by Adele Parks
‘Oh. Why did you say that?’
‘Because I’d mentioned that I went to yours at seven and that we had a drink. I shouldn’t really have driven home when I did.’
No, she shouldn’t have. She should have stayed and they could have talked about Steph’s fears that Julian was having an affair. The opportunity to do so had obviously vanished for ever because clearly Steph had no intention of discussing it while he lay comatose. Which was understandable, Pip supposed. Imagine if he could hear them! Imagine if he couldn’t. Pip just wanted to make Steph feel better, even in the smallest way she could.
‘Well, it was just a glass of champagne. Not a binge session. I think it would have been OK to say you drove home at seven thirty.’
‘Oh, probably, yes,’ said Steph quickly. ‘Even so, I was worried that they’d be funny about it. We drank the champagne out of a wine glass and those glasses are really a unit and a half. I couldn’t remember all the rules about how much you’re supposed to have drunk before you can drive. I thought if I added a couple of hours on then it would be OK, as my body would then have had time to digest the alcohol.’
‘I see.’ Pip mentally shrugged. God, Steph was such a worrier. Getting ticked off for drinking and driving was the last thing that would have been on Pip’s mind if she’d ever had to face the same set of circumstances. Her best friend was astonishing.
‘You understand,’ said Steph.
‘Yes, I do.’ Pip zipped up her jacket, squeezed Julian’s lifeless hand and then headed to the door. At the door she turned to her friend. Something was nagging her like an out-of-reach itch in the middle of her back or a damned fruit fly hanging around the grapes. The idea, only half formed, still fuzzy, would not be ignored. Pip knew she was being crazy but she had to ask. ‘But you went straight home, right, Steph?’
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Stephanie without taking her eyes off her husband. ‘Straight home.’
32
Steph breathed an enormous sigh of relief when Pip left the room. She hated lying to Pip and asking Pip to lie on her behalf. But what else could she do? Oh dear God, what could she do?
It was very unfortunate for Steph that she’d been born into the sort of family who firmly believed in God as a scary being, someone or something to be very, very afraid of. A being that might generously give with one hand but could just as swiftly take away with the other. A being that punished a woman for being tempted by a man who was not her husband. Her God was not interested in extenuating circumstances such as her husband nailing another woman. Her God demanded an eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.
An accident. It was an accident.
For the first time in her life, Steph envied Pip her lack of faith. Pip didn’t believe in God at all but if she did, she’d probably believe in a hippy, female God who was known for bestowing beatific smiles and having endless reserves of forgiveness which she not only flung around like confetti but which she stored in designer handbags.
Oh, the guilt. The guilt and the fear. Stephanie was practically paralysed with both emotions. Her mind kept returning to last night and the guilt and fear were overwhelming. All-consuming. She could not think about it. No, she could not. She must not. If she did she might vomit. Best to keep busy. Best to nurse her husband. Best to be a good wife.
Steph leant close into her husband and then whispered in his ear, ‘Get better, get better, please.’ She sat back on her chair and then, unbidden, the thought of one of the rude texts she’d read on his phone leapt into her mind. She leaned forward again and added, ‘You bastard.’
33
Pip practically ran down the corridor, away from the sickroom; she was keen to exit the hospital as quickly as possible. She was wearing high-heeled boots and the sound of her scurrying away reverberated through the wards. It wasn’t noble of her, she knew as much. Yet, irrationally, knowing that she was behaving poorly made her keener still to put distance between herself and Steph’s tragedy.
Pip was viciously disappointed with herself. She’d occasionally fantasised about being just the sort of person who would be good in a crisis, empathetic, patient and practical. She knew this was slightly twisted but she’d even, once or twice, thought she’d actually like something to go wrong for Steph so that she could step up to the plate and show Steph just how useful she could be. Horrible thing to admit, really, but Steph had been a rock to her throughout her terrible break-up and last night, after the initial shock and disbelief regarding Julian’s affair, a teeny tiny part of Pip thought that maybe some good could come out of Steph’s awful situation. Perhaps she could talk Steph off the ledge, stay calm and convince her that there had been a hideous mix-up, or at least she could buy the tissues to mop up the tears when they both accepted the painful truth. Yes, Pip had always been certain that she’d be empathetic, patient and practical if ever Stephanie needed her. But a coma? A coma was too big.
