I go downstairs and as I walk into the kitchen you look up at me and smile. Your teeth are sparkly white and you have a gap between the front two that you have always been self-conscious about though I think it makes you look pretty.
‘ Morning, my darling,’ you say, your green eyes twinkling. ‘Fancy some breakfast?’
I nod my head, a deep feeling of contentment filling my bones. There is nowhere else I would rather be than here with you.
6. Then
2 October 2017
I’ve only just arrived back at the flat when I hear the key in the lock. Work has been tough today – a backlog of emails to deal with, a disgruntled Damian who needed to be placated when I presented him with my monthly budget forecast, three of my team of five off sick – but I know, as I hear Lottie’s footsteps coming up the stairs, that the toughest part of the day is yet to come.
‘Hello, stranger,’ she says, bounding towards me with her arms outstretched. ‘Oh, it’s so good to see you. I was steeling myself for a night alone with Netflix and a takeaway. Speaking of which, do you fancy Chinese?’
I nod politely as she dumps her bag and coat then goes into the bathroom to change her clothes. I feel wretched as I hear her take a shower, perform her nightly just-home-from-work ritual. Lottie and I have lived together for years. Boyfriends have come and gone; we’ve sat up through the night with each other when one of us has been ill or heartbroken or both. We’ve made this rather poky little flat into the closest thing either of us have had to a home. And now I have to tell her that I’m moving out, drawing a line under this period of our lives, and I feel sick with dread.
‘Shall I Deliveroo then?’ she says, returning to the living room with wet hair, loose-fitting yoga pants and her favourite, now badly faded, Nirvana T-shirt. ‘You definitely want Chinese?’
‘Yes, that would be great,’ I say, trying my best to sound upbeat.
I watch as she opens the app. She looks so happy. I feel like the worst person in the world having to do this.
‘I’ll fix us some wine while you order,’ I say, getting up and heading to the kitchen, guilt twisting inside me.
How can I do this to her after everything she has done for me? I remember how she brought me out of my shell that first, terrifying freshers’ week at Durham University when I thought I was going to end up spending the whole term locked in my room. I can still see her bright smile and mass of red, corkscrew curls as she bounded over to me in the corridor of our shared dorm.
‘Hi, I’m Lottie, fancy a cup of tea?’
Ten minutes later we were happily ensconced on beanbags in her room, sipping Yorkshire Tea, nibbling chocolate Hobnobs and telling each other our life stories.
Lottie had been brought up in Edinburgh with her mum, a human rights lawyer. Her dad had died when she was nine and, though she hadn’t been as close to him as I had been to Mum, she understood, more than anyone, the loss I had experienced. Not that she was one to dwell on sadness. No, Lottie was the perfect antidote to my natural shyness and introspection. If she sensed I was having a low day she would spring into action; organize a day of shopping in nearby Newcastle or a trip to the coast in her battered little car. And though I would usually be reticent at first, I always felt better afterwards. Whatever dark clouds had been gathering were blown away by Lottie’s positivity and exuberance.
‘Men come and go but your friends are a constant.’ I remember Georgie telling me that when I was drowning in misery at the end of my first year at Durham. I had just come out of a rather intense six-month relationship with Tony, a man I thought was my soulmate but who had decided to relocate to Australia. The temptation to spend the whole of that summer wallowing in self-pity was overwhelming until Lottie stepped in and suggested a trip away. We ended up having the time of our lives working in a vineyard in the South of France, where we were paid in sumptuous meals and gallons of wine to crush grapes and stick labels on bottles. It was fun and exhausting and we spent so much time laughing that by the end of the summer my broken heart was healed. Georgie had been right.
I owe Lottie so much, and now here I am about to put a man ahead of our friendship. What kind of person am I? But then I think of Connor and how happy he makes me feel.
Come on, Vanessa, I say to myself, pouring two glasses of wine. Be strong. Life can’t stay the same for ever. It’s not a crime to fall in love and want to be with that person.
