Salt Sisters

by Katherine Graham

  We talked about Amy’s state of mind and what I’d learned from my family since coming home. I told them about Mike’s outburst at the reading of the will, and how it had prompted me to search through their stuff. Was that a criminal offence? Surely Jake would stop me talking if I was inadvertently confessing to a crime? My heart was racing, and I could feel my cheeks burning up.

  PC Knowles’s voice was surprisingly deep, and it startled me when he started speaking. He referred to the Detective Chief Inspector and it took me a second to realise he meant the dinner-lady, and by then I had missed the question. Jake got up and poured me a glass of water. He touched my shoulder when he set it down and I flinched.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll repeat the question: could you describe to me and DCI Bell how your brother-in-law reacted when confronted about the status of his financial affairs?’

  I took a deep breath and focused on the glass of water in front of me, then remembered I was supposed to be maintaining eye contact.

  ‘He was angry, I’d say.’ I pictured Mike’s face when I’d told him what I knew about his financial situation.

  ‘And what did you understand to be the reason for his anger?’ DCI Bell asked.

  The three of them were watching me closely.

  ‘He didn’t think it was my business, clearly.’ I took a shaky drink of water and a deep breath. ‘He was hoping to have the insurance money to pay off his debts. He’d been planning to use some of it to pay back the people he owed.’

  I looked up at DCI Bell, who glanced quickly at PC Knowles. ‘Did he say that, Isabelle? Can you remember exactly what he said?’

  I thought back to that night. I’d been drinking, but I could remember the conversation pretty clearly.

  ‘He said that after the accident, he thought he could use the insurance money to get his business back on track.’

  ‘That’s great Isabelle, really helpful,’ said DCI Bell. She smiled, but I noticed it didn’t reach her eyes. There were smoker’s lines around her mouth. ‘We’ll let you know if we need anything else.’

  I shifted nervously in my seat. I’d told the truth, but how were they going to use it?

  And I knew I had to tell them about the messages from Phil Turner. The words were right there, but saying them out loud would be an unforgiveable betrayal of Amy. DCI Bell and PC Knowles started to pack up.

  ‘Wait!’ I blurted out. ‘There’s something else.’

  PC Knowles glanced at Jake, but DCI Bell didn’t flinch. She kept her eyes on me, waiting for me to start.

  I took a sip of water, my hand shaking as I set the glass down. ‘Amy was having an affair. I logged on to her Facebook account and I saw messages from Phil Turner.’

  DCI Bell’s eyes stayed on me. ‘And these messages, Isabelle, what did they say?’

  I took a deep breath to steady myself.

  ‘There were three messages. It was Phil pleading with Amy. Like they had ended things and he wished they hadn’t broken up, that they could get back together. He said he was desperate.’

  ‘Thank you, Isabelle. That’s very interesting. We’ll look into that right away, and I’ll be in touch if we need anything further.’

  I bit my lip. ‘What do you think? Does it mean Mike had a motive?’

  DCI Bell gave a polite smile that gave nothing away. ‘Like I said, we’ll be in touch.’

  Jake got up and saw them out. I’d betrayed Amy, and it left a bitter taste in my mouth. I held my breath until I heard their car pull away.

  ‘You did the right thing, Izzy. At least this way, they have the full picture.’

  I tried not to look at Jake. I felt bad for throwing myself at him, but I was equally annoyed that he had pushed me off. Now the police had left and my heartbeat was returning to normal, my embarrassment had started to creep back. I just wanted to get him out of there.

  He, on the other hand, seemed to be stalling. I could tell he wanted to do the ‘hey, listen, about last night’ talk, but didn’t know how to begin. Well, I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

  I did a theatrical yawn. ‘I think I’m going to make it an early night,’ I said, getting up from the table.

  He hesitated for a moment and then stood up too. ‘Right, yes, I suppose it is getting late.’

  I willed him to say something – to say it wasn’t my fault, or that he regretted turning me down. Anything to make me feel better. Something to prove that I hadn’t imagined our connection – that it wasn’t just all in my head.