Pip was terrified and overwhelmed and as such she was incapable of thinking straight, never her forte. She was being totally illogical. It was not logical to think her best friend was behaving weirdly just because she had lied to the police about the small matter of when she left Pip’s house. So what? Pip had lied to the police on a quite a few occasions. She always claimed not to have been aware that she was speeding or that she was parked in a residents-only bay (not that it did her any good, her driver’s licence had more points than her supermarket loyalty card). The odd lie to a person in authority was not a big deal. Pip had lied to teachers when, on a bright day, she fancied a trip to the seaside and wanted to take Chloe out of school (although whether Miss Fletcher really thought Chloe was susceptible to throat infections or not was debatable). She lied on her CV about the glaring gaps between employment (again, not especially effectively, as most potential employees were alert to the failings of a candidate who had more breaks in their career than the four-finger Kit-Kat bar).
It was just that Stephanie didn’t lie. Not to ticket officers, or teachers or anyone. Why would she lie to the police?
Pip shook her head and took deep gulps of the spring air in order to clear her foggy mind. She was being stupid, probably because her conscience was inflamed. She should have sat all evening and all night with Steph, she should have held her hand and whispered in a soft voice that everything was going to be all right but she simply could not make herself do it. Julian’s inert state frightened her. The smell of disinfectant and sickness that oozed throughout the hospital was too much for her. Was everything going to be all right?
Pip was desperate to feel life, to touch life. She needed to be out in the open, to allow the freshness of the spring breeze to wash over her body and run through her hair. This situation was unprecedented and far, far too big for her to cope with in any other way than bite-size pieces. Her selfishness appalled her but it was unavoidable. Pip ran out of the hospital and towards the bus stop in too much of a hurry to notice anyone else. She slapped bang into him.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she muttered without looking up to see who she was apologising to.
‘Not at all, my fault,’ he replied automatically and then he recognised the thick, blonde hair and long thin limbs that were flailing around hazardously. ‘Hey.’ He threw out a big grin. ‘Pippa.’
‘Robbie? Bloody hell, what are the chances?’
‘Well, quite high. I work here and you so obviously are stalking me. Couldn’t keep away from me, hey? God, I must be good.’ He delivered his line with a huge beam, but Pip was embarrassed, guilty and worried so she wasn’t in the mood for his jovial cracks.
‘I’m visiting a friend, actually. He’s in a coma,’ she said starkly.
‘Shit. Sorry, Pippa.’ Robbie looked instantly stricken, it was a difficult statement to recover from. He fingered his stubble and looked mortified. ‘Oh, Pippa. Wow. I am so sorry.’
The coma stunt was low. It was an effective conversation-stopper but did she really want to stop the conversation? No, she wanted his attention. Besides, it was wrong to elici
t sympathy when she hadn’t even managed to sit with Julian and keep Steph company for so much as an entire afternoon. Pip regretted being so brutal and tried to make up by giving a bit more detail.
‘Yeah, I’m sorry too. It’s Julian, Steph’s husband.’
‘Steph’s husband? The adulterer?’
Maybe she had given too much detail already. Last night she had been unable to resist telling Robbie all about Steph’s predicament, but now it seemed extremely grubby to hear Julian branded as something so low, especially when he was in such a desperate position. ‘We don’t know he’s an adulterer for sure,’ said Pip weakly.
‘Come on, Pippa. Were you born yesterday? The phone message from the hotel, the cheeky texts. It’s an open and shut case.’
‘He was found at the hotel,’ admitted Pip.
‘Was it a heart attack?’
Clearly Robbie’s mind was now full of images of Julian in full bondage gear tied to the bed with a buxom woman astride him, shagging him to death. Pip felt protective and snapped, ‘It was a hit-and-run, actually. He was found in the car park.’
