About Last Night

by Adele Parks

  ‘What?’

  ‘At school, who did I tell that my father was a gambling addict? That we nearly lost our house because of it.’

  ‘Well, me.’

  ‘Just you.’ The shame and fear of scandal had almost crippled Steph and her mother at the time. Mrs Amstell was torn between standing by her man, who was desperate and out of control, or losing him and losing face. Those had been difficult times that even now Steph hated to revisit.

  ‘But he’s hasn’t been near a casino in twenty-two years, Steph.’

  Stephanie scowled briefly. Didn’t Pip get the point she was making? ‘And who knows that when I gave birth to Freddie that I cried for ten days because I couldn’t bond with him and I wanted a girl?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Just you. Not even Julian knows how badly I wanted my third son to be a girl. Who knows that when I cough I leak wee?’

  ‘OK, Stephanie, I get it. But it’s not on the same scale, is it?’

  Stephanie, eternally proper and gracious, thought that confessing to piddling was pretty major actually, but she didn’t say so.

  ‘I’m just trying to demonstrate to you that I would tell you if I could,’ whispered Steph.

  Pip sighed. She’d encountered her friend’s steely reserve before, she wasn’t hopeful that Steph would suddenly be worn down, relent and detail exactly where she was in those missing hours. What sort of trouble could she be in? Well, besides the obvious shedloads of trouble.

  ‘He’s going to be OK,’ said Steph as though it was as simple as her wanting it to be the case.

  ‘What if he’s not?’ asked Pip. ‘Last night you didn’t seem to think he would be and you said it was all your fault.’ Pip was really battling with her tears now. She felt like a child who had just discovered Father Christmas didn’t exist, he was just some fat shop employee who had no choice but to dress up in an itchy scarlet suit or else he’d be out of a job.

  ‘I was extremely tired and I wasn’t thinking straight. Besides, on some level, I think this is my fault,’ admitted Steph.

  ‘How?’ cried Pip in frustration. ‘What do you mean by that? What did you do? What do you know?’ Pip realised she had lost her battle not to blub. There was a fat tear rolling down her cheek, she carefully wiped it away but it was almost instantly replaced with another one, again forcing Pip’s hand to fly into action. It put Steph in mind of frantic windscreen wipers, dashing from left to right to clear the window so a driver could see properly.

  ‘It’s complicated.’ Steph locked her gaze on her friend’s and said, ‘Pip, I’m asking you to trust me. Do you trust me, Pip?’

  Pip wanted to. Stephanie was her oldest and best friend, but Steph wasn’t helping her here. Pip carefully stood up and backed away.

  ‘I need you to say that I was with you,’ added Steph.

  Pip looked out of the window at the hospital car park. Despite it being a bright spring day, everything looked dingy and bleak. She watched as visitors locked their car doors and then hurried to the reception, head down, dispirited. Litter was being buffeted across the concrete and Pip thought of the times she’d felt like a little scrap of litter, not much better than pummelled rubbish, and at moments like those it was always Steph who had buoyed her up and seen her through. Friendship was a form of mutual selflessness, an intricate and delicate exercise in give and take and trust-building, through which people who are not related become honorary family. Thirty years of their shared experiences, secrets and even expenses had led to an unconditional acceptance, allegiance and dependence. Pip knew that Steph, an only child, happily thought of her as the sibling she’d never had and while she herself did have a younger brother, she often said Steph was like a sister to her. And she meant it. Stephanie was her best friend, undoubtedly. She was her oldest friend. Thirty years meant something. It meant such a lot. How much? How much did she owe Steph?

  But then Pip had been Julian’s friend for twenty years. OK, so their friendship wasn’t as intense, a collection of jocular chats rather than a plethora of soul-sharing moments, but he’d always been patient and inclusive with her. God, she was so disappointed that he’d had an affair, sickened, disgusted. Devastated. But no matter what, he didn’t deserve to end up like this. In a coma. Lifeless. Finished?