  He looked down at his shoes. ‘So, I guess it’s just a waiting game, now. If you need anything else, you know where I am.’

  I opened the door. ‘Indeed. Well, goodnight then.’

  He stepped past me, and for a moment, we were facing each other in the narrow space between the counter and doorframe. He paused there. Was he going to kiss me? There was something about his lips, the soft curve of his cupid’s bow. I realised I was staring at his mouth, and quickly looked away.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he mumbled, bottling it.

  He hadn’t reached the yard gate before I’d slammed the front door shut.

  I was angry with myself. I’d clearly misread Jake’s intentions and I had to get over it. Anyway, why was I even thinking about men when my sister had quite possibly been murdered, and I’d just given the police reason to think that her husband had quite possibly been the one who had done it? I shuddered. I hoped I’d done the right thing.

  Could Mike have done it? It would have been easy for him to slip something into Amy’s drink that evening, and he had access to her car. Would he have known how to loosen a wheel? Was that something you could learn on YouTube? And how could he have convinced her to drive afterwards?

  I poured a vodka, telling myself I would stop at one. I called it a night after my third, climbing wearily into my cold bed, the lullaby of distant waves singing me to sleep.

  The feeling of unease after my chat with the police lasted for days afterwards, a disquiet that I couldn’t shake. I was still jumpy after I’d collected Betsy from school on Friday afternoon. The cottage landline rang, and the man’s voice on the line startled me – I thought I’d only given the number to Mum. Why did it feel like I was in some kind of trouble? But it was just Richard, calling to check how Betsy was doing after her suspension.

  There had been no major injuries, nothing and nobody broken, and only a few tears – on both our parts – so I considered it an overall success. Sure, she’d been bored, but for the most part she had been that calm and sweet girl that I loved. At that moment she was sprawled across my living room floor, in what had become her go-to position for doing her homework. Looking at her, I saw flickers of Amy. I could watch her all day.

  Betsy’s form teacher had recommended a child psychiatrist and Richard wanted to explain to me and Mike what we should expect from the sessions. He suggested stopping by on his way home from school to discuss it with me in more detail.

  I glanced absentmindedly at the clock on the kitchen wall. Mike had a work thing that evening, so Mum and Auntie Sue were having the kids for tea, giving me a night off. Meeting Betsy’s headteacher to talk about her emotional well-being didn’t sound like the most fun way to spend a Friday night, but it did feel like something a responsible co-guardian would do. Besides, I was still curious about how close Richard and Amy had really been.

  As Betsy and I walked over to Mum’s, I daydreamed about what I should be planning for my weekend: a Friday night after-work blow-out, followed by a Saturday morning of penance in the gym, perhaps coffee or lunch with a friend, then maybe a blow-dry or facial to sort me out before doing it all over again that night. If it was nice weather, we might even spend Sunday at the beach, or out on the water. Chiara knew a lot of guys with boats, and there was always someone willing to welcome us aboard.

  I sighed. Hong Kong didn’t just feel like the other side of the world, it felt a lifetime away.

  Auntie Sue made a pot of tea and brought out fresh scones. She said Mum was u
pstairs, cleansing her chakras – I caught her eye and we shared a giggle. Lucas burst in, excitedly describing what he was planning on making for dinner. Auntie Sue nodded slowly, nervously biting her lip as he checked off a list of ingredients he would need. Hannah was quiet as usual, but there was something different about her.

  ‘Are you OK, sweetie?’ I asked her.

  She nodded in response, but I knew something was wrong. Maybe it was my maternal instinct finally kicking in, but I could see she was carrying an even bigger burden than usual, and I had just the technique for getting her to open up.

  I said my goodbyes and walked to the end of the street before taking out my phone:

  Do you want to talk about something? I texted Hannah.

  I need help, she replied.

  What kind of trouble was she in? My heart raced. The icon on the screen told me she was still typing. I waited for the next message.

  I think I’ve started my period and I don’t know what to do.

