by Jane Robins
Yesterday Daphne gave me a leaving present, a lithograph by the illustrator Edward Ardizzone of people browsing contentedly in a bookshop. “I hope you were happy here,” she said.
“I was so happy here! I love the books, and the customers, and you.”
We had the longest, clumsiest hug, and promised to stay in touch.
“Every time I need a book, I’ll come back,” I said.
She raised one eyebrow, signaling that she was about to make an announcement, and then, in a girlish voice, “I’m giving your job to Douglas—he’s retiring from the pharmaceutical firm.”
I laughed. “That’s so couply!”
“It’ll be different, that’s for sure. I’m only going to have the shop open three days a week, then we’ll go down to his house in Somerset for the other four . . . I’ve always wanted that—a nice man with a house in the country. It’s very Jane Austen of me, I know.”
I’m so pleased for Daphne that it makes me feel uneasy. Her happy ending (and beginning) with Douglas is so neat and perfect, unlike my situation with Wilf. As I say, I’m trying hard to make our lives harmonious—but the truth is that I don’t always succeed. Sometimes I’m back online, researching.
• • •
At Curzon Street, Wilf and I are eating our supper in front of the TV. We’re supposed to be watching Antiques Roadshow, guessing the value of trinkets and paintings and old bits of furniture. But I’m not really concentrating on the contents of other people’s attics, my mind is elsewhere; and bracing myself for Wilf’s reaction, I say:
“I’m going to Manchester tomorrow.”
“Oh?”
“I saw on the internet that a group of Luke Stone’s friends are meeting in a pub, to remember him, and raise a glass. It’s an open invitation.”
I put my plate down and lie with my head on Wilf’s lap, but he pushes me upright, grabbing my shoulders with his gnarly gardener’s hands, making a grrrrrr sound like the bear that he is.
“Really? Do you really want to stir things up? It’s better to allow him to rest in peace, surely . . .”
“I don’t think he is resting in peace—you know that.”
“But you’re supposed to be letting go . . . Getting some perspective.” Even as I hear the anger in his voice, I register my love for its honest tone, the absence of vindictiveness.
“I know . . . I know. But Wilf, just this one trip? It might help me get closure, for all we know.”
“Get closure!”
He picks up our dirty plates and takes them to the kitchen area, scraping leftovers into the bin, standing at the sink, washing up in a horrible way.
“Please,” I say. “Support me. . . .”
“I can’t. You know what I think—I think you were dragged into a dark world by poisonous people. You need to stay away from all that.”
“Belle wasn’t poisonous . . . far from it.” This morning I read on the BBC website that Joe Mayhew had pleaded guilty to manslaughter, citing diminished responsibility, and had been sentenced to nineteen years in prison. Beside the report was a photo of Belle, her lopsided grin, her head slightly to one side, looking so pretty, so cheerful.
“Go if you have to. I can’t stop you,” Wilf says coldly.
• • •
The train to Manchester is overcrowded and late, and I’m stressed as I rush from the station, hoping I haven’t missed the event, and in my haste I take a wrong turn, getting lost, wasting another ten minutes. When eventually I find The Green Man I’m fearing the worst, sure they’ll all be gone. But then I see, in the corner on small stools by a flickering fire, Luke’s work colleagues, Lulu and Sanjeev, along with three other young people, who are introduced as Alistair, Poppy and Jill. Two bottles of wine are open on a table, alongside used glasses, signs of a bigger crowd that was here earlier, and I wonder whether Scarlet was amongst them.
I say that I saw the notice online and have come up from London.
“That’s nice of you. We’re still in shock,” says Lulu, looking me up and down, checking me out. “I guess you are too. . . .” She crosses her legs, which are in scruffy but sexy fishnet tights, and holds her wineglass with a hand encased in a fingerless glove; her nails are varnished and chipped in black.
“I had no idea he was an addict,” I say. “Did you? Was it obvious at work?”
“He used to look bloody awful sometimes. He got so thin, and sometimes his skin looked almost gray, and his eyes so tired . . . I’d say to him, ‘Another rough one?’ and he’d laugh it off and say, ‘You know Charlotte—she keeps me up all night.’ ”
“Did she come this evening? Charlotte, I mean.”
