She lingered in the hallway, noting the framed caricatures of political figures, the table and radiator cover stacked haphazardly with post and newspapers, while at the foot of the stairs Nina called up to her son that she was home. Not receiving an answer, she turned to Tabby to say, ‘Come down to the kitchen, we might as well have a cup of tea.’ While you prove that you have nothing meaningful to say to me, was the implication.
Tabby readily accepted the offer; though she’d had two coffees in the café while she’d waited, she thought it might buy her a longer interview if she did. No one threw you out when your mug was still full. Taking a seat at the table, an old scrubbed thing bearing the ancient marks of children’s felt-tips and fresher red-wine rings, she couldn’t help thinking of the scene Emmie had described of her own kitchen interrogation, the one held in Sarah’s basement. She was determined not to let Nina intimidate her. They had no personal connection, they would never see each other again after this.
Nina delivered the mugs of tea and sat directly opposite her, blue eyes meeting her visitor’s with a certain pitiless indifference. ‘So how can I help? You said it was about Arthur?’
‘Actually, it’s more about Emmie.’
‘Who’s Emmie?’
Tabby was taken aback, before she remembered that the name was a fabrication and not a commonly used nickname. ‘I mean Emily, sorry. Emily Marr.’
‘Oh.’ Instantly, Nina’s lips thinned and her vivid eyes seemed to darken. ‘What about her?’
‘Well, I’ve got to know her quite well recently and, the thing is, she’s very upset.’ The words sounded absurdly understated – she’d be ejected before she started at this rate – and so she began again, this time more boldly: ‘More than that, she’s having some sort of nervous breakdown. I’m really worried she might self-harm or do something really terrible.’
‘Makes a change from harming other people, I suppose. And unless you’ve been living on the moon, you’ll know she’s already done something really terrible.’ Not blinking, Nina raised an eyebrow and took a sip from her tea. In the face of such aloofness Tabby began describing some of Emmie’s symptoms, struggling with feelings of betrayal as she did. ‘She won’t stop crying, she hardly eats, she can’t work any more. I found her on the floor, completely hysterical. She feels the whole world hates her and she’ll never be forgiven.’
‘I find that very hard to believe,’ Nina said, unmoved. ‘She’s probably just acting, trying to get your sympathy. She’s extremely manipulative, you know. She can persuade people to do whatever she tells them.’
‘I’ve never met anyone less manipulative!’ Tabby said, her voice shrill with outrage, but Nina merely looked down at her tea as if she might fathom in its depths what on earth it was she was doing here, sitting with this ridiculous person when there were so many more pressing errands to turn her mind to. Tabby composed herself. ‘I know it’s your job to write about people in… in strong terms, and I’m sure some of them have got it coming to them, but not Emily. She’s not a politician or someone used to that sort of attack, she’s an innocent member of the public. She didn’t deserve it.’
‘Innocent?’ Over the top of the mug, Nina’s eyes narrowed with displeasure. ‘That’s the last word I’d use to describe that woman.’
‘I mean innocent of any actual crime. You have to admit that, surely? She had an affair, that was all, but you wrote up the inquest as if she was in the dock. She was never on trial for anything, was she?’
‘I’m impressed with your grasp of the basic premise of a coroner’s court,’ Nina said, regarding her with a new expression, somewhere between indulgence and disdain, which made Tabby feel very small.
‘But she didn’t make Sylvie Woodhall do what she did, did she?’
At her friend’s name Nina roused herself, sensing perhaps that her visitor would simply go on in this vein until forcibly halted. ‘Yes, she did. That’s the point that you seem to have missed. Emily directly caused Sylvie to drink far more than she was used to and to take a sleeping pill because she was so overwrought she couldn’t get any rest without it. These acts would not have taken place without Emily having said the things she said that evening: that is a fact.’
‘But how can —?’ Tabby began, but Nina was in her flow now and not to be interrupted.
‘Emily filled her with such fear about the future of her family that she thought she had no choice but to tear off back to London the second she woke up. She lost consciousness at the wheel, did you know that?’ At the sight of Tabby’s uncertain response, Nina made a rough, exasperated noise. ‘I can’t believe I’m even discussing this with you. You obviously don’t know the first thing about it.’
‘That was only a theory, wasn’t it, that she passed out at the wheel?’
‘Only a theory? The coroner accepted it as the most probable cause of death!’ Nina’s face darkened with a terrible anger. ‘How dare you come here and spout about that disgusting woman’s innocence? I’ll tell you who was innocent in this: the three people who died.’
Tabby nodded, lowered her eyes in humility. This was not going well. ‘What I mean is, she didn’t have to drive, did she? Knowing she might be over the limit, she could have waited, or got the train.’
‘The train? Is this some sort of joke? She didn’t sit there pondering her travel options like she was going to the beach for a picnic! She needed to get to her husband as fast as was humanly possible and save her marriage!’
‘But she didn’t have to take the boys with her. They were adults, old enough to stay on their own.’
‘Which shows how little you know about parenting teenage boys,’ Nina sneered.
Tabby was puzzled. ‘One was already eighteen, wasn’t he? Couldn’t he have been left in charge? And even if the younger one was seventeen, I remember going on holiday with friends on our own when I was that age.’ It had been a highlight, as she recalled, providing as it did a week’s respite from Steve.
