by Jane Robins
The wedding march starts, and we stand and turn to look at the bride, and I’m confused by what I see. She’s beautiful, of course, wearing a simple white satin dress with long sleeves, and she has small white flowers in her hair; there’s a hint of A Midsummer Night’s Dream about her. My heart skips a beat at the sight of those long sleeves, covering up who-knows-what injuries to her arms; I am stung too by the sight of the man standing beside her, linking her arm, and I turn to Mum and say, “Did she tell you?” and she shakes her head. Liam Brookes is leading my sister up the aisle, with the hint of a smile, and there is something so comfortable and easy about the two of them, it seems like they are from the same family. He looks just the same as when I last saw him ten years ago, his long, honest face and relaxed way of walking. After he leaves Tilda facing Felix, ready to take her vows, he slips into our pew, beside me, and whispers, “Hello, Callie.”
“I didn’t know you and Tilda were still so close,” I whisper back.
So quietly I can barely hear him, he says, “I’ve always been her safety net. . . .”
As the service begins, I think, This is the moment, and she says, in a clear, confidant voice, “With this ring I thee wed.” I try to go along with the spirit of the day, ignoring the side of me that is scared, that is in free fall. I’ll put my sister’s wishes first. I think, I’ll be friendly to Felix, give him the benefit of the doubt. At least until I’ve stolen back the memory stick after the wedding. Tilda and Felix are off to Santorini for a week. It’s a Greek island apparently.
The vicar says, “I now declare you husband and wife,” so that’s it—there’s no going back—and I conquer my nausea and smile as Tilda and Felix walk away from the altar, amongst us, their eyes sparkling, Tilda laughing out loud with happiness, doing a tiny skip with her feet, Felix’s arm squeezing her tight. It’s just like any normal wedding. That is, until we leave the church and find three press photographers hanging about outside—two scruffy middle-aged men and a young woman looking cool in black jeans and black T-shirt. Felix says, “For fuck’s sake,” and Lucas dashes over and tells them to take a couple of pictures and “Please leave, guys. Allow Felix and Tilda to enjoy their day.” Nobody expects them to actually go, but they do, the young woman waving good-bye as she slings her camera over her shoulder and climbs into an old, open-top sports car. “Assholes,” says Lucas. “How did they know?”
“They always know.” I’m thinking about Wilf.
The reception is in a nearby country-house hotel, a gray stone Edwardian pile with vast bay windows and castellated walls, and freshly mown grass that stretches down to the Thames. The weather’s overcast and breezy, but fine, and champagne is served on the lawn. I take a glass and find myself in a small group with Mum, the Nordberg parents and two friends of Felix’s, expensive-looking men. They’re talking not about the wedding, or how gorgeous Tilda looks, but about the international debt crisis, and the European outlook. Felix’s friends are quizzing Erik, the eminent economist, while Alana smiles on softly, in a way that has obviously been honed and perfected over the years. Erik’s glass of champagne is in one hand, and he’s gesturing with it, with large swinging motions, as he pronounces on the failings of the Greek finance minister and the euro. His other hand is on the small of his wife’s back, one finger moving back and forth. I wonder whether this is the model for Felix and Tilda’s marriage, the one desired by Felix at least, because, despite her recent attempts at wifeyness, I can’t see Tilda being submissive in the long term. It’s not in her nature.
I slip away, unnoticed, and am ambushed by Paige Mooney, a gigantic vision in lime, tottering on silver sandals with a six-inch heel. Her toenails are painted green, neatly and professionally, but they belong to lumpy uneven toes that have grown at strange angles to each other.
She gives me a big damp kiss on one cheek. “Callie! You’re looking so lovely . . . so different!”
“Paige! You look just the same!” I don’t add, but even fatter. “How are the children?”
She tells me, at length, about Harrison, who’s ten now and has taken up drumming, and Edie, eight, who wants to be an actress like Auntie Tilda, and Frankie, five, who has learning difficulties but is doing brilliantly in his new school. She prattles on and on, explaining that Robbie was sad he couldn’t come to the wedding, but that it’s his sister’s thirtieth birthday today, and that she—Paige—was totally amazed that Tilda invited her to the wedding, but she was sad there were no bridesmaids, she would have loved to have been asked, and she was disappointed that she doesn’t see much of Tilda these days, and she is so very, very pleased that Tilda is settling down, she had wondered whether she was the type, “If you understand me . . .”
