by Lodge, Gytha
And it was only after she’d let herself out that she started thinking of that figure again, and remembered a message from Damian, months before.
I’m at your house…
Eight months afterward
Maeve was early. Genuinely, properly early. The tables of Prosecco stood untouched on the grass, their white cloths flapping almost despondently in the breeze, and a waitress in black bow tie and waistcoat was crouched beside the table, shifting bottles around in an ice bucket.
She felt proud of herself for her punctuality. She’d done what Zoe would have done.
She unlooped her handbag from her shoulder and rooted her phone out, looking for a message from Angeline. She’d told Maeve a little earlier that she and Richie would be twenty-five minutes. She just needed to feed Monkfish and then leave, she’d said.
Zoe’s cat had been found at last by her next-door neighbor, and offered to Zoe’s parents. They had suggested asking one of the girls instead, and Maeve had been relieved when Angeline had accepted enthusiastically. She didn’t want that tie. With the year winding down, it seemed to Maeve that she needed to travel. Not to find herself, but to lose herself. To bury all of this in some unknown place and not dig it up again.
Angeline, it turned out, was still ten minutes away. Maeve was alone for a while.
She drifted to the table and picked up a glass, smiling gratefully before the waitress could complain that she shouldn’t take one yet, and then she turned to look over the new wing, wondering exactly how she should feel. It was certainly a lovely building, a white-stone glass-and-reflections creation that both matched and outshone the rest of the School of Art. Even the circular moated library, Maeve thought.
She was fiercely glad that it would bear Zoe’s name, but felt a burning sense of wrong that her friend had only ever seen it as a building site. She hadn’t lived long enough to see this finished creation, with its glinting glass and brilliant white stone; with its freshly laid turf and its deep-brown flower beds planted with peonies and roses that had yet to become tatty or overgrown. Nor the way her parents had stepped in to make up the shortfall after building costs ran too high.
Zoe could have been here in person instead of in memory, just one of the students come to watch the opening and to neck free Prosecco. It was the sort of event that would have suited her so well, with her warmth and her constant, infectious air of fun.
Maeve tried to swallow down the sense of unfairness with some of the Prosecco. As she lowered her glass, she saw that there were a few scattered others starting to arrive. A couple in what looked like wedding-guest outfits. A slouching shape in a dark jacket and shirt with no tie.
And then Maeve’s heart squeezed as she realized that the slouching figure was Victor. Victor, who hadn’t said a word to her in almost eight months. Victor, who had turned her away when she’d come to the café with Angeline in the strange days before the case had gone to trial.
The words were burned into her, as clear in her memory today as they had been then.
“Why are you here?” Victor had asked her. “There’s nothing for us to talk about. Without Zoe, there’s no reason for us to talk again.”
She remembered the awful, pulsing hurt that she’d felt. The humiliation. The stinging sense of unfairness. And instead of talking back to him like the Maeve of old, she’d been frozen there in total silence.
It had been Angeline who had stepped forward instead. Timid Angeline who had put an arm round Maeve, and told Victor that he was being an arsehole.
“I don’t care if you’re grieving,” Angeline had said. “You have no right to hurt her like that. She’s had enough shit to deal with. And personally I couldn’t care less whether you cut yourself off from everyone and drive yourself mad. You’re the only one that’s going to end up hurt.”
She’d led Maeve outside gently but determinedly, and rubbed her back when Maeve had started to sob. The first but by no means last time that Angeline had shown a strength Maeve had never even suspected that she had.
She looked at her phone again, and then flicked a glance across the grass, hoping to see Angeline and Richie. It was shameful, but Maeve didn’t want to have to face Victor alone.
She turned away from him and walked back toward the Prosecco table, draining her glass as she went so she could take another one.
She was still there, and halfway through another glass, when she heard his voice.
“Maeve,” he said from somewhere over her left shoulder. “I’m so sorry. What I said…it was bullshit. I was a—a horrible human being.”
She had to look at him then, and his expression was almost unrecognizable. There was a softness to it. An openness. As if the fury had somehow been washed out of him to leave someone else there.
She nodded. She knew she should say something. She wanted to tell him that she understood. She also wanted to tell him that she’d been through awful, awful things, too, and that it hadn’t been fair.
In the end, she gave a slightly crooked smile and said, “Yeah. You were. But why break the habit of a lifetime?”
