The woman from behind me in the supermarket queue struggles to get her tiny psychopath into his car seat and an old guy sits in an Audi wearing a crumpled suit jacket and looking like he might have fallen asleep waiting for his wife to do the shopping. There’s no one else around me.
COLD
IM NOT IN A CAR
My thumb freezes over my phone screen. I glance at the mirrored windows of the supermarket café. Are they inside? I picture myself going into the café and confronting whoever it might be, but the image of me ripping the phone from someone’s hands to find out they are texting their mum stops me. Stop being so paranoid. No one is watching you.
I type back:
Who is this?
And wait.
I don’t have to wait long, ‘Evelyn’ replies almost instantly.
YOU KNOW.
Still with the sickening sense someone is watching me, I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, put the car into reverse and start to pull out. Right on cue my head unit starts to ring with a call from a private number. When I punch ‘accept’ the call cuts off and my phone buzzes again. I slam on the brakes.
DON’T IGNORE ME
Someone walks in front of the car, making me jump. Just a posh-looking middle-aged woman in a quilted jacket who scowls at me for no apparent reason.
I don’t know who this is but you’re sick. We are grieving for my best friend. Leave me alone and delete this profile or I will call the police.
The bitch with the devil child pulls up behind me and taps the horn, forcing me to pull off with the phone still in my lap. I’m turning onto the main road when the head unit rings again, loud and persistent, only to cut off when I press ‘accept’. I pick up my phone and wedge it between my knees, trying to read the string of messages and not lose control of the car.
SHAME YOU HAD TO GO. I WAS ENJOYING THAT.
WHY DO YOU MAKE SUCH FACES? WHEN ALLS DONE,
YOU LOOK BUT ON A STOOL.
WHY THE LONG FACE, BECKY?
WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME?
WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME?
Letting out a growl of frustration I chuck the phone into the back seat and hit the Bluetooth button to disconnect from the car. I can hear it buzzing all the way back to Richard and Evie’s house and when I pull up outside there are fourteen missed calls from private numbers and two more messages.
YOU CAN’T IGNORE ME FOREVER.
My hands are shaking as I reverse onto the drive. I should just start up the car and drive to the police station, but I’m certain they won’t do anything but take a report and tell me to block the bastard, which is exactly what I’m going to do.
I type back Who is this? What do you want? in a last-ditch attempt to find out who is behind the profile but I’m not expecting the troll to come clean and give me their name and address. They reply instantly.
YOU COULD HAVE SAVED ME
Me? As in Evie?
YOUCOULDHAVESAVEDMEYOUCOULDHAVESAVEDME- YOUCOULDHAVESAVEDMEYOUCOULDHAVESAVEDME- YOUCOULDHAVESAVEDMEYOUCOULDHAVESAVEDME- YOUCOULDHAVESAVEDMEYOUCOULDHAVESAVEDME- YOUCOULDHAVESAVEDMEYOUCOULDHAVESAVEDME
Over and over it continues until I pull up the Evie profile and click ‘block’.
8
Evie
Piano music drifted into Evie’s bedroom from the reception hall downstairs. The party had begun. This was Evie’s favourite part of Mama and Papa’s parties, the part where the guests arrived in all of their finery, the women looking like shimmering angels and the men looking handsome in their fine suits. As the evening wore on inevitably the flowers would wilt, the swans beginning to look more like ducklings as make-up faded and eyes glassed over. Voices would become louder and everyone would seem that little bit more real and oh so slightly less appealing. For now, until the masks slipped, they would be ethereal.
She had found, after years of spying on her parents’ parties, that if she lay on her bedroom floor and opened her bedroom door just a crack, Evie could see the guests as they were escorted from the sweeping reception hallway to the entertaining room. Faces she recognised from the television and newspapers were greeted by Papa like old friends and Evie longed to be by his side, in her best party dress to be kissed on the cheek and congratulated on being the prettiest girl in the room. But she must wait a while, until Papa was engaged with his ‘guests’ before she could sneak downstairs for a peek. So for now she was lying flat on her stomach watching the guests arrive, waiting for her chance to sneak down and look around.