‘Shit.’ Robbie looked stunned. He blurted the first thought in his head. ‘Did your friend Steph do it?’
‘For God’s sake!’ Pip glared at him. ‘Why would you say a thing like that?’
‘Sorry, sorry. Stupid thing to say. Bloody stupid of me.’ Robbie held up his hands as though he was surrendering under fire. ‘It’s just that it usually is the spouse who’s culpable if there’s any sort of out-of-the-ordinary violence. Statistics show that. And what with her just discovering that he had a mistress.’
‘Shut up, Robbie.’
‘Right.’ He clamped his mouth shut.
The thought was too ridiculous. Too shocking. She had to put the idea right out of her head. No one who knew Stephanie could ever have articulated such a wild fantasy. Was he joking? Well, it was a stupid, sick joke. Ridiculous.
Robbie and Pip silently stared at their feet. He was wearing scruffy Converse trainers which made his feet look very long indeed. Pip suddenly had a flashback to their night together. Once again colour rushed to her cheeks. That was so inappropriate of her! But it wasn’t her fault, it was a subconscious connection. It wasn’t even a scientific rule – big feet did not necessarily mean that a man was well-endowed, although it did in this case. Even so, being well-endowed did not guarantee a good performance in the sack, although – again – it did in this case. If only his brain was as big as his dick, thought Pip very crossly and somewhat unfairly, as she dragged her eyes up from the ground in order to glare at him. How could he have said something so awful about Steph? He met her gaze.
‘I’m really sorry, Pippa. That was an unbelievably stupid thing for me to say. Of course I’m not suggesting that your friend is capable of anything like attempted murder. Hell, things are bad enough without that sort of idea being mooted.’
‘Yes, yes they are,’ snarled Pip.
‘The problem is I say stupid things when I’m nervous,’ he confessed.
‘You’re nervous?’
‘Massively.’
‘Because you think my friend is a killer?’
‘No, because you’re so great and I don’t want to mess this up.’ He dragged his fingers through his longish hair and looked around the hospital car park.
‘Really?’ Pip felt a warm glow in the pit of her belly.
‘Yeah, really. I know you can’t tell. Saying your best mate is the prime suspect in her husband’s hit-and-run is probably not a great way to show you that I don’t want to mess this up.’
‘No, I mean the other bit. You really think I’m great?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he stated plainly.
‘That’s nice to know.’ Pip breathed out, calmly accepting the compliment. The words settled in her head and she felt a rare rush of confidence. She looked at her watch. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m not ducking out on you. It’s just that—’
‘This is a bad time,’ he suggested.
‘Very bad,’ she confirmed.
‘Can I help you? Can I drive you somewhere?’
Pip hesitated, it would be much quicker to accept a lift than to travel by bus and there was a huge queue snaking from the taxi rank, she’d have to wait an age for a cab. ‘I do need to get to Steph’s as soon as possible but I won’t be much company,’ she warned.
‘We don’t have to talk. Hell, it might be a way forwards.’
‘Yes, it might,’ she said and she allowed herself a brief grin.
‘Let me help you,’ he urged. The request was made with such rare sincerity that Pip felt temporarily at a loss. She understood that she was being presented with a singular opportunity. It was as though he was tempting her to collapse into a big fluffy cloud, a cloud that would carry her along and protect her. ‘I want to help and I can,’ he added.
She believed him and she thought that maybe he was talking about offering more help than just a lift. It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t considered. It was a belief, or maybe not even that, maybe just a hope. Whatever it was, Pip knew Robbie Donaldson was a big deal. It was undeniable that he’d come along at a uniquely inconvenient time, it was hideously confusing to feel so excited and optimistic about one thing while feeling utterly gutted about another. The contradiction was exhausting.
Yet . . .
She nodded. She thought that perhaps she did need help. Oddly, knowing she was going to get it made her feel considerably stronger.
