‘Something happened that weekend that made her want to die. I saw her when she got back, she was practically catatonic.’
A memory occurs to me. ‘I called Dominic that day, I was so worried about her. He told me that she’d split up with her boyfriend in Wareham, a boyfriend I never even knew about. Why wouldn’t he mention if he died? He had no reason to keep it from me, and neither did Evie for that matter. And why would she come home at all if her boyfriend had just been killed in a fire?’
‘If anyone died at a party she was at it’s hardly surprising that she was upset.’
‘But upset enough to try to kill herself? And for Dominic not to tell me that anyone had even died? That only makes sense if . . .’ I leave the sentence to trail off, but Richard finishes it for me.
‘If she was involved, or knew what really happened.’ His brow furrows in that way I always find endearing, as though he is trying to work out a really difficult maths problem in his head. ‘What was the name of the man who died?’
I pretend to scan the article, even though I already know all of this. ‘It says here it was James Addlington.’
52
Evie
She had reached the kitchen and was pouring wine into a glass so quickly it splashed up over the sides when she heard Camille’s voice call her name.
‘Evie?’ She turned to see her rival, a slow smile spreading over her angular face. What James saw in her Evie would never know. ‘I thought it was you. It’s been a while.’
‘Camille,’ Evie forced a smile onto her face but her voice was laced with acid. Just the sight of her reminded Evie how much they had hated one another at school. ‘I was passing by, I popped in to say congratulations. I didn’t realise you were having a party, my apologies.’
‘Not at all,’ Camille replied graciously. ‘Come, I’d like to speak to you.’
‘Oh, I was just going—’
‘I insist.’
Evie followed Camille into a side room. Long pillar candles sat on an oak desk next to more large glass doors and Camille moved to light them. The walls were lined with bookshelves, mahogany furniture and heavy scarlet curtains out of keeping with the modern décor in the rest of the house – this must be James’ father’s study.
‘Look,’ Evie started. ‘I didn’t come here for any trouble.’
‘And yet here you are. You disappear mysteriously from school, no one sees you for nearly a year and you turn up days after James and I announce our engagement. What a coincidence.’
Hearing the words ‘James and I’ coming from Camille was like a punch to the stomach. There was no denying it now, she had seen it with her own eyes. Camille had won, Evie had lost and it stung like a bitch. Anger surged through her and alcohol loosened her tongue. She took a swig of the wine she was holding and practically slammed it back down on the desk.
‘Yes, your engagement. How does it feel to have my sloppy seconds, Camille? Does he ever whisper my name when he fucks you?’
Camille wrinkled up her nose. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘You’re ugly,’ Evie retorted. ‘At least I’ll be sober tomorrow.’
‘Very mature,’ Camille spat. ‘Look at the state of you. Just like your mother. At least Monique managed to trap your father when she got knocked up. How did that plan work out for you?’
The words were like a slap to the face and the smirk died on Evie’s lips.
‘I don’t know what you think you know . . .’
‘I don’t think,’ Camille replied. ‘I know. James told me all about it. Poor deluded Evelyn Rousseau, thinking that her and her bastard child can trap an Addlington. You must have been desperate.’
Furious tears pricked at the corners of her eyes but she blinked them back. She would not cry in front of Camille, not even angry tears, but for once in her life she didn’t have a comeback. Here she was, spending hours on a train, travelling hours to see a man who had mocked her, described her as desperate. Suddenly she longed to be back in London, in Rebecca’s poky student digs, both of them lying on her single bed watching Porky’s for the millionth time, or dipping their feet in the memorial fountain while eating huge ice-creams and making fun of men’s paper-white legs. What was she doing here, in a place that had always made her feel like she wasn’t good enough?
Camille smirked. ‘What, no witty comeback? Why don’t you go and get yourself another drink? Maybe that will make everything better.’
Evie clutched at the desk behind her as stinging hot bile rose in her throat. Her hand flew to her mouth but she knew she couldn’t hold it back for long. She turned, looking desperately for something to be sick in, and dropped to her knees next to a plant pot. Camille made a disgusted noise in her throat.
‘Oh God,’ she said, her face a picture of contempt. ‘Look at you! You’re a pathetic, disgusting mess. Go back to London, Evie. No one misses you here.’
Without another word, Camille gave a satisfied smile and left Evie on her knees.
53
Rebecca
‘Addlington,’ Richard repeats. ‘This can’t be a coincidence, right? The fact that the fake Evie profile was friends with Camille Addlington, and here she is again, in connection with a fire that Evie was under investigation for.’
‘Well, Thomas never exactly said she was under investigation . . .’
He ignores me. ‘Do you think she’s the one who sent the blackmail letters?’
‘I think it’s possible,’ I say slowly. ‘But those letters you found, well they weren’t blackmailing her, were they? I mean, they said I hope you didn’t think you’d got away with it but they never asked for anything. Money or otherwise.’
‘It doesn’t sound like Camille needed money though,’ Richard says. ‘She would have inherited all Addlington’s money, the house probably too.’
‘So what was the point of the letters?’