I take the wine into the living room where Lottie is curled up on the sofa with her feet tucked underneath her. She looks up from her phone as I walk in.
‘I ordered Szechuan prawns and egg-fried rice for you. Your usual. It’s going to be about fifteen minutes.’
‘Great. Thanks, Lottie,’ I say, handing her the glass.
I sit down on the ancient, squishy armchair opposite her, take a sip of wine and steel myself.
‘Listen, Lottie,’ I say, putting the glass down on the table. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’
She looks up at me, her eyes widening.
‘What is it, Ness?’ she asks, leaning forward, her hands clasped. ‘Is it Connor? You two haven’t been arguing, have you?’
‘No, it’s not that,’ I say, my heart thudding in my chest. ‘The opposite, in fact. Like I said, I’ve never felt this way before. We … we love each other and … we were talking and we both feel like we want to be together all the time.’
‘You already are together all the time,’ says Lottie, with a snort. ‘I’ve barely seen you these last few months. Sometimes I’ve come home to the empty flat after a particularly bad day and it’s been tough not having you to chat to.’
I nod. Lottie’s job as case manager for a charity dealing with displaced refugee children is emotionally as well as mentally demanding. It’s a wonder she can stay so upbeat with the amount of tragedy she has to absorb week in week out. I feel even worse now, imagining Lottie sitting alone in the flat with no one to talk to.
‘That’s why I’m so looking forward to Christmas,’ she says, taking a sip of wine. ‘I know it’s a couple of months away but you know how I like to plan. It’ll be heaven to just switch off for the holidays and be with my best friend, watching Love Actually and stuffing our faces. That reminds me, we’ll have to order the turkey well in advance. Remember how quickly they sold out last year. Will Georgie still be doing her Boxing Day lunch, do you think?’
‘Lottie, what I’m trying to tell you is –’ I begin, my stomach twisting. I’d forgotten about Christmas and how Lottie starts planning it as soon as the clocks go back. Now I feel even worse. ‘Well, it’s just that, like I said, Connor and I were talking and we feel like we’re ready to take the next step.’
Lottie looks at me, her smile fading.
‘Which is why … which is why I’m going to have to give my notice on the flat,’ I say, forcing the words out. ‘I’m so sorry to have to do this, and I will stay until you find a new flatmate. I’ll help you find one. There’s a lovely woman called Claire who’s just started at Luna. She’s moved down from Newcastle and is really sweet and –’
‘Hold on,’ says Lottie, visibly shaken. ‘Can you slow down, please. Have I got this right? You’re telling me you’re moving out?’
‘Yes,’ I say, my cheeks burning, as always happens in stressful situations. ‘I … I love him, Lottie. I want to be with him.’
‘This all feels really rushed,’ she says. ‘I mean, we’ve only just renewed our lease. You could have said then that you were planning this.’
‘That was six months ago, Lottie,’ I say. ‘I hadn’t even met Connor at that point.’
‘But you hardly know him,’ says Lottie, raising her voice. ‘Like you said, you only met him a few months ago.’
‘It feels right,’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘I can’t explain … it’s just, well, I love him and I want to be with him.’
‘You see him all the time,’ she says, her eyes blazing. ‘Why do something as extreme as move in with him?’
‘Lottie, I thought you’d understand. I thought you’d be happy for me,’ I say, feeling increasingly on edge. ‘I don’t know why you’re being like this. It’s not like I’m ending our friendship or anything.’
‘It just feels wrong that we’ve lived together for years and you’re abandoning me for someone you’ve known for five minutes,’ she says, shaking her head.
‘It’s not like that,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Things are serious with Connor and we want to build a life together. I’m thirty-two years old, for God’s sake. I can’t put my life on hold so I can carry on having girlie sleepovers with you. We’re not students any more, Lottie.’
‘I’m aware of that, thanks, Vanessa,’ she says, her voice hardening. ‘I think my fifty-hour working week and pension scheme will attest to that, you patronizing cow.’
‘Oh great, we’re resorting to cheap insults,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘It’s crazy that you’re making me feel guilty for wanting to move on.’