34
Kirsten had once watched a TV programme about people being hypnotised so that they’d give up fags or stop pigging out. It was nothing to do with dangling fob watches; it was just a case of replacing negative thoughts with positive suggestions. It didn’t sound too difficult, it had to be worth a shot. All day Kirsten had repeated the same mantra, ‘This is not my fault. Not my fault. Not my fault. None of this is my fault.’ The hypno guy on the TV had said it could take a few days for your negative subconscious to accept the positive suggestions that you were repeating but that it always worked. If that was right then she reckoned that by Friday night she might really believe that none of this was her fault.
At first, she hadn’t thought she had it in her to get out of bed and go into work this morning, not after what she’d been through – what she’d seen – it was a big ask. But some sort of survival instinct told her she had to, if she was absent she’d have explaining to do. A doctor’s note or something might have to be dredged up and while she was certain she could convince a doctor to give her a sick note (she looked like shit after spending half the night in the bath and she’d probably caught her death of cold) all in all it was probably not a good idea to draw attention to herself right now. She could have justifiably had the day off, it wouldn’t be pulling a sickie because she had actually felt very sick on the journey into work but all the same it was probably best to carry on as normal. Not my fault. Not my fault. The thing that was bothering her was that she’d known that there would be an announcement about Jules’s death and she wasn’t sure how she ought to react.
She thought of herself as a pretty good actress. She’d wanted to be an actress at one point, when she was a kid. She’d gone to drama classes on Saturday mornings for a few months. She’d been quite into it until she’d overheard some bitch of a teacher talking to one of the other kid’s mums. The teacher had said that while Kirsten’s acting was OK, she was really heavy on her feet and she couldn’t sing a note. The teacher said she wasn’t ‘drama school material’. Kirsten thought that the bitch of a teacher was probably just jealous because she was far prettier than the teacher had ever been and the teacher was an old hag now. It was all over for her and she was doing nothing more fabulous with her life than teaching a bunch of bratty schoolkids how to project to the back of the town hall. Still, Kirsten had packed in the drama lessons after that as she hadn’t wanted to line the old bag’s pockets. There was nothing they could teach her anyhow, she was a natural. She could make herself cry if she needed to (which came in h
andy as a teenager when guilt-tripping Daddy over how much he worked and how little she saw of him, just a couple of tears and he’d always bung her twenty quid) and hadn’t she always managed to convince really boring blokes they were way more interesting than they could possibly hope to be? Plus, she’d never in her life had an orgasm but every man she’d ever been with thought they were super studs and that she came every time because she’d watched enough porn to know what was expected. If that wasn’t natural talent, she didn’t know what was. Kirsten hadn’t gone in for acting in the end. She still secretly thought that maybe, one day, she’d be walking down the street and some talent agent might spot her, which would be cool. But she wasn’t stupid, she knew that it could take years and years and years before you made it big time if you went to drama school and auditioned for poxy parts at poxy local theatres and all that, and Kirsten was in too much of a hurry to be rich to take years and years building a career.
So how should she react to news of Jules’s death? She’d practised her surprised look in the bathroom mirror before she set off to work. Plus, her horrified one. Which would be the most appropriate? Would people expect her to be more surprised or horrified? She’d have to see how the other PAs acted and just do whatever they did. No one knew she had been Jules’s lover and therefore they wouldn’t expect her to act any differently from anyone else, looking heartbroken would be an unnecessary shade to her performance. She was genuinely interested to see how everyone would react. Jules was really popular in the office. Had been, she corrected herself, it was odd getting used to the fact he’d gone. Not my fault. Not my fault. None of this is my fault. His fault. His wife’s fault. Not my fault. She was sure everyone would be very sad. Thinking about it now, it was a bit of a shame she’d never confided her affair to anyone. From time to time she had considered telling Ellie, who sat at the desk next to hers, and if she had told Ellie, then Ellie would certainly have made a special fuss of her at a time like this. She’d have made the tea all day, instead of them having to take turns like usual, and she’d have answered Kirsten’s phones too probably – that sort of thing – because she’d have known Kirsten was gutted.