‘He’s missing out on nothing, trust me!’ she’d said.
I’d frowned, not understanding, and she’d laughed.
‘Oh Flora, you’re so innocent. This “business” trip he’s on?’
She used her index fingers to draw little quotation marks in the air as she said business, emphasizing the word.
‘What? You mean …?’
‘Yes, I mean. He’s been shagging one of his colleagues on and off for a while. Her name’s Mia. Sexy little blonde, or so he says!’
I’d felt my cheeks go hot suddenly, ripples of shock running through me.
‘How … how do you know?’
‘Greg told me. Greg Garrington? Millie’s dad. He and Rupert got pissed at that garden party thing in Montpellier Gardens a few weekends ago and he confessed all. Then I bumped into Greg one night when I was out with a couple of my neighbours and he spilled the beans – he’d had a few drinks; you know what he’s like when he’s drunk. It started a couple of months ago, June-ish I think. Rupert’s a little shit, isn’t he? Thea doesn’t know, though, and I’m not telling her, not yet anyway. I thought about it, don’t get me wrong. She’s my best friend, and I’m fucking furious that he’s treating her like this. And I’m not keeping quiet to protect him; he can burn in hell for all I care after what he’s been up to. But …’ She had paused, pushing another strand of hair back off her face. ‘I just don’t want to upset her. It would kill her, and she’s got enough on her plate with the kids and the business, and anyway Greg says he doesn’t think it’s serious, with this Mia piece. It’ll probably blow over. So keep your trap shut, OK?’
I’d nodded, too stunned to speak.
Now, I stared at Isla as she took a gulp of coffee and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, waiting for her to tell me more.
‘He’s gone away with her today, to meet her parents, somewhere up in Staffordshire. Taking advantage of a Saturday night without Nell, seeing as she’s on this sleepover. Thea doesn’t know he started seeing Mia while they were still together, though; he told me that today. He asked me not to say anything, then told me that actually he supposed it didn’t matter if I did, as he didn’t very much care what Thea thought anymore. I won’t though. Tell her, I mean. I decided not to back then, so what would be the point now? They’ve split up anyway and they’re hardly likely to get back together. What difference would it make, in the long-term, except hurt her even more?’
I nodded.
‘Yeah. No point.’
Isla sighed, running her hands through her hair, then sank her chin into her cupped hands, elbows on the table, and looked at me intently again. Outside the sun had come out, the kitchen suddenly brighter, and her eyes now seemed flecked with gold. She really was very beautiful, I thought. Thea was beautiful too, or had been before what happened had taken its toll. They must have been a formidable duo, those two, when they were out together, the tall, outgoing redhead and the stylish, sultry brunette with the killer cheekbones. Oh. Killer. No pun intended, I thought, then said out loud: ‘He’s happy then? With Mia?’
Isla nodded, chin still in her palm.
‘Seems to be. Which is good, I suppose. Not enough happiness around these days. You’ve got to take it where you can, haven’t you? And, as we both know, he hadn’t been happy with Thea for ages, had he? Before, I mean, not just after … after what happened. They’d had their moments before Zander was born, but after … well, he and Thea just went downhill, argued so much, all the time. You lived with them; I don’t need to tell you that.’
I nodded.
She sighed and carried on.
‘I mean, he never liked me that much, not in the beginning, but we rubbed along all right eventually, and maybe the man deserves a bit of happiness. What do you think, Flora?’
She stopped talking, her eyes fixed on mine.
‘Yes. He does, yes.’
My voice was little more than a whisper. Isla continued to stare at me.
‘Because, as we both know, Thea was no angel either, right? Even before she killed that poor baby.’
I swallowed, my mouth dry, my tongue rough against my teeth.
‘Right.’
Isla looked at me for a moment longer, then stood up abruptly, her chair legs scraping on the tiled floor.
‘I’d better go. Thanks for the coffee, and the chat. Nice to see you again, Flora.’