Her mother said the word ‘guests’ as though it were a cuss word, like it tasted nasty in her mouth, but Evie thought she must have imagined it because they liked the guests, didn’t they? Otherwise why would they be inviting them to a party? Unless maybe it was like her birthday party, when she had invited the whole class because even though some of the boys were a bit mean and rude she couldn’t bear to have left any of them out – not when the rest of the class would be talking about it for weeks. So maybe Mama secretly didn’t like some of the guests but she just didn’t want them to feel left out.
When she was certain the party was full enough for her not to be seen, Evie slipped into the ballroom, looking around immediately for signs of Papa. She couldn’t see him anywhere; he was always so busy at these parties that she was bound to be able to stay out of his sight.
Finally, she had a chance to look at the ballroom. It was magical. In the daytime the ballroom was too big and empty to be any fun. Her voice echoed around it and there was always a chill in the air. There was no such chill tonight. Everything was shimmering, bathed in a golden light. Tables and chairs adorned with cream silk and golden bows, feathered centrepieces, mirrors and pearls. The grand piano in the corner was being played by a man Evie recognised as Serge, who had come all the way from France. She had met him several times before and at first found him a little scary, with his wild curly hair and features too large for his face, always puffing on an awful cigarette. But he had been playful and kind to her, rubbing her hair and singing to her, and now she always looked forward to his visits to the house. Although Mama didn’t feel the same, she always seemed to regard Serge with exasperation. Evie had heard her refer to him as a ‘bloody liability’ to Papa who had only smiled and replied, ‘You know why he does these things, Monique. And it works, the whole world knows his name.’ Evie longed to go and see him now but Papa would certainly throw her out of the party if she went to join the musician, who had a woman on his lap already and a cigar the size of a rolled-up newspaper hanging from his upper lip.
Evie slipped through the crowd, mostly unseen in a sea of champagne drinkers, some swaying slightly to the music, others engaged in loud, lively conversation, swilling drink from their glasses so vehemently that it sloshed over the sides and splashed onto the shiny parquet floor where it would leave sticky marks for the cleaners who would be drafted in to restore order in the morning. Outside on the veranda more people gathered to smoke cigarettes and cigars under the watchful eye of the moon.
At the near side of the garden a young boy, maybe a couple of years older than Evie herself, played quietly under the oak tree. He was dressed in beige chinos and a white linen shirt and his gaze focused intently on the model of a soldier he held in his hand. Dark curls fell forwards into his eyes; Evie couldn’t see the colour but she imagined they were a vivid green, the exact same shade as hers. His face was tanned and set in a slight frown of concentration. Aside from her father, Evie thought he was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen.
The boy looked up, catching her off guard, and she didn’t have time to look away. He spotted Evie and lifted a hand in a half wave. Her head thought about waving back but her hand didn’t move. He gestured for her to come closer, to join him under the tree, and she forced her legs to propel her forwards, her heart hammering in her chest. How would she speak to him? What if she said something stupid and he laughed at her?
Evelyn Rousseau, if someone laughs at you they are not the kind of person whose opinion you should
court, Papa’s voice spoke in her mind. And yet she did care if this boy laughed, she cared very much, it seemed.
‘Hello,’ the boy said as she approached. ‘Who are you?’
Evie saw that his eyes were not the exact same shade of green as hers, but a clear cornflower blue, like the ocean on a calm day. She almost forgot to answer.
‘Evie,’ she said eventually. ‘Who are you?’
‘James Preston-Addlington Jr,’ he said, with the air of someone who introduced himself by full name on a daily basis. ‘My father is James Addlington and my mother is Daphne Preston. Who are your parents? Why are you wearing your pyjamas?’