  I felt the familiar prick of tears and bit back a sob. This was not the time to feel grief. This was the time for sympathy, cuddles and a crash-course in sanitary products.

  I walked quickly to the chemist and bought a selection of towels, tampons and liners. On a whim, I also got her a scented candle and a lip gloss. As I paid, I realised part of me was flattered – of all the adults in her life, Hannah had chosen me to confide in.

  In my head, I started rehearsing the discussion we would have about what was happening to her body, although they’d probably done that at school. I remembered a cringe-worthy video they’d made us watch about how to insert a tampon, and shuddered at the memory. Maybe I should offer to take Hannah bra-shopping, too. I was going to nail this. This, I could handle. After all – I was the cool aunt.

  I ran back over to Mum’s: Auntie Izzy to the rescue. Hannah answered the door and pulled it half-closed, to give us some privacy. I handed her the bag.

  ‘Do you want me to come upstairs with you, and show you what’s in there?’

  Hannah’s face flushed red as she took the bag from me. ‘It’s OK, I know what to do. Thank you.’

  To my horror, the speech I had composed completely escaped me – I could not remember one single piece of the motherly advice I’d rehearsed in my mind moments ago. Just to make matters worse, I could feel the blush rising in my cheeks too, and wondered who was finding this more awkward. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK?’

  Hannah nodded weakly and went back inside, and my heart broke again.

  It wasn’t raining, and I decided to take the long way home to maximise my fresh air intake. I wandered aimlessly, telling myself that I had no clear destination or route in mind, until I found myself on the same street as Phil’s garage. It was the fourth time that week I’d ended up there.

  There was something pulling me here – a morbid curiosity? What was I hoping to find? Perhaps some answers to the growing list of questions I had about my sister, or a jolt of understanding. But when I caught a glimpse of Phil, I felt nothing but the empty expanse of the void that had grown between me and Amy.

  Back at Puffin Cottage, I opened my laptop. My heart sank when I saw an email from my boss, Toby, with Annabelle Taylor copied in. The bank had approved my three-month unpaid leave of absence, and Toby was now suggesting that the two junior client managers who worked for me could continue to handle my clients under Annabelle’s temporary supervision. I chewed a nail as I read the rest of his note. It all depended how long I planned to be away for, he said.

  It was a good question – how long was I going to be away? Did I trust Toby to keep my job waiting for me until I got back? What would I be going back to?

  The strange thing was that the longer I was away from work, the less I missed it. Even the thought of Annabelle worming her way into my accounts didn’t bother me so much these days. What did I actually enjoy about it? I had worked hard to get the high-value clients and the big corner office, but was it really bringing me any satisfaction? My career was like a hunger, a strange hunger where no matter how much I ate, I never felt full. And I had a voracious appetite. There was always another goal to chase, another target to hit and another bonus to push for, and never enough time to enjoy the achievement. But did it ever make me happy? Truly happy? Had I been missing something all along?

  It was as if I’d been wearing a pair of Louboutin stilettoes for a long time, and only now that I had taken them off could I feel how much they squeezed and pinched my feet. Maybe an extended break would help me get some perspective.

  Adam had emailed me – he’d found a friend of a friend who wanted to sublet my apartment. At first, the thought of someone else sleeping in my bed and using my stuff sat uneasily with me, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised it was just that: stuff. Meaningless objects. Puffin Cottage was starting to feel like home. Maybe I could stick around longer.

  I’d promised myself I would wait until after Richard arrived before opening the wine, but it was Friday night of what had been a long week, and Toby’s email had tipped me over the edge. What harm could one glass do? With a bit of luck, it would mellow me out enough to take Richard seriously. Child psychologist? There hadn’t been anything like that when we’d lost Dad. Or adult psychologists, for that matter. Who knew how differently things might have worked out if there had been.

