by B. A. Paris
He ducks his head. “Something like that.”
“And they don’t know about me.”
“I’m sorry.”
I throw him a look of disgust. “It’s bad enough that you lie about yourself. But that you lie about other people—you should be back in therapy, Leo, you still need help.” I pause. “Are you going to stay here, in The Circle?”
He takes a glass from the cupboard and I move from the sink so that he can get to the tap. “Yes. I told you, I love this house, despite its history,” he says, his back to me.
“I was wondering—I know it’s your house, but would you let me stay here a couple more weeks? I’d like a bit of time to get used to the idea of going back to Harlestone.”
He takes a drink of water, then turns to face me. “I thought you’d be overjoyed to be going back.”
“No, not really. It feels like a failure, to be honest.”
“I’m going to be working in London from Monday. But don’t worry, I won’t get in your way.”
“I’d like two weeks on my own. Ginny says you can stay with her and Mark.”
I feel his eyes on me. “Why do you need two weeks on your own?”
“I told you, I need to get used to the idea that I’m going back to Harlestone.”
There’s a rattle as he places his glass in the sink. “So it’s not because you’re still trying to solve a murder that’s already been solved?”
“I’m not trying to solve it. But as I’ve already told you, I don’t believe that Oliver killed Nina.”
“Why are you so sure that he didn’t?” he asks, perplexed.
I look for something to tell him. “I read an article. Apparently, Oliver’s sister has always maintained his innocence.”
“Well, of course she’s going to say her brother is innocent! Are you telling me that because of an article you read in a newspaper, you’ve decided to go on a one-woman crusade to clear Oliver’s name? You should leave things alone, Alice.”
“So you think it’s all right that the real killer got away with it?”
He throws his hands up in exasperation. “We’re not going to get anywhere going backward and forward like this. You can have two weeks and then I want my house back.”
“Thank you,” I say. But he’s already gone.
PAST
She’s late. Again.
“How are you today?” she asks, once she’s sitting down.
I smile. “Aren’t I meant to ask you that?”
“Therapists are allowed to have off days too, aren’t they?”
The fact that she’s relaxed enough to joke with me is pleasing. Could it mean that she’s finally going to tell me what I’ve been waiting to hear?
“No, I don’t think they are,” I say.
She laughs.
“Shall we begin?” I pull my pad toward me. “Over the last few sessions, we’ve been exploring the reasons for your unhappiness. You’ve told me about your childhood, your teenage years, your experiences in the world of work and we came to the conclusion that all those were mostly positive experiences. I think now we need to focus on when you first began to think about yourself as unhappy.”
A small frown creases her brow.
“If you remember, during our last session, we touched on your marriage as a possible source of your unhappiness,” I prompt.
“The thing is, I don’t think I am.”
“Sorry?”
“Unhappy.”
I turn my head toward the window, giving her time to reflect on what she’s just said. Through the slats in the blinds, I can see brightly lit garlands strung across the street outside.
“I mean, how can I be?” she goes on. “I’m married to the most amazing man who would do anything for me, who gives me everything I want. That’s what attracted me to him in the first place—that, and the fact that he was different from the men back home. He’s a real gentleman.” She laughs nervously. “I know that sounds old-fashioned but it’s true.”
I turn my attention back to her and smile. “There’s nothing wrong with old-fashioned.”
“I think what I’ve been feeling is guilt. Guilt that I have so much. That’s what has been making me unhappy, not Pierre. I love him.” She pauses. “You know that quote by Henry David Thoreau, about happiness being elusive?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think it’s true?”
“I think it’s worth careful analysis.”
“Then maybe I need to turn my attention to other things.”
“That’s probably a very good idea.”
“The only thing is, I’m not sure where to begin.” She looks across at me. “I wish I didn’t feel so anxious about everything.”
I put my pen down, close my pad. “Do you remember that during our first session, we spoke about relaxation therapy?”
“Yes. It sounds amazing.”
I stand up. “Why don’t we make a start?”
THIRTY-THREE
Debbie calls me the next morning.
“How are you?”
I don’t have to pretend with Debbie. “Miserable. It’s over between me and Leo.”
“I’m so sorry, Ali.”
“The worst thing is, nobody is going to understand why I left him. As Ginny pointed out, it’s not as if he murdered someone. Everyone will think I’ve left him because he spent time in prison—which it is. But not in the way that they think.”
“Does Leo understand?”
“I’m not sure that he does. After everything I told him, I don’t think he really gets it. But you do, don’t you, Debbie? You know why I can’t be with him now.”
“Yes,” she says softly. “But, you know, if you want people to understand, you could tell them. You could explain why you feel as you do.”
“I can’t,” I say, my voice tight. “I’d rather they think I’m unforgiving.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“Short-term, Leo is letting me have the house for the next two weeks but long-term, I’m not sure. Could I come and stay with you for a bit? I’m not going to be able to get my cottage back until February so I’ll have to find another solution until then.”
