by Fiona Barton
“Yes,” she said. And sleep with anyone with a pulse, she thought.
She didn’t think she’d have a pudding.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Emma
TUESDAY, APRIL 24, 2012
I really don’t want to go.
“Stupid idea,” I told Harry when she rang last night to say that Toni from Woolwich Secondary had been in touch, but she wouldn’t let it go. It’s sent her off on some sort of a nostalgia trip. It’s something about our age, I suppose. I wonder if she wants to show them how far she’s come. Show the big girls who teased her and made her life a misery. But I don’t say it. She’s banging on about seeing people from school on Facebook. I haven’t looked. I’m more of a lurker, hanging round the posts, just seeing who is doing what. I tend not to advertise my presence. I’ve got nothing to say.
Emma Massingham thinks it is her baby in Howard Street would put the cat among the pigeons, wouldn’t it?
I told Harry I’d only go to the disco if she went to the doctor’s for her checkup. I knew she wouldn’t, so there would be no more discussion. But she went this morning.
When Harry rings at lunchtime, she is happier than I’ve ever heard her.
“It’s like a huge weight has been lifted, Emma. I don’t think I knew how worried I was. But the doctor is happy it’s just a cyst. It’s not going to kill me.”
“That’s brilliant. I’m so glad,” I say.
“Anyway. You’ve got to come to the disco now. You promised,” she says and I groan.
“No, really? It’ll be awful. All those girls who teased us about our terrible haircuts until we cried,” I pleaded my case.
“Well, we’ll have the chance to confront them about their appalling behavior, won’t we? I can’t wait to see their faces when we swan in. We could stage a truth-and-reconciliation hearing. Where’s Desmond Tutu when you need him?” Harry says, trying to wheedle me into it. I can’t resist her good mood, much as I want to.
“Yes, that sounds like a fun evening. Or we could dance to terrible music round our handbags in cruel shoes?”
“Now you’re talking,” Harry says. “Start thinking about your outfit and ring me tomorrow to finalize.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks for today, Emma. You always were the clever one.”
• • •
I tell Paul I’m going to the reunion and he smiles. A proper smile, not the nervous twitch of the mouth he’s adopted recently.
“That’s great. It will do you good to go out. You spend too much time sitting at your computer. Always on your own.”
I want to tell him I’m never on my own, but I don’t.
“I spoke to Jude the other day,” he says and glances up to see how I’ll react.
“Did you?” I’m astonished and can’t hide it. “Why? Did she ring when I was out or something?”
“Well, no. Actually I rang her.”
“Rang her?” I repeat.
“I was worried about you,” he says. He’s sorry he told me, I can see it on his face.
“I wanted her advice.”
“Well, she’d be the last person I’d ask,” I say. What has she told him? The thought is rattling round my head like a runaway train. “What did she say?”
“Not much really. Except that she thought she’d upset you, talking about the past. When you went for lunch. Do you think she’s right?”
I sigh. “Well, you know I hate looking back, Paul. And we had a very difficult relationship.”
“She said she had to ask you to leave home,” Paul says, and I realize he has been working up to this. “You’ve never told me that.”
I go and sit next to him on the sofa so he can’t see my face properly. “I don’t like talking about it. It was such a horrible time. You can’t imagine. I don’t think I’ve ever got over it. I was sixteen.”
“Oh, Emma, how could they have done that? You were still a child,” he says, squeezing my cold hand. But I am back on full alert.
“They?” I say.
“Well, Jude told me her boyfriend, Will, was living with you both. I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned him, either. Too many secrets aren’t good for you, Emma. Keeping everything inside is toxic.”
And it’s as if he’s seen inside my head.
Can I tell him it all? Can I? Will he hate me for the terrible thing I did? Of course he will.
“You’re right, darling. But you know now.”
He turns my face towards him gently and holds it in both hands. “You can tell me anything, Emma, you know that.”
