The Bones of You

by Debbie Howells

  I frown. “I wish she’d told me. Having met him, it certainly sounds believable. Only it’s not what he said to me. He told me Rosie had a row with Neal and threatened to move out.”

  Laura shakes her head. “How do you know who to believe? Of course, it doesn’t necessarily mean Alex is the killer. Anyway, he has an alibi. He was with friends. There’s no way he did it. So then I went to see their neighbors.”

  “I’ve never even met them,” I tell her.

  “Well, it was interesting. They said they hardly know the Andersons—other than to say hello, that sort of thing. But one morning, a few days before Rosie died, they heard an awful noise going on. Voices yelling. A man’s voice and a woman. They think it was Joanna. The man shouted several times about how he wanted to see ‘her.’ He didn’t say a name. Apparently, the woman was screaming back at him. They couldn’t make out her words.”

  Was it Neal’s voice? Or Alex’s? Is it even relevant?

  “Neal was away.” Laura reads my thoughts. “Which rather begs the question, was it Alex, which seems likely, or someone else? And I agree. It’s strange how Joanna says nothing to you.”

  But knowing Jo as well as I do, I realize it isn’t that strange at all. “I know the way she thinks. She hated the thought of her daughter and the gardener together. Alex told me that, too. Jo thought he was beneath her. And, anyway, as far as she was concerned, she didn’t lie to me. By the time I spoke to her, it was over.”

  I remember the necklace. “There is one thing, though. If it was Alex who gave her the necklace, if he and Rosie had fallen out, or if he didn’t matter to her, she’d hardly wear it all the time.”

  Laura’s thoughtful. “The one she was wearing the night she died. It’s never been found.”

  “The murder weapon hasn’t been found, either, has it?” It’s impossible to believe, after the detailed police searches and given the ongoing vigilance of the villagers.

  Her eyes meet mine. “Curious, wouldn’t you say?”

  And while all this goes on, the fact remains. That ever since she exploded at me, I haven’t actually seen Jo, more than to raise my hand across the street. Not that I hold it against her, but it was what Angus said that made me think.

  None of us can really understand how she feels.

  I know I can’t. I don’t want to be a constant reminder to her, either, of the daughter I still have and the one she’s lost, though if she wants my friendship, I’ll welcome her with open arms.

  And as if reading my mind, that evening she calls me, full of remorse.

  “Kate? I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch. I was awful to you before. It was a really bad day. Actually, it’s been a bad few weeks. Can you forgive me?”

  “Oh, Jo . . . really, there’s nothing to forgive.” And whatever she said to me, there isn’t, because just getting through each day must take all the strength she can muster.

  “But there is, Kate. I threw your kindness back at you. I’m truly sorry,” she says humbly.

  It comes back to me what Neal said about guilt. And such is my own guilt, however illogical, that I haven’t shared her suffering, I can forgive her anything.

  It’s Jo’s idea to meet on neutral ground at the Green Man, a pub that’s just outside the village.

  “It’s so good to see you, Kate. You look so well.” With a beaming smile, she hugs me, degrees more warmly than she usually does, which was never a reflection of our friendship, just her reserve.

  “Hi! You too!”

  I’m taken aback by the warmth of her greeting, as well as how incredible she looks. Younger, very thin, and her hair’s longer, too. After plummeting to the depths, she’s on the upside of the roller coaster. Looking at her, you’d never guess in a million years what she’s been through.

  “Listen. What I really want to say is thank you, Kate. From the bottom of my heart, for your friendship. Because without you . . .”

  “It’s fine, Jo. Really. You’re more than welcome.” Embarrassed, because this isn’t why I came here, I steer her toward the bar, where we order lunch, which Jo insists on paying for, then take a table by the window. But Jo hasn’t finished and clearly feels the need to explain herself.

  “Last time you came round, Kate, the day I yelled at you, I think it all caught up with me. I’m so sorry you were on the receiving end.”

  “It’s okay,” I say to her. “I understand.” Then I take a breath. “I heard about Alex causing trouble. It must have been the last thing you needed.”