“No . . .” She sounds disapproving. Takes a large gulp of wine. Flashes a scornful look with her kohl-rimmed eyes.
“That’s a pity—I’d like to offer her my sympathy. Do you know if she’s at the flat?”
“Actually, I don’t think she’s even in Manchester. She’s acting weirdly. She’s a fucking deviant.”
Lulu exchanges a glance with Sanjeev and says, “We found out about Luke’s death from Charlotte; she turned up at the office to tell us. I guess it was the shock—but she was manic, describing everything in minute detail—how she found him lying across the bed on his back, his arm hanging down to the side, a needle hanging out of his skin . . . It was grotesque. She was getting off on the drama of it.”
So Luke’s position on the bed was identical to Felix’s. It made a sick sort of sense.
“What makes you think she’s not in Manchester?”
Lulu crosses her legs the other way. “Well, she didn’t come to the funeral, and the flat has gone back on the rental market. So, we reckon she’s gone. . . . How well do you know her?”
“Not well.”
“The thing is, Callie, she’s not popular around here. We can’t help thinking that she was a bad influence on Luke. Before he met her, he was fine.”
“How long were they together?”
“Three years. And in that time, he changed so much. You must have noticed? He became moody and depressed, and physically wasted, kind of crack-brained . . .”
She leans forward, jutted jaw, pushing untidy dreads of red hair out of her face—her manner suggesting that it’s dawned on her, only now, to question who I am.
“How long had you known Luke?”
“Oh not long.” That’s truthful at least. Then I add, “We met at Narcotics Anonymous,” realizing at once that I’m making a mistake.
“I thought you said you didn’t know he was an addict?” Now Sanjeev leans in to hear my answer.
“Oh, I meant I didn’t know he’d relapsed. . . .”
“Well, if you’re a recovering addict—you know how important it is to have positive people around you. And Charlotte was never that,” says Sanjeev, sounding annoyed.
“Did she or Luke ever mention someone called Felix?”
“I don’t think so . . . why?”
“Oh, no reason . . . I just wondered if Luke knew my friend Felix.”
“Well, it’s an unusual name,” says Lulu flatly. “And I agree with Sanjeev. I don’t think Luke ever mentioned it.”
“I sometimes thought that Charlotte might have had a fling with Felix—it’s not that Luke told me so, but I wondered all the same.” I’m making it up as I go along, and there’s a wild, anxious note in my voice.
“It’s unlikely,” says Lulu. “Charlotte’s not that sort of girl—not at all.” She and Sanjeev exchange a look that I interpret as She was only too keen on Luke, unfortunately.
“And you’ve no idea where she went?”
“No. She could be anywhere. As far as I can make out, she didn’t have friends. Not local friends anyway.”
“What about her work? Doesn’t she work in a beauty salon?”
“Haha! No. She sometimes works as a model. At least, that’s what Luke said. And she’s trying to break into acting . . . not very successfully I think. She’s had a couple of theater roles, in tiny venues, and no
thing else. She’d consider herself way too good for a beauty salon. But, look, this evening isn’t about Charlotte, it’s about Luke.” Lulu’s eyes become red.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t mean to distract you.” I can see that Lulu had feelings for Luke. I lean forward and whisper in her ear, “I don’t think Luke killed himself.”
She nods, giving me a sideways glance. It’s not like I’m saying anything that surprises her. It’s like I’m reflecting her own feelings back.
“I’m going to find Charlotte,” I say. I mean it. “I know she’s hiding, but I’ll find her.”
46
Wilf’s avoiding me, staying longer at work, going to the pub afterwards; while I revert to my old self, spending forever online, constructing new theories for the dossier. I give Illicit Hookups one last try. Since Francesca had told me, so seriously, about the site, she must have thought it was significant. Maybe Felix was more than a casual visitor; maybe he was a regular.