“Not sure. . . .”
She makes her voice go breathy and excited. “Well! I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d ended up with another girl. . . .”
I glare at her, and splutter, realizing that it’s this sort of nonsense that made Tilda drop Paige.
“What in hell’s name makes you think that?”
“Oh I don’t know.” She looks up at the sky, for inspiration. “Maybe just the way we used to be when we were in the Whisper Sisters, she was so touchy and strokey and kissy.”
“But she was in love with Liam back then.”
“I know! And he led her down the aisle too. What do you make of that? I thought—that just shows she wasn’t really in love with him, that it was all a show, or maybe she was in love with the idea of him—the heroic doctor and all that.”
“It was real, Paige. You should have seen her after she was dumped. She went into psychological meltdown.”
“Oh, I’m probably wrong—I usually am. Probably it was just us adoring her that I’m remembering.”
I can’t stand any more of her idiocy, and I make an excuse, saying I’m going to find Tilda now—but really I’m looking for Liam. There’s so much I want to ask him—how are his dreams working out? Does he like being a doctor? I look around, but I can’t see him amongst our group. I realize that I want him to be the person to tell me that Tilda is fine, that she’s made a good choice in Felix. The Liam I used to know had such good sense, good instincts. I think too that Tilda has probably confided in Liam, was straight in a way that she never is with me.
I spot him on the terrace, speaking to Tilda, and I’m struck once again by the way they seem so comfortable together. I go over, and Liam says, “I’m afraid I have to leave, Callie, but it was so good to see you. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”
“Liam has to work.”
“Do you work at a hospital? Is that why you have to work on a Saturday?”
“That’s right.” He kisses us both before leaving.
“My God, Tilda, I haven’t seen him in so long. Is he a surgeon or something?”
“He’s a psychiatrist.” She widens her eyes in a silent How about that!
“I would have loved to have talked to him.”
And that’s all I can think about for the rest of the day—at the dinner, and the dancing and the waving off of the bride and groom—I would love to talk to Liam Brookes.
25
Tilda and Felix are in Santorini and, for once, Tilda is in touch, sending me texts that read Blissfully, contentedly chilling, or F made us walk four miles today, to the lagoon. She even emailed a photo—Felix and her sitting on the side of a turquoise infinity pool, their legs dangling in the water, a yellow shawl draped over Tilda’s arms, her head resting on Felix’s chest; it’s a position that, for me, represents her submission, her unnatural placidity. Behind the happy couple, everything is beautiful; the cloudless sky, the azure blue of the Aegean Sea.
The picture should look serene, but I find it unsettling; maybe that’s because, all the time now, Scarlet is bombarding me with horror stories: Grace and William Starling are found dead in their £3 million Surrey home; police are not looking for anyone else in connection with the case. I stare at a photograph of their wedding day. Can you tell that something’s wrong? Grace looks in
to the camera lens, her eyes soft, her cheeks dimpled, and handsome William gazes at her—a gentle conscientious lover’s gaze. Nothing to suggest the cocktail of hurt and resentment and suspicion that leads to a killing. Three days later and Jordan Freeman sends his nineteen-year-old girlfriend, Kelly Wallis, a text: luv u babe and this is my promise—I aint going to hit u ever again. were the best babe. But that night he breaks into Kelly’s family home and strangles her with a length of wire cable. Two days after that Darren Lott texts his twenty-two-year-old girlfriend Samantha McFadden explaining that he’s going to Scotland for the weekend, but he never leaves Liverpool. Instead, on Saturday evening he waits outside Samantha’s flat until she leaves for work at a local bar, and he stabs her seventeen times before dragging her body into the boot of his car and driving off. It’s practically every day, an endless catalog of women killed by men they know.
