‘But this is outrageous!’
Miss Brightwell squeezes my elbow. ‘I’ll discuss this with my client and see if something can be done about the timing. However, thanks to the lamentable lapse in confidentiality in your station, I will need to escort my client out of a side entrance.’
‘I hope you aren’t blaming me for that?’ asks Randall. ‘Your client has frequently appeared on television. Anyone could’ve recognised him coming in here and worked out what he was doing.’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday, inspector. You are putting unfair pressure on my client, hoping he’ll crack. The problem for you is that he is innocent and you have put yourself at risk of a claim for damages.’
I think I’m a little in love with Miss Brightwell. I almost break into a cheer.
Randall backs down. ‘I have done no such thing. However, my officer will show you another exit.’
Arriving home, I discover the press are also camped out on my doorstep. I should’ve anticipated this. I am forced to make my way through them, head down.
‘Dr Harrison, is it true you’re involved in the murder of Jacob West – as a suspect?’ shouts one reporter.
I can hear the cameras ticking away like a swarm of deathwatch beetles. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, so I lift my chin. ‘No comment. If you will excuse me.’ Crush them with politeness. I still want a television career once this is all over.
‘Michael!’
‘Dr Harrison!’
I let myself in and breathe a sigh of relief as the front door closes on the racket. The alarm is buzzing so I stir myself to punch in the code. It makes me think of Jacob West invading my house. The place now feels unclean. I go upstairs and get a shock when I enter my bedroom. Of course, the mattress. Had Lizzy been forced to fight her way through the press to get it delivered? What had the press made of that? They’ll spin any little thing into a story.
I go to the phone and find the answer machine flashing. I rarely use this number any more so hit playback with some trepidation.
‘Michael, it’s Jamie Newton from the principal’s office at Royal Holloway. Can you give me a call? We’re trying to put together a statement on the situation for the press.’ He reels off his number.
I write it down but don’t feel like embarking on that just yet.
The second message is from one of my colleagues – my head of department, Gerhart Junker. ‘Hey, Michael, I’m hearing strange things about you. Had the police asking about our interviewees. Give us a call when you can so we can work out how to handle it.’ His thoughts are entirely on damage limitation. To be fair, I’d be doing the same were the positions reversed.
The doorbell goes. I assume it is a ballsy member of the press, so I ignore it. I take down the rest of the messages, a variety of shocked colleagues and one from the organiser of the Washington conference, who must’ve been very on the ball to pick up the news on the gossip channels, as they have only just started their day in America. I can’t face any of that now. I ring Lizzy.
‘Michael! Oh my God, I’m so relieved. What’s going on?’
‘Long story.’
‘I’ll come over.’
‘I’m afraid the press are camped outside.’
‘Don’t worry, I know a way.’
‘It’s not necessary.’
‘Don’t be silly. You need a hug.’ And she puts the phone down on me. I had called to tell her to keep away, not invite her in. I want to brood.
A minute later I hear a rapping at the back door. I go to open it and find Lizzy standing there looking mightily pleased with herself. She brushes off her hands.
‘See, told you I had a way.’
‘You climbed over the garden fences?’ That meant trespassing in two other gardens.
‘I did. Don’t worry – no one saw me.’
I step back so she can come in. She’s wearing a backpack, which she slings on the kitchen table and starts to empty.
‘I made you some supper. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten?’
‘No, but I don’t feel hungry.’
‘You need to keep your strength up. And I’ve baked a cake.’
I want to shout in her face to get the hell out. The impulse is so close, I know I have to get away from her before I do something disgraceful. ‘Thanks. I’ll just go and have a bath. It’s been a long day.’
‘Good idea. Do you want me to find some scented candles? Jessica liked that kind of thing, didn’t she? I can probably put my hands on some for you.’
‘No candles. Just a bath.’ I hurry upstairs before she can wind me up a further notch. A loss of temper with the tabloid press on my doorstep is the last thing I need right now.