‘To scare her, maybe? I don’t know,’ Richard rubs his face. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. None of it. If Evie hadn’t done anything wrong, then why was she such a mess when she came back to uni? But if she had . . .’
He tails off and I notice the box that Evie’s letters had been in.
‘What’s the box?’
‘It’s the box to Evie’s camera – the one she stored away and never used. It’s empty, I can’t find the camera up there anywhere but the letters were in there. What do you think that means?’
‘It’s just a camera, and an old crappy one at that. Maybe she threw it away?’
‘She wouldn’t, I asked her if she still needed it when we moved our stuff here and she said she’d never throw it out, even though it didn’t work any more. She was so cagey about it I didn’t ask again.’
‘Maybe she sent it to be repaired or cleaned and never picked it up. Maybe she lent it to someone – you know how generous she could be with her things. Or maybe it’s in the loft, or the shed, or one of the other hundred places she would put things down and not away. I don’t know, I can’t see how it has any relevance to anything.’
Richard sighed. ‘You’re right, it’s got to be here somewhere. And even if it isn’t, she wasn’t holding it when she jumped off that cliff so I don’t suppose it makes much difference.’ He looks like he might cry.
‘Perhaps we should get in touch with Camille,’ he suggests after a silence.
‘No,’ I snap, then when he looks at me sharply I add: ‘You heard Thomas. If she was the one sending the letters she could be charged with manslaughter. She’s not going to just admit it was her, is she?’
Even though Richard nods his agreement I know this isn’t the end of it. The snowball started rolling down the hill the minute Richard found out about the man Evie was arguing with, her pregnancy and all this, the blackmail letters, the fire, it’s just gathering size and pace. But I know that when we speak to Camille Addlington there will be no going back. Because she knows almost as much about what happened in Evie’s past as me – maybe more.
54
Evie
But this man – although bearing an uncanny resemblance to James – was older, Evie realised. Was this his father? She tried to bring to mind the image of the man she had met when she was just nine years old but she could remember nothing of what he looked like. This man was smartly dressed in expensive grey suit trousers and a navy shirt, he looked around the same age as her own father. Was this who Dominic Rousseau hated so much? Before she could begin her explanation of what she was doing in his study he took a couple of unsteady steps towards her and she realised he was just as drunk as she was – in fact he looked worse.
He looked her up and down, a sore thumb in her jeans and blazer, yet he looked unfazed by her presence.
‘Well, this party just got a lot more interesting,’ his voice was thick with alcohol, his words slurring into one another. ‘Who are you?’
‘I was just leaving,’ Evie said, ignoring the question. He took a step closer than was comfortable and she put a hand on his chest to ease him to one side. James Sr stood firm.
‘So soon?’ he lifted his own hand to hers and removed it from his chest, but he didn’t let go. A dangerous tension buzzed between them. ‘I could use some cheering up and don’t you look just the type of woman who knows how to cheer a man up.’
He didn’t know who she was, and why would he? The last time he had seen her she’d been a nine-year-old girl at the home of a former friend. Plus he’d been sober then. She’d never admit it to anyone afterwards but the thought of having sex with James’ father briefly crossed her mind. Yes, he was older but he was attractive, rich, powerful – and wouldn’t that be the ultimate revenge? Sex was no longer anything special to Evie, memories of her first time forever tarnished by what had come next. Now sex was a weapon, to be given out or withheld on her terms.
‘Oh yes?’ she asked, tilting her chin to meet his eyes. ‘And why would you need cheering up? This is your party, isn’t it? Your son is engaged, it’s a happy day.’
James Sr scowled. ‘It might be, if it weren’t for the manipulative shrew he’s chosen to marry. She’s a real bitch. Wait,’ his eyes sparkled mischievously and Evie’s stomach leapt at how much he reminded her of his son. ‘She’s not your cousin, is she?’
Evie smiled. ‘No, she’s not. We don’t exactly see eye to eye.’
James Sr moved over to the desk where he poured himself a glass of whisky, the candles swaying dangerously as he returned the decanter to the tray a tad too heavily.
‘I can imagine you don’t,’ he replied, taking a swig. Evie wondered if he would be as loving and tender as his son. Doubtful. She’d met men like him since starting university – his type either liked it rough or wanted to be dominated. Either way she was probably going to give him what he wanted. ‘She wouldn’t like you at all. I don’t see what James sees in her at all. Far too bony for my liking.’
‘And what is your liking?’ He was coming towards her again and she wished he’d stop swaying. Or was that her? She blinked a couple of times; no, she was definitely standing still.
‘Not some money-grabbing tent pole. Saying that, she’s a lot less problematic than the last one.’
Evie froze. ‘The last one?’
‘Yeah, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Then she went and got herself—’
‘Okay, so I have to go.’ If he said the words she might vomit again. She turned to leave but he grabbed her arm.
‘Where are you going? Did I say something? I thought we were going to have some fun.’ He ran his other hand up her arm, cupping a hand around the back of her neck. Evie smelt the whisky on his breath and her stomach turned. ‘You are very beautiful,’ he murmured.