  Her eyes widen; then she shakes her head. “I was trying not to think about it. I suppose it’s round the whole village by now?”

  When I don’t reply, she carries on. “I know people love gossip, but it really wasn’t anything. Just a crush. You know what teenagers are like—here today, gone tomorrow. Rosanna was over it and was thinking about university. . . .”

  A single tear trickles down her cheek, and I reach out and touch her arm. She tries to smile, but her eyes are full of sadness.

  “It’s no excuse for how I behaved toward you,” she says quietly. “The trouble is, I was frightened, Kate. I felt everything spiraling out of control.” She pauses. “I haven’t told you or anyone, but last year, I was quite ill. I suppose I’m not very good at coping with things. I started drinking too much, and then I ended up in rehab. I’m fine now. I mean, I don’t drink, not like then, but after Rosanna . . . Well, Neal told you, didn’t he? That I went away. I wasn’t seeing straight at all. I was on these pills just to get me through. Anyway, I’m off them—at least for now.”

  I’d suspected as much, and in fact, it explains the flatness of her mood, the lack of emotion whenever she spoke about Delphine.

  “It can’t be easy, Jo. But you must feel better, now that you’re off them, I mean.”

  She sighs. “I do . . . kind of. Only they muffle everything, Kate. They take the edge off pain, make the unbearable more bearable, but when you stop them, that’s the really hard part. The pain’s still there. You have to confront it. It doesn’t go away.”

  “You don’t have to hide it,” I tell her, wondering what triggered her breakdown the first time. “Or apologize, either. You’re allowed to feel angry or hurt or whatever else you feel. You can yell, too. Okay?”

  She looks down at her smooth hands, shaking just slightly. “Being home is much harder. It was easier there, because everyone understands. They’ve all been through something traumatic. And now I have to stay off the pills on my own. . . .”

  “You’re not on your own, Jo. You have me. And Neal.”

  She nods. “I do know that.”

  We eat—or rather I eat, while Jo professes that hers is not that good, but not to worry, as she wasn’t really hungry. Then I change the subject, because as well as Jo, someone else is on my mind.

  “How’s Delphine? She must have missed you terribly.”

  Jo’s expression changes. “She stayed with a school friend most of the time. But you know I told you before that she was strong? I’m not so sure. I need to talk to her, don’t I? I’ve been no help to her.”

  I’m relieved to hear her say that, because if it had been Grace switching off her feelings and retreating into herself, even now it would worry me, let alone Delphine, at the age of twelve, bearing the full, unsupported burden of her grief.

  “You shouldn’t beat yourself up about it, Jo, but you must be worried. It’s a lot for a young girl.”

  “I know. And it is. But we’re all different, Kate. And Delphine does the same as I do. When it gets to be too much, she turns inward. You’ve probably noticed,”

  It’s true. I’ve seen Jo many times locked away somewhere inside her head where no one can reach her.

  “And Neal?”

  Her face lights up. “He’s good. We’re really good. I didn’t tell you that his charity has been nominated for an award, and there’s a dinner on Friday! You won’t believe who’s going to be there, Kate. . . . So many stars—even royalty, if you believe the rumors. Anyw
ay, we’re going to London for the weekend. Five-star luxury all the way. I can’t wait!”

  “Wow! That’s exciting, Jo! I love London before Christmas! Think of the shopping! The lights will be on, too! What will you wear?”

  She glances behind before leaning toward me conspiratorially. “I had this dress made,” she says in hushed tones. “Spent a fortune. But it’s worth it. It’s green, fitted, but not tight. And flowing.” Her eyes are dancing. This clearly is terribly important to her. “But it’s worth it. It has to be right. Rosie would be so proud of him,” she adds, suddenly slightly choked. “She’d want us to celebrate.”

  Then I have an idea. “Why doesn’t Delphine come and stay with us?”

  A strange look flickers over Jo’s face, as though she’s not really listening, before she says, “Thank you, but she’s staying with her friend.”