Lying in the bath, I decide to ignore Randall’s request and message Jessica on my tablet. No harm in rebuilding as many bridges there as possible, as I don’t need someone willing to trash me to the press running around London right now.
I’ve heard about West. I apologise for doubting you but he tried hard to hide his tracks so you can see how it appeared. You were taken in by a conman but it was my fault he targeted you as he bore me a longstanding grudge. Do you want to meet to talk things over?
I press ‘send’ and wait for a reply until the bathwater goes cold.
Chapter 28
Jessica, 17th August
I’ve discovered the petty joy of withholding communication. Before, in every relationship, including the one with Michael, I would always leap on texts and emails and fire back answers with the trigger-finger rapidity of a first-response unit called to an emergency. Yes, let’s meet for dinner. Of course I’ll pick up your dry cleaning. No, I haven’t forgotten we had plans for Saturday. It’s fine, don’t worry if you can’t make it after all. All those little pats and strokes to their egos, giving the (correct) impression that I was hanging on their every word. I’ve seen other women friends do it, texting after the one-night stand rather than waiting to see if the guy got in touch first, losing the chance to be the one playing hard to get, which would probably double their allure. So few of us manage dignity in our relationships.
Consider my surprise, then, when I did not immediately grab Michael’s olive branch. I resisted impulse. I let it sit on the phone screen, the last in the chain of our messages. When I scrolled back through them I saw the record of a devolving relationship, his texts getting increasingly curt and annoyed with me, mine morphing from what I thought was amusing banter into abject pleas. I would’ve deleted the entire history but it appears the police might now need it for their enquiries. At least I had a win to end on, proof I’ve finally got a hold of myself and resisted the send button.
Last night on the London news I saw a segment on the Jacob West enquiry. They must be making Michael’s life hell, photographing him so he looks like the serial killer everyone is whispering he is – hair blowing in the wind, eyes wild or half closed, the least flattering shot possible. He’ll hate that. The police are still looking hard at Michael and the press knew this from the start, thanks to some loudmouth in reception. My money is on the sour receptionist. For lack of real evidence and Michael’s uncharacteristic decision to keep out of the limelight, the media have gone after his family, friends and colleagues. His parents are fortunately out of reach in their retirement in a farmhouse in France with no wi-fi. I’m quite fond of them so I hope they are wandering their paths edged with lavender and olive trees, blissfully beyond the reach of the scandal. Michael’s snobbish sister, Harriet, has appeared once, ‘doorstepped’ in Hampstead, I think they call it. She told them the allegations were rubbish and that her brother was the kindest man alive – this juxtaposed to one of the unflattering photographs. This endorsement is rich coming from her, as I know that they only see each other at annual family get-togethers convened by their uncle, the tedious retired judge in Hampshire. He gathers them at Christmas like a shepherd rounding up the sheep for a headcount and to see if any have dropped off a cliff over the summer on the hills. I wonder if she has actually contacted her broth
er to offer any sympathy? Michael’s colleagues have all said anodyne comments about him being a valued colleague, the kind of lukewarm endorsement the prime minister gives someone just before they are reshuffled out of the cabinet. Even Charles wasn’t as fulsome as I expected, claiming medical confidentiality as a reason for not talking about his friend. Since when has he been treating Michael? As for Michael’s public appearances, these have been cancelled, including that one in Washington that he had been banging on about for months.
I can’t feel sorry for him.
I won’t feel sorry for him.
Now he knows what it is like to be me, floundering under a set of circumstances presented so as to make you look as ugly as possible.
The only two people who came out with anything approaching a warm defence of him were Lizzy and Mrs Jessop from next door. Lizzy told the press that Michael was a thoughtful and gentle man, a widower who wished to keep his personal life private, as was his right. There was no way he was involved in any act of violence. Mrs Jessop hobbled out on her walker and shouted at them that they should stop taking all the parking spots in the street and go and report on some real crimes for once.