  I went to freshen up, and couldn’t resist assessing myself in the bathroom mirror. My expensive dye job was growing out at the roots, betraying my natural hair colour to the world. I could even see a few greys that I could swear hadn’t been there before. And I desperately needed a facial. My once glowing complexion – the result of years of effort and investment in lasers, peels and injections – now looked dry and pale. Fine lines were becoming fully fledged wrinkles.

  I rummaged through my washbag for the tiny bottle of rosehip oil that usually restored me to some semblance of glowing. It was almost empty. Deep breaths, Izzy. I used the last of my Touche Éclat to cover up the shadows under my eyes and brushed a coat of mascara over my lashes, then went back downstairs before my own reflection made my cry.

  Something was niggling at me. Was it the embarrassment of misreading how much Hannah needed me, then forgetting my lines? Or was it the growing unease I had about Amy? Had I neglected my sister and allowed a gulf to grow between us, or had she been keeping secrets from everyone? I poured a second glass of wine and drank it in half the time it had taken me to finish the first.

  I heard the yard gate and seconds later the doorbell rang. I quickly downed the rest of my wine and put the dirty glass back in the cupboard out of sight.

  Richard was dressed in casual clothes – a zipped up chunky knit cardigan and jeans. He was wearing too much aftershave and holding a small bunch of flowers.

  ‘An official house-warming,’ he grinned, brandishing a bottle of wine in the other hand.

  I was grateful, but wine and flowers were a strange way to start a parent-teacher meeting. I took the bottle from him. ‘Tignanello – my favourite! How did you know…?’

  ‘I have to confess, I checked out your Instagram to get the inside scoop.’

  Who actually said things like ‘inside scoop’? I quickly turned my back so he wouldn’t see me smile and made a big deal of putting the flowers in water. Also, what was the point of Instagram-stalking if you told someone straight away? Richard was such a dork, it was actually quite sweet.

  ‘Will you have a glass?’

  I was keen to open the wine. There was nowhere locally that sold it, which meant Richard must have gone through quite an effort to procure it. Extra points that were definitely making up for the extra aftershave.

  We sat in the living room, each with a glass of wine in hand, Richard looking awkwardly at his feet.

  ‘You wanted to talk about Betsy?’ I reminded him.

  I took my first sip, not wanting to look over-eager, and wondered how long this might discussion might take.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, headteacher voice b
ack now. ‘We’re obviously quite concerned about what she’s been through, and how much there is for her to process and deal with. And while her support structure is going through a period of… adjustment’ – he gestured towards me – ‘we feel that a professional could help to guide her through some of those emotions.’

  He was trying to cushion my feelings. Should I be offended by this? Was he saying that I wasn’t doing a good job with Betsy?

  ‘I’m…’ I searched for the words. ‘I’m really trying my best with her – with all of them.’ The tears came from nowhere, catching me off-guard.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to upset you,’ Richard said, fumbling to put his wine down and retrieve a tissue from his pocket.

  I was crying as much for me as I was for failing Betsy. I knew I wasn’t good at the kids’ stuff, and hearing other people confirming it wasn’t especially hurtful, or even surprising. I thought of Hannah’s reaction to me trying to help her and realised it was silly, really. Then I remembered that I did have things to cry about – the life I’d lost, and the job I had worked so hard for that might not be waiting for me by the time I got back, if I ever got back… And the fact that my sister might have been murdered. And I got more upset when I realised that the things that had set me off were my hair and skin and the fact that I hadn’t tasted my favourite wine in weeks, which officially made me a superficial narcissist – and that made me bawl even more.

  I heard myself weeping and but I couldn’t stop myself, I couldn’t rein it back in. I tried to take deep breaths and choked on them.

  Richard carefully prised the glass from my hand and set it on the side table next to his. Kneeling on the floor in front of me, he placed one hand tenderly on my knee.

  Suddenly it all seemed vaguely ridiculous. This whole situation – Betsy’s headteacher, bringing me wine and flowers and telling me that she needed psychological help and me crying because my skin looked crappy – was hilarious. Richard’s expression morphed from concern to bemusement as my crying turned into laughter. Now who was the crazy one?