* * *
—
SOME TWENTY MINUTES later, once Angeline and Richie had turned up and Angeline had scolded Victor and then forgiven him, and Maeve had tried not to cry as she’d hugged each of Zoe’s parents in turn, they were all called to watch as the Zoe Swardadine Building was officially opened. Siku had been asked to say a few words, and unlike every other speechmaker Maeve had ever known, she really did limit herself to a few.
“I’ve been so angry that Zoe won’t be here to see this,” she said, “and that she has missed out on so many things that should have been part of her life. But seeing you all here today, it’s…I realize that her life was a wonderful thing. So many of you were a part of it, and I want to thank you for every happy moment you all gave her. I’m proud to be here today.”
She joined her husband and together they cut through the large white ribbon that had been hitched across the door. Maeve clapped and watched the ribbon where it fell. She couldn’t help thinking that it looked like a bright, gleaming flow of paint.
This book is dedicated to two Pauls.
To Mr. Paul Brooke, passionate, inspirational teacher of English. You helped so many of your students to love books, and in so doing turned many of those into writers. Grazie.
And to Dr. Paul Worth, aka the Sexy Neurologist. I feel hugely thankful to have such a tirelessly supportive, smart, kind, and epically silly human being on my team. All my love and thanks.
The list of people a writer ends up indebted to is always larger than the writer had ever thought possible. I hope nobody who helped with all the twists and challenges of this book ends up slipping through the cracks.
First, thanks to all the wonderful reps at Penguin Random House who have worked tirelessly in support of my books. To say that She Lies in Wait would never have got anywhere without you is an understatement. You have made the dream of seeing my books on shelves come true, and it’s the best.
To Catherine Wood, Lucy Beresford-Knox, and the other amazing members of the international rights team at Penguin, who have brought my words to a frankly staggering number of different countries and into wonderful languages.
To the unbelievably patient Emma Caruso and her team of wonderful editors and proofreaders, who with their incredible eagle eyes have saved me from terrible things being in print forever by accident.
To Chris H., for being not only willing to answer but wonderfully supportive over my policing questions. (For any errors still in here, I apologize profusely. They’re definitely mine.)
To Katie Tull, Allyson Lord, and the wonderful publicity and marketing teams at Random House, who have not only shouted about my books but have made the most incredible reviews, exposure, and opportunities happen.
To the visionary, incisive, and incredibly supportive A
ndrea Walker. You’ve been just incredible throughout this whole process, and helped a lot of dreams to come true.
And to the adored Felicity Blunt, agent extraordinaire, official fairy godmother of my life, and absolute hoot. You’re at the root of every good decision, and every great step in this incredible process.
Finally, to Rufus, for all the fun, the distractions, the pick-me-up talks (mostly about Minecraft, but hey), and for being so enthusiastic about me reading to you. I’ll see about including more child-appropriate material in the next one.
CID: Criminal Investigation Department. CID sits within police headquarters, and is the home of most of the plainclothes detectives within a regional police force.
DC: Detective constable. A DC is the lowest rank of detective, but one who has already previously trained as a regular officer and been promoted to the rank of sergeant. They therefore have some experience of policing prior to working with CID, but in a detective team might expect to do most of the lower-level work, such as knocking on doors, flyering, and conducting initial interviews.
DS: Detective sergeant. A DS is the rank above a DC, and has authority over DCs. They take on more of an organizational role in most teams, and might deputize for a detective inspector if they work with one.
DI: Detective inspector. A DI is the next rank up from DS. Detective inspectors generally have the freedom to undertake investigations the way they see fit, and might oversee other members of a team, such as detective sergeants or detective constables.
DCI: Detective chief inspector. DCIs are senior officers who will generally lead high-profile investigations and will run a department or team. Their duties include liaising with other parts of the force.
DCS: Detective chief superintendent. A DCS is a very senior officer, and will lead multiple teams and areas of command. They also carry responsibility for strategy and/or policy, meaning that their junior officers will seek their advice when it comes to difficult decisions. A DCS can also do a great deal to smooth the way for other officers, and will be actively involved in high-profile investigations or critical incidents.
Station: The police headquarters as a whole. This can also refer to any individual, smaller base from which the police operate.
BY GYTHA LODGE
Watching from the Dark
She Lies in Wait
About the Author
GYTHA LODGE is the author of She Lies in Wait. She studied English at Cambridge University and received an MA in creative writing from the University of East Anglia.
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Twitter: @thegyth
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