I’m in the bookshop, reading up on all this, when the news comes in that, in York, Chloey Percival has died. For some reason I’d thought she would pull through, and even become a spokeswoman against domestic violence. But now I’m heavy inside, thinking that her death, after all, came with a sickening inevitability, and I feel brought down by the constant litany of hate—by Chloey’s death and Belle’s death. I switch off my laptop—I can’t bear to read all the venom and outrage that will be on Controlling Men.
At the other end of the shop Daphne, who is back from Denmark, is sprawled at her desk, and she calls across the empty space: “So I went on an internet date last night, nice guy—had a beard though, sixtyish, shortish, and he did all the talking, bit intense, but keen . . .”
“What does he do, like for a job?” I’m doing my best to sound interested.
“He went on and on about it. Works in marketing at a pharmaceutical company . . .”
“With a beard?”
“I know. . . . But, get this, he had read two of my books in preparation for the date . . . and had googled me in massive detail, looking up stuff about Saskatchewan.”
“Be careful, he might be obsessive. Men like that can be dangerous.”
“Callie, stop worrying. You mustn’t let your friend’s death make you paranoid. Most people are decent and good, you know . . . the bad apples are rare exceptions. It’s important to trust people, otherwise you turn cynical and unhappy.”
“Daphne! You need to listen to me . . . I know more about this than you do!”
Then, I can’t help it, I start to cry—large, heavy tears like raindrops sliding down my cheek, my nose running, my shoulders heaving, and I can’t stop. Daphne sprints over, saying, “Sweetness, sweetness—what is it? What’s the matter? Here, let me find some tissues.”
“Oh God,” I sniffle. “I’m so worried about Tilda, now that she’s married. I was starting to feel better, but it’s all building up again.” That’s all I can get out, because I’m wheezing and panting, as the tears start to dry up.
“Come on . . .” Daphne puts her arm round me, cleaving me to her puny chest. “It’s understandable that you’re like this. Losing Belle was a major trauma. . . . You’re grieving.”
At that moment, Wilf walks past the shop. Straight past, not pausing, not coming in—and he’s deep in conversation with Amy Fishwick, the girl who left Willesden Estates. I notice for the first time that she has long blond hair extensions, and is unusually pretty. It takes all my resolve not to cry again, but I don’t—I tell Daphne that I’ll be fine now.
At home, in the evening, I’m drawn back to Controlling Men, and find that Scarlet has linked me into the details of dozens more female deaths, this time from around the world: America, Australia, Brazil, South Africa, Italy, France . . . I shut my laptop forcefully, pour myself a large glass of Strongbow, and lie on my bed, thinking about Tilda and about the memory stick. I need to look at it again, urgently, before Tilda and Felix return.
26
I’m back at the desolate, sanitized flat on Curzon Street, heading straight for the linen cupboard, extracting the little red ingot. Before I examine its contents, though, I tour the flat—checking the medicine cupboard, inspecting Felix’s boxed-up shirts, marveling at the cling-filmed crockery. But there’s nothing to arouse my interest apart from a pile of papers on a table. I’m shocked—I thought Felix never left papers lying around. I sift them, finding an invitation to an art exhibition on Dover Street, another to a drinks party in Pimlico. Also, the paperwork for a conference called New York or London? It will last two days, apparently, and take place at the Ashleigh House Hotel near Marlow in Buckinghamshire. I see that Felix has registered as a delegate, and I find myself noting down the name of the hotel and dates of the conference in the dossier. Then I insert the memory stick into my laptop, and scroll down. As I’d hoped, there’s new material. Tilda has updated her letter:
Now we’re about to be married there’s a change in Felix. I’m sensing a shift away from passion towards violence for its own sake and—I admit it, Callie—I’m less turned on by his behavior and more scared.