I scroll through a hundred women or more, all the Naughty Nikkis and Sadistic Sadies, and stop to inspect someone calling herself Mystery Madam of the Night. In her photo she’s kneeling on a bed, knees apart, skimpy underwear on her bony body and a black mask partially covering her face, leather, with Catwoman eyes. I study her. She could be Scarlet; it’s just possible. I pay £120 for the privilege, and send a message:
Love your photo. But I’m new here. Don’t know how it works.
Hello lover. It’s easy. I’m here to listen. Tell me about your secrets, your fantasies and let’s take it from there, Roxanna xxx
I’d rather tell you in person, Roxy.
I’d rather that also. I adore a first-timer. What’s your name?
Call me Felix. Have you been on here long? Met many guys?
Let’s say long enuff to know how to turn you on, gorgeous. How to satisfy your deepest desires. To give you what you want.
I can tell this isn’t Scarlet. Scarlet’s way of talking is so direct and uncompromising, and she would never call anyone “gorgeous” or write “enuff.” I move on, scrolling through other women . . . not finding anyone who’s more likely to be her. The pictures are wrong—most of the women are too old and too curvaceous. Then something occurs to me, and I go back to Roxanna.
I have something to ask you. Has anyone on here ever wanted you to inject them?
Anything goes on here. Hahahaha!!! Anything. If you want, I can do that.
Has anyone else ever asked you to do that?
Yes. It happens. Heroin or crack. Is that what you want, Felix?
Maybe.
Or something else? Some people just like injections. Vitamins hahahaha.
Who? Who likes them?
Oh, clients . . . We can do that. I won’t charge extra.
What else? What else do you do?
We can discuss when we meet. Can’t wait to see you in person. Tell me what you look like . . .
I don’t answer. . . . I reread our short exchange and as I do so, it dawns on me that I don’t need Illicit Hookups anymore—because, after Lulu and thanks to Roxanna, everything is starting to fall into place. My two short conversations with them have triggered something in me. Lulu saying “She’s not that sort of girl”—I know what she means now, I’m sure of it. And Roxanna’s experiences with vitamin injections make me remember going through Tilda’s bin early in the spring, at the start of all this, and finding that syringe. These revelations are the catalyst for a new clarity of thought. An ability to make sense, at last, of all my work, all my efforts, and it’s like a million unconnected musical notes have lined up and arranged themselves into a recognizable tune. I don’t feel enlightened, though. I feel, instead, that I’m falling in a dark space and that I’ll never stop.
I open up the dossier, scrolling back, looking at all my notes since Tilda met Felix. I have so many of them now, thousands and thousands of words, almost a hundred chapter headings, thirty identified themes, for heaven’s sake. I have recorded so much detail—the sharp tone of Scarlet’s emails, the crucial timings of her first conversations with Belle and me, the sly little looks exchanged between Tilda and Felix, the sincerity in Francesca Moroni’s voice when she said that Felix was never violent, the throwaway comments of Paige Mooney about Tilda’s relationship with the Whisper Sisters and, above all, Liam. I know now that Liam is the key.
I check the time. It’s ten forty-five. I don’t care that it’s late—I grab my coat, dash down the stairs and out of the house, and to the Green Park tube. In my hand is the business card he gave me, with his home address in the corner.
I run down the steps, against the flow of people coming up, and I’m dodging and swerving until I reach the platform; then the train is crowded with drunken boys, singing raucously and swearing, swinging from the overhead handrails. They’re driving me mad, because I’m trying to think about Liam, and the questions I need to ask. The final questions before I go to LA.
He answers the buzzer with a wary voice. “D’you know what the time is, Callie? Can’t you come back tomorrow?”
“Please, Liam. Please. It won’t take long.”
He lets me into the sitting room, a pained look on his face, saying firmly, “Five minutes. That’s all.”
I don’t even sit down. Neither does he, and we stand awkwardly facing each other. He’s wearing an old T-shirt and sweatpants, and is gazing down at his bare feet. I’m willing him to look up at me.
“I have to know,” I say. “About when you and Tilda split up, and she had that breakdown. You’re a psychiatrist, and you understand what happened. I need details, Liam. It’s important.”
