dad stood up. I went quiet. Three sets of eyes were upon him and I prayed he had something useful to say.
He didn’t.
It was clear Penny would rather cut out her own tongue than send us off to Manchester with her blessing. And so, reluctantly, eventually, we reached a compromise and agreed to a period of separation. We were to be at different campuses, live in different halls of residences, to limit our interaction. Sean suggested a six-month trial split, his reasoning being that if we went with what his mother wanted now, later, when we were well into our courses, we would have more bargaining power. Reluctantly, I acquiesced and over the next few days I made a series of phone calls to him, begging Sean to explain the reasons for his parents’ decision, but he either wouldn’t tell me, or else couldn’t.
Ultimately, it was my dad who got me to drop it. He caught me crying on the stairs and sat down, squeezing in alongside me. He put his arm around my shoulders, and said, ‘Natty. Oh, Natty.’ His words were delivered with the same level of compassion as just after Mum died. He meant: surrender. Surrender to what is.
I flared at him, saying, ‘Why should we let that woman decide what happens? Why won’t you stand up to her?’
He pulled me in close. ‘You stay with Sean . . .’ he said softly, ‘you stay with that lad . . . and that woman’s liable to dictate your entire life. Now might not be such a bad time to let it go, Natty.’
So it was with an empty and lonely heart that I showed up at Manchester University. And it is quite possible I would have bolted home to Windermere had I not met Eve on that third day. She sensed I was fragile – the whole sorry tale about Sean coming out within a couple of hours of our meeting – and a kind of mothering instinct was ignited within her. This blossomed into the long-term friendship we enjoyed for the next sixteen years.
She came across me in the bathroom. It was 9 p.m., Friday night, and I was in my pyjamas brushing my teeth. Eve was applying eyeliner in the mirror and I knew the instant I saw her she was older. She was so self-assured, there was no way she could be eighteen.
‘Why aren’t you going out?’ she asked me. A direct question to ask someone you’ve only just cast eyes on.
I shrugged, not really having a proper answer.
‘You don’t look dorky enough to be staying in on your first weekend here,’ she said. ‘Come out with me if you like. I know my way around.’
‘Thanks,’ I replied, ‘but I don’t really feel like—’
‘What?’ she asked accusingly. She spun around to face me. ‘You don’t really feel like what?’
‘Going out.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m pretty tired,’ I said casually.
She pulled out a tube of mascara from her make-up bag, dipped the brush a few times before turning back to face the mirror. She opened her mouth wide, as one does when applying mascara, and began stroking the brush through her lashes, blinking periodically.
I felt compelled to watch. As though this person had some kind of immediate hold over me.
‘You don’t look tired,’ she said, not glancing in my direction. ‘You look sad.’
Unable to think quickly on my feet, I just nodded.
‘A boy?’
Was she about to laugh at my pathetic behaviour? Her face seemed open, no hint of mockery, so I said, ‘Yeah, a boy.’
She zipped up her make-up bag and smiled.
‘Go and get changed, then,’ she instructed, ‘fast as you can . . . because I have the best cure for that.’
Eve waited in my doorway as I rummaged through my drawers for something to wear. I opted for jeans, a vest top and a fitted checked shirt which I planned to leave unbuttoned. ‘This okay?’ I asked, and Eve chewed the inside of her cheek as she looked me over.
‘You got anything a bit more dressy? It’s not a student bar we’re going to.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I replied, a bit deflated, and pulled on a baby-pink halterneck I’d recently bought. It was a shade on the tight side and had the effect of squeezing my breasts upwards and outwards. When I turned around for Eve’s opinion a shadow fell across her face.
‘That might be too dressy,’ she said curtly. Instantly, I felt foolish. It was clear Eve was altogether cooler and more knowledgeable than I, dressed as she was in a metallic snakeskin top with ‘Red or Dead’ printed across the front, and I’d just demonstrated my woeful ignorance about the Manchester bar scene.
Eve marched across the room and pulled out an uninspiring black top and thrust it my way. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘this is great. Get
a move on.’
I did as she asked and, as I applied some make-up Eve filled me in on the quick details of her life so far. She’d started at Manchester, studying psychology, this time last year, but had to pull out on account of a swelling which had developed on her brain.
‘Meningitis?’ I asked, remembering, because the press was full of articles about students succumbing to the infection. Kids who’d gone off to uni and spent their first weeks kissing everyone in sight, were, if you believed the stories, dropping like flies.