  I’ve always believed friendship to be measured as much by shared confidences as by what stays unsaid, while reading between the lines or second-guessing, the way close friends do. It’s a belief that leaves me questioning the measure of my friendship with Jo—not my outward, vocal support of her, but those burning issues I keep quiet about, like Grace’s fleeting visit home, my encounters with Alex, the fact that Laura and I talk about Rosie over cups of tea. Things I can’t tell her. But then I remember, I haven’t even told Angus some of these.

  After coffee, we wander outside.

  “Have a wonderful weekend, Jo. Both of you. You really deserve it.” I kiss her cheek.

  “Thank you. We will! And come over soon, Kate—so I can tell you about it!”

  I nod, already seeing myself on Jo’s brand-new sofa, listening, a little enviously, to her blow-by-blow account of her glamorous night and the celebrities she was rubbing shoulders with. In her beautiful dress, fighting to keep smiling while her daughter’s never far from her mind. To stay off the pills. And though I don’t want it to, an image of a shining star comes into my head, dazzling everyone with its brightness, flaring up one last time before imploding.

  It’s Jo I’m thinking of yet again as on Friday evening, around seven, I’m driving past the village shop and see a small figure weaving along the pavement. As I pass, it lurches into the road just in front of me. I slam my foot on the brake, only just managing to stop in time.

  I leap out to give whoever it is a piece of my mind, then stop, completely horrified, as I realize who it is.

  ROSIE

  It’s an autumn day, with mist and curls of smoke from burning leaves. I’m excited because Mummy’s taking me and Della shopping, then out for lunch.

  We drive to a huge shopping center. Inside smells of popcorn and Starbucks, and there’s music playing and pretty lights, like a whole make-believe world inside the real world. As we walk past the shops, I imagine living here, dressing in a set of new clothes every day, trying on all these shoes, sleeping in those big, soft beds in shop windows, eating pizza and marshmallows.

  I watch as she takes us to the Disney store. She buys Della a Minnie Mouse to make up for the one my father took away when he was mad at her. Then she takes us to a movie, where we eat ice cream and sit on cinema seats the color of blood.

  Then after, she says, we have to buy Daddy a birthday present, a really special present that we’ll choose together, because it would make him so happy. “It would be wonderful, wouldn’t it,” she says, “to give him a really special birthday?” Choosing all these presents, then, once we’re home, wrapping them, tying them with long, pretty ribbons.

  The day of his birthday, she cooks a special dinner she’s been planning for ages, just as she’s told me and Della which dresses we must wear and not to upset him. Only, I come home with a letter about the school ski trip. I remember how desperate I am to go. How I can’t wait to tell Mummy about it. But as soon as we get home, before I can show it to her, she hurries us upstairs into our bedrooms.

  “Get changed,” she whispers. “Then come downstairs, and we’ll give Daddy his presents. Dinner’s going to be a treat! And please, girls, be on your very best behavior.”

  I see it on my face—how “best behavior” always means the same thing. No joking, no talking unless we’re spoken to. And I get a sinking feeling, because if I don’t tell her about the ski trip, if I don’t sign up tomorrow, the places will all be gone. But I do as Mummy says, putting on the navy-blue pinafore dress with the lace blouse she’s chosen, even though she knows I don’t like it. But I’ll do everything she says; then, later, if I get the chance, I’ll ask her.

  Della pushes my door open and comes in.

  “You look so pretty,” I tell her. Her dress is like mine, only pink, dotted with little butterflies. “Shall I do your hair?”

  Della nods. She sits on my bed as I brush the tangles out, then tie it into a swingy ponytail with a silver hair band. Then we go downstairs and quietly take our places on the sofa.

  Opposite, my father doesn’t look up, just drinks whiskey and reads a newspaper.

  “Girls?” Mummy prompts. “Isn’t there something you want to say?”

  I look at Della. What does Mummy mean?

  “Go on . . . ,” she mouths, looking worried. “Hap-py birth-day . . .”

  “Happy birthday, Daddy,” Della says, while I say, “Happy birthday.”

  He actually looks at us properly.

  “Thank you,” he says quietly.