I lean forwards and kiss him. To show I love him. And to silence him.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Kate
SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 2012
On the night of the do, Kate pulled up in Howard Street ridiculously early. It was only seven o’clock, but she’d got ready too quickly and had worried about running the gauntlet of her sons’ remarks about her maxi dress, slit to the thigh, and floppy hat à la Anita Ekberg.
She needn’t have done. Freddie was at the cinema with friends and Jake stayed upstairs. He was spending more and more time on the Internet in his room, planning his trip.
“I’ve found a project in Phuket,” he’d announced a couple of days earlier. His little brother had laughed.
“Is it to do with sunbathing?” Freddie had said. “I could do that, too.”
Kate had sucked in her comments and carried on laying the table.
“You’ve put the knives and forks the wrong way round,” Freddie told her and swapped them all.
“Sorry, lots on my mind,” she’d said, giving Jake a meaningful stare. He ignored it.
“Actually, it’s about coastline conservancy,” he’d said to Freddie.
“What do you know about that? You were doing law.”
“I passed my exams in biology and geography,” Jake had said. “Should be fun.”
“Well, as long as it’s fun,” Kate had muttered under her breath. But Jake had heard and taken his dinner upstairs.
Steve had gone up to talk to him when he’d got in from work.
“He’s a bit hurt you were so dismissive of his plans,” Steve had said.
“Oh, come on. Babying him and dressing the problem up in big words isn’t going to help. He’s twenty-two and he’s going to become a beach bum, Steve. He needs to be challenged.”
She was glad her dad wasn’t around to see his grandson opt out of life. He’d have had a few well-chosen words to say to Jake. He’ll be turning in his grave, she thought. Sorry, Dad.
“Okay, Kate. Let’s leave it for tonight, hey?” Steve said. “He’s coming down to watch the match with me on the telly.”
She’d sulked in the kitchen while the boys cheered and jeered the footballers, stirring a cheese sauce for a future meal until it glooped out of the pan and made a mess of the hob and she dumped the whole lot in the bin.
• • •
The only person who saw her outfit was Steve, who came home early that night. For a change. They’d thought with the boys practically off their hands, they’d get more time together, doing the things that people of their age did: theater, wine bars, exotic travel. But the spaces in their diaries—where the football training, the swimming practice, the lifts to gigs, and dates used to be—gaped invitingly for a brief moment and then were filled with work instead of pleasure. Kate knew it was important for Steve to build his consulting work at the hospital and never nagged. She could hardly say anything with her own ridiculous hours, anyway.
So that night, she was surprised and happy to hear him come through the door.
Steve whistled when he saw her.
“Wow, look at you,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“I told you last night. I’m going to a party in Woolwich. I’m trying to find women who might
know how Alice Irving ended up in their neighborhood.”
“’Course you did, sorry, love. Awful day. Nothing but bad news. Mrs. Telling’s cancer has spread. I’d only just told her she was in remission. It’s so bloody unfair.”
“Oh, Steve,” she said and put her arms round him. “How awful. It makes my day sound pathetic. I’ve been tinkering with a Sunday-for-Monday story about the Queen’s Jubilee. Guess who’s playing at the concert?”
“Is it Paul McCartney?” he said and they both laughed.
“Of course. No big occasion complete without Macca,” she said. “Anyway, I’m hoping I get somewhere with a real story tonight.”
“Hmm,” Steve said, rooting in the fridge for something to keep him going until dinner. “Is there any more Brie?”
• • •
He had his feet up in front of the telly when Kate emerged from the bathroom, and he wished her good luck in that maddeningly casual way he had sometimes when it came to her work.
“It’s not about luck, Steve. It’s about hard work and persistence,” she said.
“’Course it is. It’s just difficult to take it completely seriously when you have to dress up and go to an eighties disco. Doesn’t really happen in my world . . .”
He meant that his world, the oncology department of Lewisham hospital, was more real, more important, somehow. Kate bit her lip and tasted the essence of strawberry.