Evie hesitated. She knew that telling the truth would likely impress the boy very much, after all it was her party he was at, her tree he was playing under. But Papa had told her very firmly that she was not to come to the party. If this boy tattled on her she would be in big trouble.
‘My mother is working in the kitchens,’ she lied quite easily. She had watched Mama do this for as long as she could remember; as long as you were confident in what you said most people would believe anything. And if there were difficult questions, a very simple ‘Oh darling, what does it really matter?’ would usually suffice.
‘Are you supposed to be out here with the guests?’ His tone was somewhat rude. Evie felt her chin lift defiantly, despite her best intentions to make a good impression.
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
The boy looked wrong-footed, as though he hadn’t expected to be challenged, or maybe because the answer was so obvious.
‘Well, because you’re with the help,’ he shrugged. ‘You shouldn’t be out here with the proper guests. You should be in the kitchen.’
‘I don’t see why,’ Evie replied, affronted. She had almost forgotten that her guise of a kitchen maid’s daughter was a lie. ‘I’m not working.’
‘Look,’ the boy smiled in an affable way. Five minutes ago Evie would have said it made him even more beautiful. Now she thought it an arrogant smile that she would very much like to wipe off his exquisite – no, conceited – face. ‘I’m not trying to be rude. I’m just letting you know, in case you didn’t, that there are certain social conventions at something like this. The guests stay out here, and the help, they stay in there,’ he gestured to the house. ‘In the kitchen, out of sight. Unless they are bringing drinks and things but even then they have to look smart, not in their pyjamas, and they shouldn’t really talk to the guests. I’m just trying to help you.’
At seven years old Evie had been brought up well enough to know what social conventions were. They were things like always saying please and thank you, not wiping your nose on your sleeve in company, smiling if someone thought they were making a joke, even if it wasn’t funny, and never, ever, saying bloody hell in front of grown-ups. She’d never once heard Mama or Papa saying that the kitchen staff should stay in the kitchen, or that they weren’t to talk to the guests. Goodness, Yasmin was like a part of the family!
‘But, but the kitchen staff are just normal people, like you and me.’
James Preston-Addlington Jr smiled again and this time Evie had to hold one hand in the other to stop it slapping his face.
‘Of course, they are. I’m not saying they aren’t. They just have to know their place, like everyone else. I know mine, and you must know yours. Everyone can’t be equal, can they? Some people just have to be better. I’m not being rude.’
‘Well you bloody are!’ Evie exclaimed, forgetting both the rule about cuss words and the rule about raising one’s voice. ‘You are being, being,’ she struggled for a word strong enough, ‘a bastard!’
The boy raised his hand to his cheek as though he had been slapped. Then, recovering quickly, he gave a curt nod.
‘See what I mean? Kitchen staff aren’t fit for decent company. You’d better get lost before I have your mother fired for what you just said to me.’
Evie could barely speak through her anger. She was desperate to let this horrid boy call his father, have them realise who she was and get him thrown out of her house. But then, she realised miserably, what would that prove? That she was a worthy person, not because she was a kitchen maid’s daughter, but because her father was Dominic Rousseau. The party ruined, Evie turned on her heels, stormed back into the house and upstairs to her room without stopping for her hot milk.
She sobbed hot angry tears until the lightest of knocks on her bedroom door.
‘You were at the party tonight, Evelyn Rousseau?’
Evie’s eyes widened and then dropped to the floor. So, the dog was out of the bag. She nodded and waited for the yelling to start.
Her father placed a finger under her chin and lifted her face so their eyes met.
‘What am I to expect? I raised a strong independent young lady, I shouldn’t be surprised when she uses that strength to disobey me.’
Evie thought of the party, of that awful boy who had made her feel so bad, and began to sob again. Papa, a shocked look on his handsome face, pulled her quickly to his chest.
‘Oh Evie, sweetheart, what is it? What did I say now? You must ignore me, I am a silly old goat who clearly knows nothing of the sensitivities of women. Ask your mother, I’m sure she has a folder detailing all the stupid things I have said to her.’