  ‘Just tell me, Stephanie, that you didn’t do it. Just answer me straight out and I’ll believe you. No more will be said on the matter. Tell me it wasn’t you who ran Julian over.’

  Stephanie gazed at Pip and slowly and sadly said, ‘I’m your best friend, Pip, so I’m going to pretend you never said that. It’s idiotic that you’re asking me if I tried to kill my husband.’

  Pip sighed. Steph had avoided answering the question. Certain as she had always been that her friend wouldn’t lie to her she was now sure that Steph had driven the car that had ploughed into Julian.

  39

  ‘Mrs Foxton? Mrs Philippa Foxton?’

  ‘Ms, actually,’ said Pip.

  ‘I’m Sergeant Mary Jean Brown and this is my colleague Police Constable Terry Weybridge. I wonder if you’d mind answering a few questions.’

  ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said Pip as she held her flat door wide open. As soon as she’d uttered the words she deeply regretted them. They sounded ominous and weighty. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ she added more breezily.

  Yes, a cup of tea, brilliant idea, that would give her a few more minutes to order her thoughts; besides, she always made a cuppa for anyone who had to come into her home to do any sort of work, plumbers and decorators, etc. She found that the willingness of these guys to do a really good job could be influenced depending on whether or not she offered them a chocolate Hobnob. Such a small price compared to the call-out charge on a second plumber if the initial plumber felt disgruntled and chose to bodge it and leg it. Not that she’d had a decorator at this flat, she hadn’t had any spare cash and so she’d had to manage by herself, well, not really by herself. She’d had to manage with Steph’s help. Steph had arrived one Tuesday morning, armed with huge pots of buttercup-yellow paint, and she’d dragged Pip out of bed, insisting that they redecorate the sitting room. Pip had appreciated the gesture but she hated the colour. It had taken her until they were halfway through painting the biggest wall before she found the courage to admit as much. Stephanie had called her a ‘daft bat’ for not saying so earlier, if she wanted to say ‘pathetic bitch’ she resisted. They’d driven to Homebase and Pip chose a more sophisticated mauve. They ate their way through about a dozen packets of Hobnobs before they finished all the rooms.

  Pip might not have had any decorators in her flat but she had been visited by the guy who fixed her boiler, the guy who fixed her leaky shower and the guy she’d called when she thought all her sockets had blown up and they were left without electricity (although it turned out that they were without electricity because she’d forgotten to pay her bill and she’d been cut off).

  Pip wondered whether to offer the police chocolate Hobnobs or plain old Rich Tea. How good did she want them to be at their job?

  She could actually see her hand shaking as she handed over the mugs, so could the police; the policewoman hadn’t taken her eyes off Pip’s quivering hand (although the policeman was checking out far less worthy parts of her anatomy – it was a fact that her bum did look good in these jeans). Pip put the plate of biscuits on the table and told everyone to help themselves.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Sergeant Mary Jean Brown, with a brief but genuine smile of appreciation. ‘We probably won’t take up more than a couple of minutes of your time but I’m parched. We’ll be out of your way in a jiffy.’

  Pip hoped so.

  ‘She’s got a mouth made of asbestos, she drinks her tea scalding hot,’ added the policeman. Pip thought it was rather nice that they knew one another so well, in a job as tough as theirs it must be comforting to work in pairs. Steph liked her tea black although she still missed sugar (which she’d given up six years ago). There wasn’t another living sou
l that Pip knew as well as she knew Steph. Or, at least, that’s what she’d believed. ‘Are you some sort of dressmaker?’ asked the PC, nodding towards her sewing machine and the pile of fabric.

  ‘I make aprons, party bags and bunting, that sort of thing,’ replied Pip.

  The policeman shot her a questioning glance. He was questioning what the hell use was bunting in the twenty-first century; Pip thought he was concerned about whether she was ever paid cash in hand.

  ‘If I sell anything I keep all the receipts. I declare everything. I pay tax and I’m VAT registered.’ It was all true, Stephanie had insisted that Pip ran her business properly, even when the business was tiny. She’d said it was important that Pip took her own work seriously. Pip had been a bit fed up with Steph at the time, she’d been very aware of the immediate benefit of cash in hand, but she was glad she had followed Steph’s advice now. For all Pip knew, these cops might be snooping for their cousins at Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.