“You can stay with me for as long as you like, you know that. We’re hardly going to get in each other’s way here. You can have the two bedrooms at the back of the house, make one into a temporary study, and in return, you can come for a ride with me each day, on Bonnie. How does that sound?”
Sudden tears fill my eyes. “Idyllic,” I mumble.
“It’s going to be all right,” she says.
“I hope so.”
“What are you doing today?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure where to begin. I feel a bit lost.”
“Then why don’t you take the day off, give yourself a break? I’m sure there’s plenty to do in London. You’re not going to be there much longer, you should do some sightseeing.”
“You know, that’s a great idea,” I say, feeling brighter.
We chat for a while longer. Debbie suggests that I only take what I need from the house and arrange with Leo to leave behind my personal pieces of furniture—my desk, the dressing table which belonged to my mother, my sister’s bookshelf and chest of drawers, my dad’s chair—until I can move back to my cottage.
“Or, if he doesn’t agree, you can store them in one of the barns,” she says.
“I’m sure it will be fine. I don’t want to leave Leo on bad terms, I’ll still want to know how he is, how he’s doing.” I think for a moment. “I know I said I’d be down in two weeks, but if I decide to leave before, would that be OK?”
“You can arrive tomorrow as far as I’m concerned,” Debbie says cheerfully. “Today, even.”
“Thanks, Debbie, what would I do without you?”
We hang up and I decide to do as she suggested. I make a list of the places I really want to see before I go back to Harlestone and start with the Victoria and Albert Museum. Just sitting on the tube
surrounded by people getting on with their everyday lives makes me realize, once again, how claustrophobic living in The Circle can be for people like me, who don’t have to leave it every day to go to work. For those who do, coming home at the end of the day must feel like entering a haven of calm and privilege, an oasis in the midst of a teeming, bustling city.
I force myself not to think of Leo, not to think of anything except having a nice day out. On the way home, I bump into Eve.
“Hi, Alice!” she calls. She nods at the various bags I’m carrying. “What have you been up to?”
“I took the day off and went to the Victoria and Albert, it was amazing. And then I looked around the shops in South Kensington, treated myself to a couple of things, then went to a café and watched the world go by.”
“It sounds perfect.”
“I’m going to do some more sightseeing this weekend. The Tate Britain tomorrow, and if I’ve got time, I’ll take the riverboat to the Tate Modern. I’ve reserved Sunday for Kensington Palace, with a walk around Hyde Park afterward.”
“They’ve got a gorgeous tearoom there, in the Orangery. You should treat yourself.”
“Good idea—why don’t you join me?” I say, because I’m not going to be seeing her for much longer. “My treat for being such a lovely neighbor.” I don’t want to tell her that I’m leaving The Circle, because she would ask why and I haven’t worked out what I’m going to say yet.
“I’d love that, especially as Will has rehearsals all weekend,” she says.
“Great! Shall we meet there at 3 p.m.?”
“I think we might need to reserve. Would you like me to do it?”
“Yes, please.”
* * *
The next evening, Thomas calls.
“I hope you don’t mind me disturbing you at the weekend; I wanted to see how you are.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say, touched that he’s called. “Well, not fine exactly because I’m still coming to terms with Leo not being the person he said he was. I’m trying to take my mind off it by exploring London.”
“That sounds like a great idea. Where have you been?”
I tell him about my trips to the Victoria and Albert and the two Tate museums. “Tomorrow I’m going to Kensington Palace and for a walk in Hyde Park. What about you? Have you had a good weekend so far?”
“Yes, I have my son here. My ex-wife and I have Louis alternate weekends. I took him to Harry Potter World today, which exhausted me far more than it exhausted him.”
I laugh. “Hopefully you’ll have a quieter day tomorrow.”
“I hope so. We’ll probably end up going to kick a ball in the park.”
“That still sounds energetic. Actually, I’m glad you called because there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. When you turned up on the doorstep the other day, was it only to ask if I’d received a letter from Helen? I mean, you could just have called.”
“You’re right, I could have. But when we spoke the week before, you hung up rather abruptly and I didn’t know if I’d upset you in some way, or if what we’d been talking about had upset you. It played on my mind, so when Helen told me she’d written to you, I felt I had an excuse to call round and check that everything was all right.”
“It wasn’t you,” I say. “I can’t remember what we were talking about but it definitely wasn’t anything you said that upset me.”
“We were talking about your neighbor and wondering if there was someone who hadn’t liked you asking her about Nina.”
“Oh, yes.” I pause, remembering it was the thought that Tamsin might have been listening at Lorna’s that day. “I still don’t know what to think. I can’t believe she was worried about Edward hearing what she was saying, and the other suspect I had—well, I’ve dismissed her now. But I’m certain there are secrets here in The Circle.”
“I’m sure there are.”
Thinking of Tamsin has made me remember something that I’ve been meaning to ask Thomas. “Tamsin mentioned something the other day. Apparently, after Nina was killed, she cut her hair and she wondered if subconsciously, she was worried that if the killer had a fetish about long hair, he might come after her next. Do you think he did? Have a fetish, I mean?”