‘It’s not you, Papa,’ Evie sniffed between sobs. ‘At the party, there was a boy.’
‘Ouch. Boys already?’ Dominic Rousseau held his daughter at arm’s length. ‘I must admit I thought I had a few more years before negotiating this particular obstacle. So tell me, my love, what is the name of the boy I am to have killed?’
Evie smiled and wiped her tears onto a now grubby sleeve. ‘Papa.’
‘Okay fine, I’ll just have Phillip rough him up a bit. No?’ he widened his eyes and Evie laughed. ‘So tell me, what a father is to do when a boy makes his little princess cry? What did he do to you, angel Evie?’
‘He said mean things.’
‘About the most beautiful girl in the world? What could he possibly say?’
‘It wasn’t about me, Papa,’ Evie sighed impatiently. ‘He thought I was one of the service lady’s daughters.’
‘And why did he think that?’
‘Because I told him I was,’ Evie mumbled. She set her jaw defiantly. ‘And he said I had no place being with, with . . .’ she struggled to remember the words. ‘With the high classes. With important people.’
Dominic’s lip curled in amusement. ‘So why does this make you so sad, Evie? You know that you are not the daughter of the service lady. You know who you are.’
‘But Papa, what he said . . . do you believe it’s true? Do you believe that I would be less important if you and Mama worked on service? Would I be less worthy?’
Now her papa was smiling properly and Evie felt a swell of anger at him now, as well as the boy.
‘You should take me seriously, Papa.’
‘Oh Evie, I do.’ He rearranged his face into a sombre expression. ‘My child, I am smiling because you speak with the wisdom of someone five times your seven years. There are those within our circles who believe that people with money and status are worth more than those without. Ah, wait a minute,’ he held up a finger at her indignant expression. ‘I didn’t say I was one of them. Your outrage shows me what kind of heart you have, Evelyn, and the boy’s words, well they may not be a sign of his heart but more a product of his upbringing. Remember, a child will be soaking in opinions and ideas from their parents since they were a very small baby. You cannot hope to change these in one party.’
‘Then how do I change them, Papa?’
‘You must find a way to make people see the world from behind your eyes. And don’t ever let the world change what you see. We love who we love, Evelyn, without class or status, creed or colour and without fear. And when they are stripped back, the heart of a person who holds a tray is equal to that of those who eat from it. Don’t ever let anyone tell you what you are worth. You must discover that for yourself.
’
9
Rebecca
My hands still feel slightly shaky as I knock on Richard’s front door, still reeling from the messages.
You could have saved me.
Who was trying to blame me for what happened to Evie?
When Richard opens the door he grins.
‘Finally – the food delivery. I ordered it hours ago,’ he jokes, then looks down at my empty hands. ‘Where’s the food?’
‘Erm,’ I look down stupidly. ‘I left it in the boot.’
‘Okaaay,’ he says, his eyebrows furrowing and concern filling his brown eyes. ‘Do you want a hand with it?’
‘Oh, um, yes please.’
He turns to put something down and it’s not until we are returning with the bags of shopping that I see what it was. It explains his good mood at least – a bottle of beer.
‘Have you been drinking?’
Richard glances back guiltily. ‘Just a couple.’
‘Richard, it’s one in the afternoon. I thought things were getting better. I thought you were—’
He lifts the shopping bags from the boot and turns to me.
‘Well I thought I was entitled to a drink, considering I am on my honeymoon.’
Instantly I feel terrible. Today was supposed to be Evie and Richard’s honeymoon, of course it was. They had deferred the trip because of Richard’s work, so instead of heading off straight after the wedding they’d had to book for a month or so later. Today, it appeared. I sigh.
‘God, I’m sorry. I completely forgot. Do you want me to go?’
Richard shrugs, as though he couldn’t care less, which stings a bit. I don’t know many of his other friends who would basically take on the task of keeping him alive while he drowned in his grief. No pun intended.
The Night She Died Page 3