  The policeman smirked and nodded, practically reading Pip’s mind. ‘OK, let’s get down to it,’ he said, flipping open his notebook. The sergeant said nothing, she was hovering above the biscuit plate deciding between the Hobnob and the Rich Tea. ‘Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday evening?’

  ‘This Tuesday?’ asked Pip, which was a bit daft as he was unlikely to be talking about next Tuesday.

  ‘Yes, Tuesday the twenty-third of March.’

  ‘Here at home, with my daughter and Steph.’

  ‘Stephanie Blake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time was Mrs Blake with you?’

  ‘She came over at about six thirty, maybe seven. We had a glass of champers. We were celebrating my new job.’

  Pip could imagine exactly how the conversation might continue:

  ‘She stayed for a chat and then headed home at about eleven thirty, or no, thinking about it, it was probably closer to quarter to twelve. My boyfriend called round about then, I remember I was just seeing Steph out the door,’ Pip might add. She liked the idea of that extra little flourish – the bit about her boyfriend. She liked it for two reasons. One, she liked saying the word boyfriend (it had been a while!), and two, her story sounded more authentic by adding a little detail like that.

  ‘So your boyfriend saw Mrs Blake here at your place, at eleven thirty, he can confirm that?’ the policeman would ask.

  She was an idiot! What made her think adding that little flourish was a good idea? She could hardly ask Robbie to lie for Steph too. ‘Erm, no.’ She’d have to think quickly. ‘Steph had just driven off. They were a few minutes apart. Only five or ten minutes between them, at the most,’ she might garble. ‘And she only had one glass of champagne, I drank the rest of the bottle alone,’ Pip could add.

  The policeman and woman would exchange a glance. Pip would momentarily panic that perhaps they doubted her story or maybe they thought it was too rehearsed. She’d been continually running through the fake times in her head so that she didn’t slip up and drop Stephanie in it.

  ‘What time did Mrs Blake leave your house?’ asked the policeman. Pip jumped as she was brought back to the reality of here and now.

  ‘She didn’t stay long. Maybe half an hour. She left about seven thirty while I was putting my daughter to bed.’

  Sergeant Mary Jean Brown stopped thinking about dippy biscuits. She snapped her head round to face Pip. ‘You are quite certain of that?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Pip with a deep, regretful sigh. She wished it wasn’t the case. She wished she was unsure or at least that she had the cheek or guts to lie to the police but she hadn’t. The sergeant and the PC exchanged a glance. ‘And I know she’s told you she was with me. But she wasn’t. I was on the phone to my boyfriend from about nine thirty and he came over at eleven. You can check with him if you like. Or I suppose you could check my phone records, whatever it is that you do.’

  She wasn’t sure what they did but she was pretty certain it would be thorough and revealing, that’s why she’d had no choice. Funnily enough, saying the word boyfriend didn’t cause even the tiniest shard of excitement for her.

  ‘Did Mrs Blake tell you where she was going after she left you?’

  ‘No, she just rushed out,’ sighed Pip. She felt she was tying a noose, fastening it tightly around Steph’s neck. ‘But I can make a guess,’ she sighed.

  ‘What would you guess?’ asked the PC.

  ‘I imagine she went to see her husband at Highview Hotel.’ Pip thought she might choke on her own words.

  ‘She knew he was there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pip knew she was leading Stephanie to the position over the trap door.

  ‘Can you tell me what sort of frame of mind she was in when she left your flat?’ asked Sergeant Brown.

  ‘She was upset,’ admitted Pip, reaching for the lever that opened the trap door.

  ‘Why was she upset?’ probed the policewoman.

  ‘Because she’d just discovered her husband was having an affair,’ said Pip, pulling the lever. She’d left Steph dangling.

  ‘Bingo!’ said the PC excitedly, as he leapt from his chair and started to walk purposefully out of the kitchen and into the hall.