“Callie, what I’m about to say, you know already. You’ve always known, deep down. Tilda is a narcissist.” He’s speaking slowly, leaden-voiced.
My eyes tear up. “Please, Liam, tell me.”
“It’s basic. . . . She has an ego so fragile, so damaged, that she has to believe in a fabricated identity—that’s why she’s always insisted on being a star. She has to be this exceptional person, or she’s tormented, she’s ripped apart. Your sister will do anything, manipulate anyone, to keep hold of her invented idea of herself, to save herself from that pain. And if she fails, well—she’d prefer obliteration. Actual death.”
He flops down, now, into his gray comfortable chair, and I sit too, on the sofa opposite. He looks wrecked, like he knows how desperate this is—how it will change forever the nature of the bond between Tilda and me.
“You’re right,” I say. “I do know it . . . perhaps I’ve always known. Your sin was to love the real, ordinary Tilda, not the girl with star quality. She would never have been able to handle that. And to leave her for Mary Strickland—who was so normal, but with a big idea of her normal self. I can see how that made Tilda collapse. And the Whisper Sisters? What about them?”
“Her clique . . . her sycophants. Always reinforcing her fantasy, endlessly under her control.”
“And me?”
“You’re tricky—she’s bound to you like no one else. She wants you as a sycophant, and if you don’t oblige, well, that’s catastrophic for her. She can’t simply reject you—as she can others who fail her.”
“I’ve always obliged.” I feel mournful, heavy with grief.
“It’s best not to think of it like that, Callie. You were trusting and you loved her. You are a good and empathetic person, and sensitive and perceptive. When she was in pain, you felt it too, and you desperately wanted to take her suffering away. It’s these wonderful qualities that make you an exceptional and beautiful young woman. . . . Now, I’m going to bed,” he says.
“You think Tilda’s dangerous, don’t you, Liam? You love her, like I do. But you know the truth.”
“It’s time for you to leave, Callie.” He stands up slowly, like he can’t take any more of this.
I’m so drained, I can hardly walk through the rain to the tube station, so when a black taxi appears in Salusbury Road, I flag it down and slump in the backseat.<
br />
“Having a nice evening?” says the driver.
I look out the window. The rain is coming down hard now, shining rain, lit by lampposts, shop windows, headlights. People are running to take shelter, young men putting their arms protectively around their girlfriends, young women on tiptoe to protect their shoes, trying not to be splashed by passing cars. I close my eyes. I have no idea how I’ll sleep tonight—but I know what I have to do as soon as morning comes.
Wilf is waiting for me. He makes hot chocolate, which we drink in bed, side by side.
“I’ve figured it all out,” I say. “I know exactly what Scarlet did and why. I know how she got into Felix’s room, how she injected him. It’s taken me so long, and I’m so weakened by it, so wretched. But I can’t leave it now . . . I have to take this thing to the end.”
He listens, stroking my hair as I tell him what I now believe, what I know, about Scarlet, and also about Tilda and Felix. And then Wilf and I make love, and Wilf tells me the third thing, the thing he didn’t say in the bookshop that day. I tell him back, and we say how grateful we are that we found each other. It’s two in the morning now and, before we try and sleep, Wilf says, “I’m going back to Kensal Rise, and I’ll stay away until it’s over. It’s better that way.” I agree, and I tell him that I understand.
I don’t sleep. Not for a minute. And when I drag myself out of bed at 7:00 a.m. and get dressed, Wilf’s still dead to the world, lying on his back with one arm down the side of the bed. I can’t bear to see that sickening pose, and I pull his arm back up, while he snuffles and mutters “Morning?” like he’s not sure where he is.
I kiss him lightly on the forehead and say I’m leaving now, and that I’ll see him again after I’ve sorted everything out, after I’ve been to Los Angeles and found Tilda. He grabs me and pulls me down onto the bed to kiss me properly, but he’s not trying to keep me there, he knows that it’s time for me to go, and I bury my face in his chest, briefly, before I grab my laptop, the bee bag and my coat. I have a busy morning ahead, I need to go back to Tilda’s agent, Felicity Shore, and then buy my air ticket.