“I’m investigating the kidnap and death of a baby, Steve. It doesn’t get much more serious than that, does it?”
“Oh, Katie, always on the defensive. You look brilliant, by the way.”
“Sod off. I can’t be bought off with a few lame compliments,” she said. Kissing him hard.
“Hmmm. Yummy. Tastes of my youth. Make sure you put that on before you come to bed tonight,” he said.
“Later,” she called as she left with a cheeky wave, tottering out to her car on three-inch platforms and clambering in quickly so next-door Bet didn’t see her.
• • •
Now, here she was with an hour to kill. She didn’t fancy the pub in full eighties gear so switched on her radio and listened to Radio 4. There was an item about global warming and some old duffer was talking over the interviewer. She smiled. It was always a challenge to control gasbags in an interview. No one liked being interrupted and it could ruin the rapport.
She’d learned to silence people with body language—lean forwards to encourage and back to halt them. She hadn’t believed it when an old hand gave her the technique. But it worked time and time again.
Losing eye contact and putting your pen down were also effective but a bit obvious. Radio reporters raised a hand to stop a long answer. Interesting how we interpret signals.
Kate jumped when Barbara Walker knocked on her window. She lowered the glass, smiling at her surprise.
“Goodness, you scared me to death—I was miles away,” she said.
Miss Walker shook her head. “Sorry, dear. I saw you, sitting there, from the window and wondered if you wanted a cuppa? Bit sad sitting here on your own.”
“Love to,” Kate said and levered herself out to tower over her new friend. Miss Walker looked up at her and then at her boots.
“Look at you. Are you going to a party? Love the platforms. Where’d you find them?”
“A secondhand shop,” Kate said. “Historical footwear department.”
“Come on, then, before you fall over and snap an ankle.” Miss Walker laughed.
She made Kate put on the big hat and give her a twirl in the front room. The fuss disturbed Shorty, who barked at them both.
“Hush,” Miss Walker said, tapping his nose. “It’s only a bit of fun. Now then, do you want a Cinzano instead of tea? Seeing as we’re going all retro.”
“Have you really got some? I didn’t know they still made it,” Kate said, collapsing into an armchair. “Thank you, Barbara.”
“I’m not sure how old the bottle is, but I’ll stick some lemonade in it to jazz it up. I might even have some ice. Come on, Shorty, I’ll feed you at the same time.”
Kate sat back and wriggled her cramped toes, willing the blood to circulate again. Suffering for her craft, Steve would say if he was here. She laughed out loud as Barbara emerged with a tray bearing two tall glasses, a dusty bottle of Cinzano, a can of lemonade, and a bowl of ice cubes.
She made a big to-do of mixing the drinks and then the two women clinked glasses and took a sip.
“Wow, I’d forgotten what this tasted like. Cheers,” Kate said. “What did you used to do in the eighties, Barbara? John the foreman said you were a model.”
“Well, I did that part-time—amateur stuff, really, but I did some photo shoots for a friend who was a magazine photographer. I was really a legal secretary.”
“Photo shoots! How exciting. I bet you met some interesting people, heard some stories,” Kate said, taking another gulp of her drink.
“Yes,” the older woman murmured.
“And there must have been parties,” Kate said, smiling expectantly. She loved hearing showbiz gossip, that mixture of glamour and the fabulously mundane—Hollywood and hemorrhoids.
“Lots of parties . . .” Miss Walker began but trailed off uncertainly and busied herself with the tray.
“Goodness, you must have seen some things,” Kate said.
“I don’t really remember, dear,” the older woman said as she stood up and made for the kitchen.
Kate sat alone and wondered what she’d said.
When Barbara reappeared, she’d put on fresh lipstick, a red gash dominating her face.
“You look nice.” Kate smiled.
“Just a bit of lippy. Gives you a boost, doesn’t it?” Miss Walker said, pleased.