  Sergeant Mary Jean Brown rose from the table with no outward sign of excitement. Her eager PC had been insisting that there was something shifty about Mrs Blake since they first called on her yesterday morning to tell her the news about her husband being involved in a hit-and-run. ‘She’s hiding something!’ he’d crowed, time after time. Mary Jean had thought that Mrs Blake wasn’t so much hiding something as hiding from something. She was probably hiding from the fact that her husband had been regularly visiting a very smart hotel, with a very young girl, for months – according to the hotel staff. She wished PC Weybridge had been wrong (not least because he’d now be insufferable) because if Mrs Blake knew about her husband’s affair, there was motive for the crime and, as she’d lied about her alibi, it now appeared she had opportunity. Sergeant Brown felt for the kids.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Ms Foxton. We’ll see ourselves out.’

  Pip nodded and then her head sank to the dining-room table. She wondered how she’d ever lift it again.

  40

  Not my fault. Not my fault. Not my fault. None of this is my fault.

  This morning Kirsten had woken up expecting to feel much better. She thought that by now her brain would be quite some way to accepting the positive suggestions of the mantra and she’d be free to think about the entire incident in an altogether different light. The hypno guy on the TV programme had said that success was guaranteed but he’d admitted that the timing was variable. A lot depended on how determined you were and how often you reinforced the suggestive message. Kirsten had thought she’d be fine by now because she was very strong-willed but she still felt awful on Thursday morning when she heard there had been no change.

  People in the office kept saying that his chances of ever coming round were reduced significantly the longer he stayed in a coma, these first few days were vitally important. That pissed Kirsten off a bit, actually, the way people spread that sort of stuff (always in hushed whispers, always with a fake look of concern). Were they doctors? No. They were bankers and they didn’t know anything much. It just made them feel important repeating that doom and gloom stuff. Well, it might make them feel important but it made her feel awful. It wasn’t her fault but she did have a heart and it wasn’t nice thinking about Jules lying in hospital and being in pain. Although did people in comas feel pain? She wasn’t sure. Probably not and even if they did, the doctors would give him loads of great drugs to help with that. Lucky sod, she could do with some drugs to take her out of her head right now!

  As she’d been especially efficient yesterday, she found she didn’t have anything to keep her busy. Well, except for that self-assessment PowerPoint presentation course that HR kept asking her to complete but she couldn’t be arsed to do that. She called HR and explained that everyone in her dep
artment was really traumatised, her included. ‘I wouldn’t get a representative score today.’

  Kirsten tried to tune out from all the gossip about Jules. She logged on to Asos.com with the idea of buying some new shoes but no matter how awesome the courts, flats or heels were, for the first time in her life, internet shopping couldn’t hold her attention.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about Julian Blake. Any news?’ The question startled her and she jumped about a foot in the air. Kirsten looked up and was surprised to see Jake Mason leaning over her desk. She quickly clicked back to her work emails. They may have gone to uni together but he was management and she was a PA, there was a divide, a them and us, and while she didn’t expect him to dob her in for internet shopping, she didn’t completely rule out the idea either.

  ‘How would I know? I just know what everyone else knows,’ she snapped abruptly.

  It wasn’t that she wanted to be especially narky with Jake (although she was never especially nice to him because she did hate hot guys thinking she liked them, they were arrogant enough without her fanning their egos, plus she was still a bit pissed off that he’d never again suggested they grab a sandwich) but, besides all that, the thing was, she was feeling really edgy today and probably couldn’t have rustled up her usual flirtatious manner even if she’d wanted to. ‘He’s not my boss. I’m not his PA, Rosie O’Grady is,’ she added.

  Jake raised an eyebrow a fraction and then leant over her computer screen and said quietly, ‘Really? I thought you were a family friend or something. I thought maybe your dad knew him.’

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘Well, just,’ Jake paused, ‘something and nothing.’ He stared right at her. He had big blue eyes that were framed by the longest lashes, lashes that actually curled up at the end. They were beautiful.