I showed her out, and as the door closed behind her, my knees suddenly felt weak. I sank down onto the cold floor of the hallway, my armpits damp, hands shaking, and took a deep breath. Shit. I shouldn’t have agreed to stay here today, I shouldn’t. Why hadn’t I told Annabelle I was busy, had plans? Seeing Isla had been a mistake, had brought everything flooding back, had cracked the fragile carapace of my happiness. No, Isla, Thea was no angel. She’d done something bad long before Zander died. But what did that matter, in the wake of what had happened? What did that matter now? Yes, Thea had her secrets. But then again, we all had secrets, didn’t we?
21
THEA
‘OUFF!’
I hauled another box down off the shelf, edged it along the floor with my foot until it rested against the others, then straightened up, breathing heavily. How could boxes of such small garments be so ridiculously heavy? That was the last one though, thank God.
I bent to pick up my bottle of water from the floor and took a long swig. I was feeling a little dehydrated today, and lugging boxes around in my warehouse wasn’t helping. Last night, alone at home, I’d succumbed to the wine bottle again, although not excessively, by recent standards. I’d finished one bottle, admittedly, but when I found myself walking to the fridge for a second, something had stopped me. Why cloud my mind, scramble my thoughts, when things were finally becoming clearer, when memories seemed to be finally resurfacing?
So, amazingly, miraculously, I’d put the kettle on instead, making myself a mint tea, and taking it to bed. The wine had done its job anyway, in the quantity I’d already drunk – just for a while, it had taken the edge off the stinging pain I’d begun to feel each time I thought about Rupert and Mia.
I’d thought I was OK, had quietly accepted it when Rupert had told me. But now I’d had time to process it a bit … Mia. I had no idea what she looked like, but in my head I was picturing Mia Farrow in her younger days, a gamine beauty with an elfin hairstyle and fine bone structure. Stupid, really – Rupert’s Mia could have been an Eskimo for all I knew.
I wondered how long he’d known her, how long they’d worked together, when they started to have feelings for each other. But really, what was the point of thinking about that, either? He and I were clearly over, and if he was able to find happiness, comfort, then I should be happy for him. I wasn’t there yet, of course … it would take time to adjust to this new state of affairs and, if I’d suddenly decided that drowning my feelings in alcohol was not the answer, then drowning them in work was the only other way I knew.
Hence, here I was, on a Saturday afternoon, sorting through boxes in my little warehouse on an industrial estate on the northern edge of Cheltenham, alone, pulling out looks for my next shoot and deciding what to order next. I was hoping to organize one more shoot and bring in a little more summer stock before the trial, even though I knew this would be construed by anyone watching me as grossly over-optimistic.
At my meeting with my solicitors this week I’d confirmed that I did want to continue to plead not guilty, meaning the trial would now definitely go ahead. It was a risk I had to take, and while there were no guarantees, certainly not in a case as high profile as mine, there was a chance, however small, that I’d be found innocent, Zander’s death ruled a tragic accident, and not manslaughter.
Even if I was found guilty, the sentence might not be a custodial one. I clung to these thoughts now as I worked, knowing that trying to stay positive was the only way to get through each day, that I couldn’t let myself dwell on the unthinkable alternatives. I simply had to carry on, despite everything.
I squatted down on the floor, a shaft of sunlight from the high windows of the warehouse lighting up the boxes in front of me, dust motes dancing in the air. Opening the box, I pulled out a tiny blue-green, Thai silk blouse, held it up and admired it for a moment, then dug back into the box again.
But as I sorted the clothing into sizes and colours on the big trestle table that ran along the side wall, laying the silk blouses out with little indigo jeans and washed denim skirts, arranging them into matching outfits, my mind began to wander again, the sunbeams warming the chill air around me, taking me back to another day, a day when the sun beat down and my life imploded.
I walked backwards and forwards between boxes and table, my footsteps gradually slowing, a strange calmness descending on me. And then, as if in a trance, I suddenly stopped moving, stood completely still, eyes closed, face tilted upwards to the soft yellow light streaming into the room, and there it was again, this time as if I was watching it on a cinema screen, in vivid, high definition, the colours brighter and clearer than ever. Me, climbing out of the passenger seat of the car, smiling, stumbling a little, wearing my long blue T-shirt dress, my strappy flats. Isla leaping from the driver’s seat, she and Nell rushing past me, shrieking, giggling.