‘No, nothing like that,’ explained Eve. ‘I had an aneurysm when I was a baby.’
‘An aneurysm?’
‘I had a clip fitted . . . See this?’ and she bent forwards slightly and dipped her head, parting her hair with her fingers.
Barely visible, half an inch from the hairline, was a fine, thread-like scar where the hair didn’t grow.
I looked at her, dismayed. ‘Are you okay now?’
‘Completely,’ she said, matter-of-fact. ‘Just, for some unknown reason, last year I ended up with swelling. I’d never had any problems like that before.’ And she shrugged as if to say it wasn’t such a big deal.
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘That must have been scary. Were you in hospital? Did they give you . . . brain surgery?’
She laughed. ‘No. But they thought about it . . . I’ve got one of the old clips, they use a different type now and in the end they decided to see if the swelling would go down on its own.’
‘And did it?’
She nodded. ‘But by the time that happened and I was okay to come back, I’d missed too many lectures. The psychology department didn’t think I’d be able to catch up, so I took a gap year.’
The idea of a year off seemed so exotic to me back then – backpacking around India or Mexico; working around America. But Eve didn’t tell me what she did. She rearranged her hair and told me we’d better leave right away or we might not get in.
Half an hour later, and Eve carried a tray of tequila shots, shots she’d paid for with a fifty-pound note (the first I’d seen), over to a large rowdy group of young men at the back of the bar. Laying the tray at one end of the table, she said, ‘Guys, this is Natty. Natty had her heart broken. So I want you all to be extra nice to her.’
Within seconds the table erupted into chaos as they clambered to get to both me and the shots. They were mostly second- and third-year medical and engineering students, and Sean was largely forgotten that night. Forgotten for the next fortnight, actually, as I became immersed in a beautiful boy from Surrey.
His name was Will Goodwin.
15
MRS WAINWRIGHT IS not planning to tell her daughters what she did.
‘Is there anyone you can call?’ Joanne asks her. ‘Because I’m going to have to take you in for questioning. I’m sorry, but in light of the circumstances, protocol dictates it.’
Joanne’s being as sensitive as she can here, but there’s not a lot else she can do. If Mrs Wainwright decides to go ramming her husband’s lover, to the point that the woman breaks her nose, Joanne’s got to take her in. And that’s even if Mrs Wainwright hadn’t whacked some poor student unconscious with a golf club, back in her former life.
‘Mrs Wainwright?’ Joanne repeats. ‘How about your husband? Would you like to call him to stay with your daughters? It could be late when you return.’
Mrs Wainwright can’t look her daughters in the eye. Clearly this is the first they’ve heard about their mother’s record, and not for the first time in her career Joanne’s thinking: Just like a lover scorned to bring all the skeletons marching out of the closet.
After a few tense minutes of silence, Joanne decides to take charge of the situation and addresses the more level-headed of the two daughters. ‘What’s your name?’ she asks.
‘Felicity.’
The elder girl – the arty, neurotic one – sits shaking at the kitchen table alongside her mother. She won’t be much use.
Joanne smiles kindly at Felicity. ‘Can you call your dad and ask him to come over, soon as he can?’
‘Sure,’ she answers, and leaves the kitchen.
‘Don’t ring him, Felicity!’ the older sister shouts. ‘He’s not welcome here after what he’s done!’
Joanne takes a breath. Raises her eyes to the ceiling before saying, ‘Your mum is in trouble. We need to make this as uncomplicated as possible.’
‘Is she under arrest?’ she demands.
‘No.’
‘Then you can’t take her!’ She turns to her mother. ‘Mummy, don’t go. I believe you! I know you wouldn’t do that to Eve. You’re right, she’s lying to make Daddy hate you, she—’
‘The interview must be recorded,’ Joanne says cutting in. ‘Mrs Wainwright, if you come in right away there’s a good chance you’ll be back here within a couple of hours.’
This makes her stand. Seemingly mustering every ounce of fortitude she’s got, Mrs Wainwright says, ‘I’ll be with you directly, Detective. Just let me have a moment with my daughters.’
Joanne nods and waits for her by the front door.
At the station, Joanne’s office is deserted as everyone is at the pub with Ron Quigley. Joanne sends a quick text saying she’ll be with them soon as she can. She sets up the interview room with DC Angela Blackwell assisting, and tells a frightened Natasha Wainwright to sit herself down in the seat opposite.