I wonder whether you noticed anything that time that Lucas came round for supper, a few days before the wedding. It was unbearable for Felix to listen to Lucas boasting about the French house he’s designed because, for Felix, there’s only one thing worse than Lucas throwing his life away on failed creative projects—and that’s Lucas succeeding, proving himself as an architect. And then he started portraying himself as a sort of renaissance child—so talented at everything, while Felix was the “observer,” silently weighing up Lucas, endlessly watching him. I’m sure Lucas knew the effect he was having and was relishing it; and I was totally aware. It was only you, Callie, who didn’t seem to realize what was going on. Then we were talking about “which animal is Felix,” and Lucas said a snake—and you let out the noisiest belly laugh (very unflattering, btw!). Of course, Felix was seething. When you all left he started cleaning the (already clean) kitchen, in the foulest mood, barely speaking to me. I tried to help, but he hissed at me, “Get out!—I’ll do this,” pushing me away.
I was going to do as he said, and sat down on the sofa, opening the Vogue magazine—but then I had a brilliant idea—I wanted to provoke him, so that we’d end up in bed in our most passionate, frenzied state, and I said, “Lucas is a fantastic guy—and so gifted. Those architectural drawings were beautiful.” I returned to the kitchen space. Felix was bending down, setting the dishwasher, ignoring me. And I softly stroked his hair, saying, “Does he take after your mother? She’s the creative one of the marriage isn’t she—with her children’s books?” Still he ignored me, and I said, “Really, darling . . . I’m interested. What was it like growing up with him? Was he always doing beautiful drawings like that?”
He stood up, stared into my eyes with a fierce wounded expression on his face, and using all his force he slammed me against the wall, one arm forcing my body backwards, the other across my throat, throttling me. I was in a state of complete surrender, my adrenaline pumping, suddenly light-headed, in a sort of blissful trancelike state, and I was expecting him to drag me to the bed. But then he was hissing into my ear, “What the fuck are you playing at? Why would you do this?” putting greater pressure on my throat, so hard and painful that I couldn’t even choke, although my chest was heaving uselessly. I thought I was going to die, but then he stopped and I slumped to the floor, while he stormed out of the house. He returned at some early hour of the morning—three or four o’clock—I was in bed, waiting, and he just got in with me, turned his back and went to sleep.
That night was horrible, but I’m sure I’ll be able to suppress thoughts of it on my wedding day. Yes, Callie, I am going through with it—because I love Felix and will never cease to be excited by him. I just need to be careful in how far I push him, and make an art of it. And my career? (I can practically hear you screaming the question at me.) I guess I’ll have to take it very slowly if I’m to act again. A high-profile film role right now would be intolerable for Felix, I know it. So—we’ll see.
Truth is,
it’s becoming more likely that I will be killed by him and that you will get to read this letter (what shall I do? Print it out and leave it in a sealed envelope with my solicitor—to be opened by Callie in the event of my death?).
I want you to know this, little one—that my only regret is that I will leave you alone; though sometimes I think you’ll be better off without me stealing the limelight and dominating you. If I’m gone, please don’t be sad. Remember that I’ve chosen this path, and I’m sure that, deep down, you were always aware that I’ve had a romantic relationship with the idea of death, that I’m fascinated by death; part of me longs for it. Think about it—all that self-harming and bulimia when I was a teenager. And maybe that was why I made such a convincing Peter Pan—to die is an awfully big adventure! These days, I don’t see it like that exactly—the word adventure is too positive, too cheerful. I see death as terrifying and also mesmerizing—I imagine the ecstasy of that total, ultimate release.
Doubtless you’ve gone through my medicine cupboard, noting all the drugs. Have you figured it out? I’ve enough in there to obliterate myself, and that’s the important thing. I’m uneasy if I don’t have the means, the freedom, to kill myself close to hand. But I’m not about to do it. I’d rather leave it to fate—or to put it another way, I’d rather leave it to Felix. Because he’s becoming more violent, and he will kill me. I’m convinced of it now.
27
“He doesn’t look like a brute . . . to the naked eye, I mean.”
Daphne’s poring over pictures in Grazia, of Tilda and Felix on their honeymoon in Greece. On sun loungers, in swimwear. I’m looking over Daphne’s shoulder, studying Tilda’s arms. I can’t see marks—but the picture quality is poor. I’m looking at Tilda’s face too. From her serene expression you’d never know that she’s contemplating her own death. And Felix is lying lazily, one hand behind his head, reading some fat paperback. As Daphne says, he doesn’t look like a brute.