“I hardly wear makeup now,” Kate said. “Too much fannying about and no one notices anyway. You get to a certain age and paff! You’re invisible. People look straight through you. They look startled when you speak. My friends have all noticed it.”
“You could do a lot with your face,” Miss Walker said, reaching to brush Kate’s wayward hair back. “Lovely cheekbones. And I could get rid of those bags easy as winking.”
The women looked at each other. “I’ll get my box of tricks,” Miss Walker said and disappeared into the hall.
The box was large and well traveled, its pink vinyl cover discolored by its adventures.
“Come on, sit in the light by the lamp. Let me have a proper look,” Miss Walker said.
She got out her sponges, which looked permanently stained TV-personality orange, and began dabbing Kate’s face.
They smelled unwashed and Kate tried not to mind.
“Now then, look up while I do your eyeliner,” Miss Walker said, bending over Kate, her voice confident and younger, somehow.
“Lovely eyes, Kate. You need to do more with them. Now blink.”
Kate did as she was told and tried to enjoy the pampering.
“Blusher? Just a hint, I think. We all need roses in our cheeks, don’t we?”
“Goodness, do you remember when we used to put it on in stripes, in the seventies?” Kate laughed. “We looked like Hiawatha.”
Miss Walker laughed, too. “I loved that look. All smoky eyes and statement lips. You can keep the natural look.”
“I bet you knocked them dead,” Kate said. “I’d love to see a photo of you from then.”
Miss Walker hesitated, lip brush in hand. “Okay. I think I’ve got some somewhere. Just blot your lips on this tissue while I look.”
She brought back a handful of black-and-white studio shots.
“Oh my God, you are stunning in these,” Kate said, genuinely impressed. And then stopped, dead.
“I turned a few heads,” Miss Walker said shyly.
Kate didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. She kept looking at the glossy
photos of Barbara Walker. She was one of the women with the dead eyes in Al Soames’s Polaroids. She recognized the arch of the eyebrow, the hair. Kate took another sip of Cinzano. She didn’t know what to do or say. She couldn’t just blurt it out. Did Miss Walker know?
She was still chattering about her modeling days, laughing over her memories.
“They must have been falling at your feet,” Kate said, trying to keep the conversation going. “I’d love to borrow one to show to the photographer I work with. He’ll be so impressed. Who was your most famous conquest? Mick Jagger?”
Miss Walker laughed. “Don’t be daft,” she said. “I wasn’t in his league. You can take one if you like.”
“Were you living here, then, Barbara?” Kate said.
“At number 63. I told you the other day. I rented a room with a shared bathroom. It was a great big place. My friend from work, Jude, lived there, too.”
“Right. Who else? No men? In the house, I mean?” Kate asked.
“Jude didn’t bother with men really—too much trouble, she said. Jude had her work and her daughter to keep her busy. Until Will came along . . .”
“Oh?” Kate said, leaning forwards.
“Will Burnside,” she said and Kate was taken aback by the bitterness in her voice.
“Who was he?” Kate asked. “Not a favorite with you, then?”
“No, he was horrible.”
“Horrible? How was he horrible?”
“He wasn’t what he seemed. I just didn’t like him. But Jude did. She was absolutely smitten with him . . . I moved out, anyway. Changed job. Had a fresh start.”
“Was number 63 one of Al Soames’s houses?” Kate asked.
And Barbara Walker closed her eyes. It was as if she had shut down. Kate sat forwards and touched the older woman’s arm to remind her she was still there, and the eyes opened.
“Are you okay, Barbara?”
Miss Walker tried a watery smile. “Sorry, dear. Memories, that’s all. Can catch you unawares, can’t they?”
“You look a bit wobbly, Barbara,” Kate said.
“I am,” Miss Walker said, her voice quavering. “You see, people are not what they seem. You see them on the street or at a party and they look like normal people, but they’re not. Sometimes they’re not.”