‘Move on?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘With some dickhead you’ve only just met.’
‘Dickhead?’ I cry, my voice cracking with upset. ‘How dare you? Who the hell do you think you are? Just because you can’t find anyone to put up with your childish crap, you want to make sure no one else finds happiness either.’
I know by the darkened expression on Lottie’s face that I’ve crossed a line.
‘Childish crap?’ she cries, jumping up so forcefully her phone clatters to the floor. ‘Do you know something, Vanessa? There have been times over the years when I have been dog tired after a gruelling week at work, dealing with kids who’ve seen their parents die in front of them, and I’ve come home to find you sobbing about some bloke, or something Georgie has said or done that you didn’t like, or the fact it’s your mum’s birthday, and I have sat and listened and poured wine and been there for you. How’s that for childish crap? And I’ve done that because I was brought up to never let friends down.’
‘Oh, Lottie, don’t be so dramatic,’ I cry as she rushes into her bedroom and returns wearing her heavy wool coat. ‘You know how much I value our friendship and I always will, it’s just that Connor and I –’
‘Come first,’ she snaps as she hurries down the stairs. ‘I get that. Though it’ll be a different story when you’re crying your eyes out over him in a couple of weeks. Anyway, forget it. It doesn’t matter. I’m going out.’
‘You can’t go out, you’ve got wet hair. You’ll freeze,’ I say, following her down the stairs, but as we reach the door the bell rings and, with a heavy heart, I remember the takeaway.
Lottie opens the door to a skinny, bearded Deliveroo cyclist holding a bag of delicious-smelling Chinese food.
‘Lottie, wait,’ I say as she squeezes past the man. ‘At least let’s eat and talk about this.’
‘Forget it,’ she says, turning back to me with a wounded expression. ‘Why don’t you take it to Connor’s? In fact, why don’t you just move in with him tonight? And I don’t need your help finding anyone to live here either. I can look after myself.’
7. Now
Bains turns the page of his notes, centres them, then looks up at me with an unblinking stare.
‘So, would you like to tell me about Jackie Dawkins?’
Memories of that evening blindside me. Connor’s mother screaming. I just wanted it to stop. I look at Frank Solomon, beside me. He shakes his head.
‘Okay,’ says Bains. ‘Maybe I can fill you in.’
He looks down at his notes and starts to read.
‘The attack on Mrs Dawkins came right in the middle of your viewing spree, didn’t it?’
He looks up at me, waiting for a response. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I look at my hands. My nail polish is chipped and has left a red crescent moon on my thumbnail. I stare at it as Bains continues.
‘You were still viewing houses you couldn’t afford,’ he says, his flat, northern vowels digging into my skull. ‘You were angry, full of frustration. I’m right, aren’t I?’
I scratch at the red crescent moon until it starts to disappear, leaving a pink stain on the nail. I don’t want to hear what Bains is about to say. I want to block him out, but I can’t.
‘You walked in that day and found Jackie Dawkins at the flat. She was there to comfort her son, your ex-partner, Connor, because he was at the end of his tether.’
I dig my nails into my palms, willing myself not to respond, not to lose my temper.
‘He’d had weeks of erratic behaviour from you,’ continues Bains, slamming his hand down on the desk. ‘Going AWOL, drinking heavily, causing arguments, losing your temper. He was trapped in a toxic, abusive relationship and he had no one to turn to but his mother. But Jackie wasn’t scared of you. She confronted you about your behaviour. Asked you why you were treating her son so badly, and you, Vanessa, you snapped, didn’t you?’
I shake my head.
‘You didn’t like being told a few home truths,’ he says. ‘Particularly from a woman so close to Connor. Because Connor was your property, wasn’t he? You wanted him all to yourself, didn’t you? That’s what you used to tell him, “You’re mine.” And here was Jackie Dawkins getting in the way of that. You didn’t like that, did you?’
‘He’s twisting my words,’ I say, unable to hold back any longer. ‘He’s doing this on purpose. To get me back for ending the relationship.’