“It could be that. Or it could be symbolic. Throughout history, cutting off a woman’s hair was often used as punishment for those thought to be immoral, as a shaming tactic. During World War Two, in France, it was the fate of many of the women who slept with Germans. They were seen as collaborators.”
“So, if Nina’s murderer thought she was immoral because she was having an affair, surely that points the finger at Oliver?”
“Or someone who wanted to have an affair with her and was jealous that she was having an affair with someone else. Or someone who was judging her for having an affair.” There’s a pause. “Sorry, Alice, Louis is waiting for me to read him a bedtime story. I’d better go.”
“Of course.”
I hang up, smiling at an image of him reading a story to his son. Louis. It’s a nice name.
THIRTY-FOUR
It’s raining the next day, so instead of going for a walk in Hyde Park, I head to the British Library, where I wander around in awe at the magnitude of the place. When I come across a bank of computers, I remember my conversation with Thomas the previous day and type in “hair fetishism.” I read a few articles and then, on impulse, type in “hair fetishism in murders.” Several links come up, to articles that appeared in a variety of French newspapers and as I scan them quickly, I realize that they all are about the same murder, which took place in Paris. My French is quite good and, as I read the first article, my blood begins to run cold. The victim, a thirty-one-year-old woman called Marion Cartaux, had had her hair cut off before she was strangled.
I study the photos of her. Like Nina, she had long blond hair. I look at the date of the murder—11th December 2017, approximately fifteen months before Nina was murdered.
It doesn’t take me long to read everything I can find. I want to dig deeper but when I check the time, I’m already late for my appointment with Eve.
I hurry to the Orangery.
“Sorry I’m late,” I apologize, tucking my wet umbrella under the table and giving her a hug. “I went to the British Library and got carried away looking at all the beautiful first editions.”
“When I saw the rain, I thought you might change your plans.”
“This is lovely,” I say, looking around. “I’m glad you managed to get a table by the window.”
“I nearly didn’t get a table at all. Apparently, you have to book ages in advance. They’d just had a cancelation, so I was lucky.”
We order tea and while we’re waiting for it to arrive, Eve tells me that she couldn’t sleep last night and almost called me for a chat, because she saw my lights on.
“I actually slept well last night,” I say. “But there’ve been a few times when I thought there was someone in the house, and even though I know it’s just my imagination,” I add, because I’m not about to tell her that I believe in spirits, “I always leave the light on in the stairwell now.” She frowns, so I carry on guiltily, “I know I shouldn’t waste electricity but it makes me feel safer.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not why I’m frowning. It’s just that there were a couple of times when Nina thought there was someone in the house. But as it was always when Oliver was away, like you, she put it down to her imagination. It used to freak her out, though.”
My heart thumps. “When was this?”
“A few months before she died.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“No, because it was only you saying the same thing that made me remember. As it happened when Oliver wasn’t there, I thought the same as she did, that she was feeling vulnerable because she was alone in the house. I know if Will is away, I’m much more aware of noises in the house. Every creak could be a footstep on the stairs, that sort of thing.”
I sit back to let
the waiter place a stand of sandwiches, scones and cakes on the table, followed by two pots of tea. “What did Nina say, exactly?”
“Just that she would wake suddenly and think there was someone in the room. Then the feeling would disappear.”
I reach for one of the teapots and fill her cup, not wanting her to see how much her words have affected me. If Nina experienced the same thing as me, maybe it’s time to stop trying to convince myself that it’s her spirit I’ve been sensing—and face up to the horrible reality that someone really has been coming into the house at night.
* * *
I don’t say anything to Eve, but when I get home, I open my laptop and find a small boutique hotel not far from The Circle. I book myself in for four nights, then go upstairs to the bedroom where Leo and I used to sleep and begin filling a large canvas bag with a few basic necessities—pajamas, underwear, toiletries. I don’t like giving up but I can’t sleep in the house, not since my conversation with Eve. But if someone has been getting into the house, how have they been doing it? And why would they come back time and again and risk being seen? How do they manage to slip away undetected, without leaving the slightest trace of themselves? Whoever it is must have keys. As far as I know, only Leo and I have keys.
I open the wardrobe to get some jeans and T-shirts and give a sigh of exasperation. Once again, some of my shoes have been pushed to one side and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by memories of me and Nina playing hide and seek in the cottage in Harlestone. There were plenty of places to hide but Nina would always choose one of the wardrobes, knowing I’d be too scared to open the door in case she jumped out at me. Sometimes I’d get Dad to help and we’d creep quietly to the wardrobe where I thought Nina was hiding and, when I opened the door, he would roar and scrabble among the clothes like a tiger, giving her an even bigger fright than she would have given me. Sometimes we chose the wrong wardrobe and we’d all end up in fits of giggles.
I blink away the tears that happy memories of my family always bring. I miss Nina, I miss my parents, I miss all the things we were never able to do together. And then, as I stand there in front of the wardrobe, it hits me. Someone, at some point, has hidden inside it.