‘I’m going first, out of my way!’ Nell yelled as she thundered up the path to the front door.
‘Noooo!’ Isla, hot on her heels, laughing as she ran. And me still standing there, leaning on the car for a moment, watching them, then turning to open the rear door, to take Zander from his car seat before I went inside too …
‘Oh my god!’
My eyes snapped open, and I was back in the warehouse, the pictures gone again as quickly as they had arrived. I ran my hands through my hair, my nails clawing at my scalp. What was going on in my head? Should I go and see Dr Evans, tell her about this? I’d skipped my appointment with her yesterday, telling the receptionist I had an important business meeting that couldn’t be rearranged, that I was fine, that I’d come back as usual next week, not wanting to see my GP just as I hadn’t wanted to see Isla this weekend, wanting to try to process all this in my own mind first.
Now, I wondered if I should have gone to see the doctor after all. I must be having some sort of breakdown. Why were these thoughts filling my head all of a sudden? Were any of them memories, or were they just fantasies, a vision of how I wanted the day to have happened? I mean, Isla couldn’t have been driving, could she? I still didn’t remember the journey home, but it was my car, she never drove it. Never had, not even once. Why would she start that day? Why would I let her? She’d been drinking as much as I had, hadn’t she? And if she had driven us home, she would have said, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t have let the police take my driving licence. She wouldn’t have let me think I’d driven home drunk, as well as what happened afterwards. Would she? Would she? Of course she wouldn’t.
And even if for some weird, inexplicable reason she did, what difference did it make anyway? What did it really matter who was driving, in the light of the biggest crime of that day? I was still in charge of Zander. I was his mother. It was still up to me to bring him inside. Isla and Nell were already indoors, racing to get to the bathroom …
I groaned, a sudden sense of panic gripping me, a chill running down my spine. I could see it now. I could feel it. Zander in my arms, my feet moving unsteadily up the path and through the open front door, the welcome cool of the hallway. And yet, these must be desperate longings, falsehoods created by a subconscious mind which could not accept the truth. Because if Isla did drive the car home, and I did take Zander inside, which was what my brain was now trying to convince me of, what did that mean?
I dropped to my knees on the hard, dusty floor, trying to think clearly. Trying to imagine, just for a minute, the implications if what was in my head was actually true, humouring myself. If my visions, my new memories, whatever they were, were real, and I’d arrived home in the passenger seat of my own car, then that would mean that Isla – and Nell? Nell too? – were both lying to me about who was driving that day. But what would be the point of that?
And if the next bit, the bit where I took Zander safely inside, was true, that would mean … what would that mean? That somebody had taken him back out to the car again without my knowledge, strapped him into his seat, and left him there to die? That’s where he was found; but that scenario was obviously ludicrous, impossible, for who would do that?
Nobody would. Everybody adored Zander – well, except maybe Isla, who didn’t particularly like anyone under the age of eighteen, but even so … it was like not liking mice, or dogs. You might not want one in your living room, but that didn’t mean you’d go out of your way to harm one. To kill one. It was insane to even think like this. Stop it, Thea. Get a grip. You’re losing your mind.
I stood up slowly, brushing the dust from my jeans, scooping another bundle of clothing from the nearest box, thinking of my brief phone conversation with Isla last night, when I told her I couldn’t see her this weekend. She said she understood, told me to get some rest, but I knew she was hurt, confused. Almost as compensation, to show her that I still needed her, valued her, I’d asked her if she could do me a favour instead, and take Nell to the Garringtons for her sleepover.
But for the first time ever, it was something I’d had to think hard about, the doubts at the back of my mind making me desperately uneasy, making me wonder if Nell would be OK, would be safe, with Isla.