‘Oh, you ended the relationship?’ says Bains, a sly smirk creeping across his face. ‘Well, that was very decent of you. Not many men would stand by their girlfriend after she attacked their mother.’
‘I didn’t attack her,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘She was … she …’
It’s no use. I can’t do it. I can’t tell Bains the truth.
‘You were angry at Jackie for interfering,’ he says, his eyes narrowing. ‘And you launched a disgusting attack on her, a defenceless, middle-aged woman, which resulted in an injury to her face.’
‘That is not true,’ I cry. ‘It wasn’t like that. Connor is lying. He’s twisting it.’
‘Did you or did you not hit Jackie Dawkins, causing a bleed to her face?’ says Bains, leaning forward so far that I can smell the stale coffee on his breath. ‘Tell me.’
I nod my head.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘You attacked your boyfriend’s mother because you didn’t like what she was saying. Did you also lose your rag when Geoffrey Rivers said something you didn’t like? Maybe he sussed you out like Ros Coverley did. Maybe he was about to report you and you got angry and –’
‘DS Bains, my client does not have to answer this line of questioning.’
The sound of Frank Solomon’s voice makes me start.
‘She is here voluntarily,’ he continues. ‘And regarding the case of Mrs Dawkins, I understand the assault was not reported to the police. I can’t see how an unreported and therefore alleged domestic matter can have anything to do with the Rivers case.’
‘Unreported, yes,’ replies Bains, his eyes still fixed on me. ‘But Miss Adams has just admitted to the incident, so not alleged.’
‘DS Bains, you have to charge my client with an offence or let her go,’ says Frank Solomon, his voice rising passionately as though he had spent the entire interview biding his time, waiting for his chance to silence this man.
I wait for Bains to reply, watch as he consults his notes. Beside me, Frank Solomon shuffles in his seat. Outside, a car door slams and the noise brings a memory hurtling back: his body hitting the ground with a thud, his blood on my hands.
‘Miss Adams, I will ask you once again,’ says Bains, placing the papers into a neat pile. ‘What happened that afternoon at Holly Maze House?’
I look up at him but it’s not Bains’s face I see, it’s Geoffrey’s. Purple, bloated, eyes wide open. Dead.
I sit at the wood-panelled breakfast bar and watch as you take the white sliced loaf out of the wooden bread bin and put two slices into the toaster. It’s a white
toaster with orange flowers on the side. Rather old-fashioned for 1996 but it had belonged to Gran and you kept it because it has sentimental value. You never throw things away, do you, Mum? Dad says you’re a hoarder but I think you just like holding on to things that have a story to tell. You wink at me as you go to the fridge and take out a carton of orange juice – the one with bits – and a jar of strawberry jam. Toast with jam and a glass of juice. I’ve been having that for breakfast since I was a toddler.
‘ Ooh, listen to this,’ you say, putting the plate of toast down in front of me. ‘He’s interviewing a children’s author.’
I take a bite of toast. You lean across the breakfast bar and turn the radio up then we sit and listen to a man with a soft West Country accent describing the latest book he’s written.
‘ These stories,’ he says, his voice soothing and hypnotic, ‘were written for any child who has ever felt out of place. Who has ever stood on the edge of the fairground, looked at the dazzling lights and felt themselves unworthy of it all. For any child who has ever worried about not fitting in, my stories are a reminder that there are other worlds, other lives, other dimensions, beyond this one. And it is there, in those magical spaces, that you will find wonders beyond your imagination; that you will find yourself.’
‘Well, that sounds right up your street,’ you say, smiling. ‘And what a lovely voice he’s got too. Listen.’
I do listen. It is impossible not to. It’s as though this man has reached inside my head, taken all fears and insecurities, and thrown them aside: ‘There are other worlds, other lives.’
‘ Catch his name, Nessa,’ you say, scrambling for a pen and paper. ‘I’ll pop into town later and get you that book.’
The Perfect Life Page 5