‘Okay if I call you Natasha?’ she asks.
‘I go by Natty.’
‘Natty, then. I’ll try to get through this quickly. I can see it’s a difficult time for you and your girls and they need you at home. So we’re clear, you haven’t been charged with anything yet, you are not under arrest, the purpose of your being here is to answer questions relating to the attack on Dr Eve Dalladay which occurred earlier this afternoon. At this point I must ask you if you would like a solicitor present.’
Natty shakes her head. ‘No. I just want to get home.’
‘Okay, we’ve been through this, I know, but for the purposes of the tape could you tell me what happened earlier this afternoon when you crashed into Eve Dalladay’s car.’
‘Sean’s car,’ she states. ‘It was nothing really, I was following her out of Booths’ car park, about to join the Crescent Road in Windermere, when for no reason whatsoever Eve slammed on her brakes and I had no choice but to hit her. I checked if she was okay, saw that she was fine and came straight home. Obviously I was pretty shaken up, things being how they are.’
‘Because your husband, Sean Wainwright, and Eve Dalladay are in a relationship?’
‘Yes, and because Eve was my friend.’
‘How do you explain the damage along the driver’s side of your car?’
‘I did that reversing out of the garage yesterday morning. I was hassled and stressed.’
‘When I asked you that question earlier, you said you didn’t know how it got there.’
‘No, I didn’t say that. I didn’t answer. I didn’t want the girls to know I was such a wreck. I’ve been trying to hide how much all this is affecting me.’
Joanne drops it for now and moves on. ‘Do you and Eve Dalladay go back a long way?’
Natty gives an awkward glance to the side before saying, ‘Since university. She was Eve Boydell then.’
‘What happened there?’
‘With regards to what?’
Joanne gestures to the file in front of her. ‘It says here you attacked a student with a golf club. Says you fractured his skull, gave him a concussion.’
Natty Wainwright’s eyes go wide. ‘No one knows about that,’ she whispers.
‘You’ve not told your daughters?’
‘No!’ she says emphatically. ‘And I don’t want them to know either.’
‘Surely your husband knows?’
‘Well, yes, of course. And my dad . . . and Eve.’
‘Eve?’
‘She was there at the time.’
‘At the time of the attack?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you attack him, Natty?’
‘Because he left me.’
‘Seems a little extreme,’ Joanne says.
‘I was upset. He humiliated me and then dropped me . . .’ She pauses here, glances down at her hands. ‘What you must understand is that I was very young.’
Joanne rests her hands on the table.
‘Did you intentionally ram Eve Dalladay’s car this afternoon?’
‘No. I am not a violent person. That thing with Will Goodwin was a one-off. I’ve never been in any trouble of any sort since, and I did not drive into Eve looking for vengeance.’
‘I have to tell you again that the CCTV footage from the car park will be available for us to view shortly. If there’s anything you want to tell me, anything you want to add, I suggest you do it now,’ Joanne says. ‘You really won’t want to be amending your statement later on, will you, Mrs Wainwright?’
Natty Wainwright folds her hands in her lap primly and straightens her spine. ‘I have nothing further,’ she says.
16
BY THE TIME I arrive home it’s after 8 p.m. I’m dropped by a squad car on the driveway. I’m expecting to see the smashed rear of the Maserati, but it’s Eve’s car outside my house.
I didn’t wait for Sean to arrive before going in for questioning. We left as soon as we knew he was on his way. I made an excuse to the girls and to DC Aspinall, saying the sooner we went, the sooner I could get back. But in reality it was because I couldn’t stand to see the look on Sean’s face.
I can fool the girls with lies about ramming Eve, keep my story straight relaying events to the police, but Sean would be my undoing. He knows what I’m capable of, he’s aware I’ve spent the last God-knows-how-many-years creating a life I can be proud of to try to cover up the past.
Duping Sean would not be easy.
I put my key in the Yale lock and push down on the handle. The door doesn’t move. It’s been bolted from the inside.
Instantly, I’m angry. How dare he lock me out of my own house? I ring the doorbell, keep my finger on the button so it sounds continuously, and with my free hand I rap loudly on the wood. After a moment the door opens and there is Eve. She has a lint dressing across her nose and one on her forehead.