‘But problematic,’ she replied, trying to wriggle free of his grip. James Sr didn’t appreciate the reference.
‘I could make this the best party you’ve ever been to,’ his lips were so close now that his breath was warm on hers. ‘I’ll lock the door and I’m yours all night. No one will notice, the amount of free alcohol they’ve all been guzzling.’
‘I tell you what,’ Evie replied, moving another half an inch closer. She couldn’t see the look in his eyes but she could feel his arousal elsewhere. ‘How about I go and freshen up while you make yourself comfortable and I’ll be yours all night.’
James Sr raised his eyebrows. It was a mark of how used to getting his own way he was that he didn’t question the willingness of a girl half his age to throw herself at his erection.
‘That sounds like a perfect idea. And to think, I came in here for a nap.’
‘Sounds like your lucky night,’ Evie muttered as she broke away from his grasp. She watched him slide onto the leather two-seater. ‘Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘Damn right you will.’ Evie closed the door behind her and turned the key in the lock as quietly as she could. She slipped it into her pocket and grinned. ‘Now that’s what you call problematic, asshole.’
55
Rebecca
That first afternoon Richard and I talked for hours. Him about his course, and his ambitions – he was going to start his own business, something to do with computers that I didn’t really understand – and me about Evie. I didn’t even realise I’d been doing it, Evie says this, Evie thinks that, until about an hour after we first met he sat back in his chair and looked at me as though I was growing an extra head.
‘What? What is it?’
‘I was just wondering . . . I’m not treading on any toes here, am I? I mean, if you and this Evie are an item I don’t want to . . .’ he let the sentence trail off and I felt my cheeks burn as his words sank in.
‘Oh God, no, it’s nothing like that, I mean we’re not together,’ I sighed. ‘Have I really been talking about her that much?’
Richard gave me a regretful nod, his mouth a thin line, but I could tell he was amused.
‘Afraid so. At one point I thought Evie was the name of your car and you were trying to sell it to me.’
I laughed a little too loud, desperate to mask my discomfort. Inside I was mortified. Was Evie all I had that I felt was interesting enough to talk about? I’d always joked about her being the ‘better half’ but was it true? Was Evie the best thing about me?
It couldn’t be true. I’d made friends before her, I’d had a life and made conversation and kept boyfriends before I’d ever met Evelyn White. So why couldn’t I start a conversation without the words ‘Evie says’?
‘How about we start over?’ Richard said, rising out of his chair. ‘I’ll get us another drink and you can tell me about who you are when Evie is nowhere to be found.’
I nodded, mentally kicking myself for sounding like such a total weirdo. That’s it, Rebecca, I told myself. No more of the whole cling-on routine. Be you.
And yet it was still Evie’s voice that pushed my own to one side, always with something cooler, some better advice to offer.
Yes darling, Evie said in the fake Parisian luvvie voice she used when she was imitating her mother. Be you, only more faaaabulous.
We sat in the Student Union until the music increased in volume and the DJ began to set up his equipment. Richard blinked and looked at his watch.
‘Christ, did you know it was gone eight?’
I shook my head. In the empty gloom of the badly lit canteen it could have been the middle of the night and we’d never have realised.
‘Give it a couple of hours and this place will start filling up with pissheads. Are you hungry?’
I hadn’t been, but right on cue my stomach gurgled. ‘Apparently so.’
‘What do you fancy?’
Right from the start Richard Bradley was completely at ease in my company, and after just a few short hours,
I in his. He told me afterwards that he’d never once in his life just started talking to a pretty girl – his words – and ended up spending the entire evening in her company. Things like that just didn’t happen to a computer programmer slightly shy of 5’9 and with a wonky nose. I told him his nose wasn’t wonky, even though it was a bit but that didn’t matter to me in the slightest. Every minute we spent together over the next week he became more attractive to me until, when I looked at him, I was amazed I hadn’t fallen for him instantly and I realised that – oh Christ – I was falling in love.
It was funny though, I’d never been in love before, unless you count Steve the bass guitarist, which by this time I firmly did not. In fact I only ever remembered Steve as being the reason I had Evie. (Predictably, without my notes to copy from, he had dropped out after our first set of exams.) I didn’t have the worldly experience that Evie did when it came to the opposite sex – her first lover had been an older boy she had once told me when we were stoned, and he’d taught her everything there was to know about pleasure – and yet I knew that Richard was going to fall in love with me too. The way everything seemed to progress so easily from that very first afternoon, to meeting me after my classes, to spending the night. Within two days we were a couple, within a week we were inseparable.
When I couldn’t stand not talking to anyone about my new boyfriend I sent her a text in what I thought was an ironic girly way.
I met a boy. He’s not cool or hip or irresistible but I think I like him.
I hadn’t expected her to reply but she’d texted back a few hours later.
Sounds perfect (???) Don’t get married until I get back x
I promise. How are things at home?
Mainly zzzzz. Cant wait to hear about your uncool unhip boyfriend ;-)
The Night She Died Page 16