I liked the bit about parking spaces, and so did the news crew, as it gave the scandal a domestic level that viewers could grasp. Murder is beyond most of us, but the frustration of not being able to park outside your own front door is right up there with potholes on urban agendas.
Drew came in from work at the tail end of the report. We have not been talking much. I know I am in the doghouse – I have spent most of my adult life there – but I thought he wouldn’t hold out on me this long.
‘They haven’t dropped this yet?’ he asked, going to the freezer to see what we could have for supper.
‘Not yet.’
‘It’s not your fault. You did the right thing taking the laptop to the police.’ He thought I was worrying about landing Michael in it – far from it. I was privately quite enjoying my ex’s dilemma, and there was the issue of whether Jacob had stumbled on something with his suspicions. Michael might not be deserving of anyone’s sympathy; he might be guilty of something. I still can’t quite resolve what, as there seems to be a lot of smoke and little or no fire so far. The press have been ringing me to ask for my side of the story. I have to admit, their money for dishing the dirt is a terrible temptation. I’ve already probably blabbed too much to one of them who had a nice manner.
‘I’m not blaming myself,’ I said quietly. I was feeling a bit spaced out, as I’ve started taking Valium to help with my anxiety. Drew’s GP was very understanding when I explained the circumstances. Was I slurring my words? I know that Drew wouldn’t approve of my pill-popping, with his clean-living ethos.
‘Good. I’ll nuke this red sauce if you cook the spaghetti.’
That was about the warmest of our recent conversations. We ate in silence with the TV taking the place of our voices and retired to separate rooms.
In the middle of this personal shit storm, I haven’t forgotten that I arranged to meet my mother for lunch. The only way I can survive that is by a little medical boost so, buzzing with uppers, I am the most hyper person on the Central line. I smile manically at the Korean tourists, and at a weary Afro-Caribbean lady with worn shoes and what look like painful bunions. I offer help to a father with a fractious child in a pushchair. He is struggling to get out over a wide gap between platform and train while balancing nappy bag and too much shopping on the back. I bounce determinedly up the stairs at Tottenham Court Road only half an hour late. That’s not bad for me. I’ve already told my mum to go ahead to the Greek restaurant she booked, so I find her sitting at a table in the window eating olives and looking quite anxious.
‘Darling!’ she cries on my arrival. ‘You look energised, despite everything.’
I’m pretty much out of my head but we hug and then I sit down in the chair opposite her and order a glass of tonic and lemon. The new Jessica is not going to drink alcohol in the day. The new Jessica is going to be slim, beautiful and sensible. Fuck the new Jessica. ‘Sorry, can I change that order, make it a G and T?’
‘Of course, madam.’ The server glides off to do waitery things at the bar.
‘Despite what, Mum? My life’s just tickety-boo. A real laugh a minute.’ God, get a hold on yourself, Jessica.
‘So you’re not cut up about breaking up with Michael, and finding a dead body, and him being a suspect in murder?’ She lays a hand over mine to stop its restless tapping.
The waiter, who is serving my drink, spills it on the cloth, overhearing this. ‘I’m so sorry. Let me get you another, miss.’
‘It’s only a little spillage. Leave it.’ I smile up at him. He looks rather startled to find me so sanguine in the face of death and backs away quickly.
‘You are far better off without Michael.’ Mum taps her glass to mine. ‘Let’s drink then: to happy endings.’
‘That’s not exactly appropriate, Mum, seeing about the body in the mix, but who cares?’ I echo her toast.
‘I remember how I felt after leaving your father. It was like the weight of the world had dropped off my shoulders.’
My father, that grumbling beast of a man in his lair. ‘Is he still alive, as far as you know?’ Fuck him.
‘How would I know, darling? All connections cut. If there’s anyone he’d get in touch with, it would be you.’
‘No, I divorced him too. Unparented him, I suppose is more accurate.’