  “Would you like your presents, darling?” Mummy says. I notice how dressed up she is—in one of her party dresses, with her gold chain and sparkling earrings, smelling of perfume.

  “Oh, yes, please,” he says in the same fake jolly voice he uses every year. “Oh! I love presents!”

  I sit there as Della gives him the fur-lined gloves she chose. I wait for him to poke fun at them, but miraculously, he doesn’t. Then he opens the card she’s spent ages carefully drawing for him and says, “Thank you, Delphine. It’s quite nice.”

  Next, I give him my present, a world atlas, because he travels so much. Maybe, too, he’ll discover a load more places to go to a long way from here. He looks bemused. “Funny present,” he remarks. “What do I need that for? Is that my card?”

  As he tears open the envelope, it takes the corner off the card that’s inside. He barely glances at it. “Ruined,” he says. “Oh well, never mind . . .” Then crumples it up and drops it on the floor.

  I swallow my hurt, hating his birthday, being in this stupid dress, acting out this whole stupid pretense—just to keep him happy, as Mummy puts it.

  He opens Mummy’s presents next, huge, shiny parcels tied with ribbons, while she sits nervously.

  At the end, surrounded by piles of new clothes, he says, “Very good, Joanna. You’ve done well. I think now I’d like dinner.”

  Mummy rushes to the kitchen and fetches the bottle of wine she’s warmed. He pours some into a glass, swills it round, then sniffs it, while she watches.

  “Mmm, not bad,” he says.

  After we’ve eaten, Della and I silently, Mummy overattentively, my father reasonably happily, I get up and start clearing the table.

  “Bit quick off the mark, aren’t you?” he says sharply, even though I always clear up. “Anyone would think you wanted something.” Then he pours another glass of wine.

  My cheeks go hot all of a sudden; then I feel them burning red. I shake my head. “No,” I tell him. “I don’t.”

  He raises his eyebrows, gives me a knowing look. And I see open in the kitchen, on the side, ready to show Mummy, the letter.

  “Don’t lie.” He bangs his fist on the table.

  “She didn’t.” Mummy rushes to his side. “Did you, Rosanna?”

  “I didn’t want to spoil your birthday,” I say.

  “Well, you have.” He thumps the other fist on the table.

  But instead of yelling, his eyes squint at me and his voice is ice-cold quiet. “It’s my birthday, and my daughter’s lying to me. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  I don’t speak, because if I ask about the ski
trip, that will be wrong, and if I say sorry, that will be wrong, too. Next to me, there’s blood on Della’s lip.

  That’s how birthdays were in our house. All the same. All hateful charades of pretty clothes, expensive presents, and ugly words.

  14

  I leap out of my car, over to her side.

  “Christ, Jo! I nearly hit you. . . .”

  Even with me holding her arm, she wobbles as she gets up. Then one of her ankles gives way, and as she flashes a lopsided grin at me, I realize she’s blind drunk.

  “I thought you were going to London! Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

  I take her arm and help her into my car, where the extent of her inebriation becomes apparent as she fills it with what smells like pure alcohol fumes.

  “I’m fine, Kate. Really! Look how happy I am! I’m just fine. . . .” But her words are slurred; her intonation is too exaggerated.

  “You’re not.” I wind down the window, the blast of cold, damp air in my face welcome. “Do you have your keys?”

  She opens her bag and rummages messily and unsuccessfully, by which time I’ve pulled up in her drive. Hoping to God she finds them, because it doesn’t look like anyone else is home, I take her bag.

  “Here.” I dangle them in front of her. “Come on. I’ll walk in with you.”

  I unlock the door, fumbling around in the darkness for a light switch. Jo totters down the steps and almost falls over.

  “I’ll make us some coffee,” I tell her.

  “It would be much more fun if we have a drink!” She falls onto the sofa. Under the electric light, her face is blotchy and her eyes are bloodshot. Then she leans back and throws up her arms. “I know! Vodka, Katie! Loosen up a little! Let’s get completely trolleyed. . . .”

  “Jo, you don’t need another drink. Why don’t you stay there? Put your feet up, and I’ll get the kettle on.”