Then I’d angrily pushed the apprehension away. Of course Nell would be all right. This was Isla. What was wrong with me? Suddenly, I ached to have my best friend here, to talk everything through with her; but at the same time I knew that taking a break from Isla this weekend had been the right decision, because how could I tell her what was going on, truly going on, in my head? How could I see her, while I was feeling so bewildered? I knew I needed to talk to somebody about all this, though, and soon, or my brain might actually explode. Maybe if I wrote it all down, made a list …
I deposited the armful of clothes on the table and whirled around, looking for my bag. Finding it dumped on the floor by the door, I rummaged through it, pulling out a notebook and pen, then dragged the mini-stepladder I used to access higher shelves over to the table and perched on the top step, using it as a makeshift stool.
Right, a list. Stay calm. Make a list, think about this logically. Who was there that day? Who was there when it happened, in the run-up to it happening? Me, obviously, and Isla. Nell, who’d been upstairs playing with Millie Garrington. Rupert, and then Greg Garrington, who’d dropped Millie off and then hung around, having a beer in the garden. And Flora, who’d been working, and then heard the commotion outside and gone running out …
That was it. Nobody else. I stopped scribbling and looked at the list of names. What was I doing? None of these people would hurt Zander, harm me, would they? These were the people I loved and trusted most in the world, the people I was closer to than anyone else. My family, my friends.
And yet, as I sat there, staring at my barely legible scrawl, I couldn’t quell a rising sense of fear inside me, a sudden feeling that I didn’t quite know what was real anymore. I sat there for a moment, staring at the notebook, then with one swift movement ripped the page out, scrunched it into a ball and threw it into my bag. It landed on top of my purse, balancing on it neatly, and I glared at it as if it had been a living creature which had just crawled there, uninvited.
I groaned and sank my head into my hands. I needed to stop this insanity. I did this, nobody else. I killed my child. It was me, of course it was me. Yes, it was an accident, but it was still me. It had to be. Because if it wasn’t, that would mean something unimaginable. It would mean that someone else did something too terrible to even contemplate. It would mean that if it wasn’t me, killing my baby by accident, then it was someone else, killing him deliberately. And that would mean that one of them – one of my friends, one of my family – was lying about what happened, about all of it. And everyone who was i
n the house that day, everyone who witnessed it, all said the same thing. So it would mean everybody was lying. And that just wasn’t possible, was it?
22
ANNABELLE
‘WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!’
A small boy, bright red in the face, thundered past, a slab of cake in one hand and, close behind him, a further five screeching boys followed suit, whooping and hollering as they all headed back into the main party room where a lively Doctor Who quiz game had just commenced.
I peeled myself off the wall I’d flattened myself against and went in search of Flora, who was in the kitchen brandishing a large knife, frowning at a semi-demolished, four-foot high Tardis.
‘Good grief. Sugar high or what?’ I said. ‘Does it taste OK, that Tardis cake? Looked a bit dry to me.’
She nodded, carefully putting the knife down on the table.
‘It’s all right, actually. Sort of chocolate-orange inside. There must be so much food colouring in all that blue icing, though. I don’t envy the parents this evening. Those kids will be wired till midnight.’
I smiled and sank down into the nearest chair.
‘Indeed. Tabitha told me to take some home if I wanted to, but I think I might accidentally forget.’
‘Good idea. And I’ll accidentally forget to remind you. Don’t think any of yours need it. OK, what else? Goody bags all ready to go?’
‘All ready. Sit down for a minute, take the weight off. They’ll be doing that quiz for a while now, we can take a break.’
‘OK. Just nipping to the loo then, back in a mo.’
Flora turned and skipped out of the room, and I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, rolling my head from side to side, trying to ease the tension in my neck. Flipping kids’ parties. It was bad enough doing them for my own brood, never mind other people’s, but it had been a quiet weekend, and this Sunday afternoon job had been easy money, just four hours’ work, close to home and not much to organize in advance other than the specialist entertainer, the themed goody bags and the food. The enormous cake had been delivered by the bakery, thank goodness … my estate car was roomy, but not that roomy.
Am I Guilty? Page 14