‘I wondered if you’d ever get back in touch, but I think I’m pleased you didn’t. He wouldn’t understand you and I can’t imagine him being good for you.’
‘Neither can I, so I’m leaving well alone.’
‘So how is the new man? Drew? I imagine he would be a generous lover. He has the look.’
‘Mother, I am not talking about my sex life with you.’
‘I’m your mother – you can tell me anything.’
‘Not this. Besides, we’re not… it’s complicated.’ The window behind her is dissolving into diamonds. Christ, I’ve overdone the pills this time. It’s like being inside a kaleidoscope.
‘Darling…’
I grip the cold steel of a fork to anchor myself. ‘Did you talk to your mother about sex?’
She frowns. ‘You have a point. I don’t think my mother knew what it was. I must have been conceived by immaculate conception. I think she was too mortified to raise the subject with me. Fortunately, it was the Seventies and I don’t think I was a total failure between the sheets. I learnt quite a few things from magazines.’
‘Can we change the subject already?’ I gulp some water. No, actually, it was the gin and tonic. The buzz blurs a little.
My mum is frowning now. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t meant to pry, but I’ve always worried about you. You never had it easy and always kept the worst away from me, I suspect.’
She is right about that. ‘I made some bad choices growing up – I still make bad choices.’
‘But Drew is a good choice?’
‘I think so. But I’ve messed up already. I think he wants shot of me.’
‘Why do you think that? Has he told you to leave?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then don’t borrow trouble. I can see how Michael might not be able to live with you, but have you not asked whether it might not be his fault rather than yours? That some people can’t stand living in your light for too long?’
‘My light?’
‘You have a positive, sunny disposition. Old curmudgeons like Michael think they like it, but really they prefer to mope around in the shade where their imperfections aren’t exposed.’
This is unexpectedly deep from my mother. ‘How do you know this?’
‘It’s your father and me all over again. Why do you think I married him? He thought he liked what he saw and then he went off what I had to offer. That’s not my fault, is it? I didn’t change; he did.’
‘Actually, I think he was always a domineering bastard. If he pres
ented another side of himself to reel you in, it was only a disguise put on over his true nature.’
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t use that kind of language, even about your father. Maybe he was always domineering, but I was lonely with a young child to support, easily persuaded.’
The waiter returns with a selection of starters and pitta bread to dip.
‘Jessica, I’ve been saving up something until I saw you in person. I want to apologise.’ Mum isn’t eating, which isn’t like her.
‘What for?’
‘For not doing better by you when you were a teenager.’
‘What’s brought this on?’
‘I’m going to see a spiritual director and one of the steps is to make things right with those you have wronged.’
‘A what? Mum, you’re not getting caught up in something weird, are you?’ Any scam, any cult trawling for followers, and my impressionable mum is very likely to fall for it. Miriam says Mum gets drifts of charity requests, as she feels she has to give to everyone who writes to her with a sob story. ‘You haven’t given them any money, have you?’
‘I’ll have you know that it’s not weird! Her name is Dorothy and she comes highly recommended by my local vicar.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s all very normal these days. The church seems to take faith more seriously than it did when I was a girl, when it revolved around jumble sales and gossip.’
‘Well, I suppose that makes sense, as people don’t go for social reasons so much. If they just want to hang out with other people, they go running or cycling now on Sunday mornings – the new fanatics. Or have an allotment.’
Mum nods. She understands my thought processes so isn’t disturbed by my tangents. ‘Anyway, my spiritual director is a trained relationship counsellor and she’s helped me sort through some of my issues.’
‘Sounds like I could do with her.’
Mum takes me seriously. ‘Oh, do you want me to ask if she’s got a space? But she lives so far away. I could ask if she knows anyone closer.’
‘Mum, I was being flippant. But I’m pleased she’s helping you.’ And I’m far beyond the help of anyone recommended by a local vicar.
Don’t Trust Me Page 17