But Nina neither knew nor cared about Tabby’s adolescent troubles. She glared at her, a full-beam bearing-down that made her previous surveillance seem benign, and it was all Tabby could do not to crumple under the savage heat of it. ‘I’m not sure it’s relevant what your parents chose to do with you – it’s certainly of no interest – but I imagine Sylvie wanted her family all in one place. She may not have been as clear-thinking as she should have been, but her instinct on that point must have been very strong. She didn’t want to separate from them at the very time she was fighting to hold them together. And leaving them behind still wouldn’t have saved her life, would it? She would still have gone off the road. Or do you not consider her life as significant in any way? Just some middle-aged woman with her best years behind her? So long as the kids lived, who cares? Well, I’ve got news for you, “Emmie’s” friend: none of them lived.’
Frightened now, Tabby battled to conceal her powerlessness. ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m sure all their lives were equally precious. I’m just saying Emmie can’t be held responsible for the loss of them. In the end, it was an accident.’
Nina chuckled with a cold pity for her dim-witted visitor. ‘She’s obviously worked her charms on you, hasn’t she? How did you meet her? I’m interested to know.’
‘Just by chance. Our paths crossed.’
‘That’s what happened to poor Sylvie. Are you married?’ Her tone was brittle, utterly unforgiving. Tabby knew she could achieve nothing here and yet she felt magnetised by Nina, unable to remove her gaze, much less her whole self.
‘No, I’m single.’ What this woman would say if she knew Tabby had casually acquired a married man for a holiday fling didn’t bear thinking about. Who was Noémie’s Nina? Might she too have a plan for her friend’s betrayer? Were her own problems actually just beginning?
‘Probably just as well, I’d say. Where’s she working now?’
Regretful of her previous outpouring of personal information about Emmie, Tabby checked herself. ‘For
obvious reasons, she doesn’t want anyone to know that.’
Nina pushed her seat back from the table and Tabby took a few gulps of her own full mug in the hope of gaining an extension. It worked: Nina poured herself a second mugful from the teapot and returned. ‘Look, I’m not sure I really understand the purpose of this visit. I’ve met Emily’s supporters before, you know, and they always try to convince me she’s wonderful. This is slightly barmier than usual, but it’s nothing new.’
Tabby thought hard. It was clear now that if she wanted to make her request she would need to make it soon. ‘I just wanted… I just thought it was time someone stood up for her. Everything you wrote, and all the other reporters, as well, it wasn’t balanced. It didn’t take into account her side of the story. It incited unnecessary bad feeling.’
‘“Incited unnecessary bad feeling”? What is this, a one-woman press inquiry? I’m sorry we didn’t meet your exacting editorial standards, but I’m afraid you’re just going to have to live with the injustice. There’s always the Press Complaints Commission if you’re really offended – I can give you their email address?’ Nina sniggered unpleasantly. ‘It’s months ago now, anyway. That’s a very long time in news, I can tell you, and practically a century in internet terms.’
‘Not for her, for her it’s still current! The thing is, it ruined her life. She feels as if she can never come back.’
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ Nina said, and, indeed, was no longer doing so. ‘She got off lightly compared to Sylvie and the boys. And why would she want to “come back”? You mean to the Grove? She’d be insane to show her face around here, even now.’ There was a sudden catch in Nina’s voice. ‘Listen, as I say, this story has gone cold. The only people who still care are Sylvie’s family and friends, and we can do without some goody-two-shoes going around running a PR campaign for Emily Marr. I can save you a lot of bother by telling you it’s going to fall on deaf ears and you might as well cut your losses and give up.’
She was right. Tabby’s dreams of persuading her to write a more positive story about Emily were too childish to voice. Which left her to her original mission: appealing to Arthur. And the likelihood of Nina being willing to disclose his new whereabouts was virtually nil.
‘So Arthur doesn’t live on the Grove any more, either?’
‘No. He sold up after the inquest. I don’t blame him.’ But there was no warmth in Nina’s tone, no compassion, and Tabby understood she meant life would have been a misery for him if he’d remained among Sylvie’s friends, Sylvie’s mourners. And yet he was both, too, wasn’t he, whatever Nina chose to think? His life was a misery wherever he lived it. Tabby recalled Emmie’s torment at not being able to comfort him.
‘It must be awful for him,’ she said. ‘Whatever he did, he still lost his wife and sons. That doesn’t happen to every man who has an affair. It’s a terrible, terrible punishment.’
Nina sighed in grudging accord. ‘I agree with you on that point, yes. But he’ll be all right, in time, take my word for it. As you must be well aware from your new pal, there’s always someone willing to console men like him.’
That meant he had a new girlfriend, Tabby realised; perhaps she was even implying he would have a new family, a second chance. She thought of poor Emmie in the house in France. She’d thought she was his second chance, but now her desolation was such that she couldn’t be in the same country as him.
‘Where is he now?’ she asked Nina. ‘Is he still in London?’
‘You tell me. Why would I have any idea what their address is?’ Nina looked as if she’d just been struck: pain suffused her face, her eyes became wet and shiny. ‘Their’, she’d said, and Tabby guessed she’d been thinking of the Woodhall family as it used to be, a set of plurals, a couple and their children. How long did it take for such instincts to adjust? Did they ever?
Next time she looked, Nina had recovered herself. ‘Why did you do it?’ Tabby blurted, sensing that the meeting might soon be terminated. ‘Why did you write those articles, make her into some sort of public enemy? You could have done it privately. You’d still have got rid of her.’
Nina regarded her with new interest. At last, here was a question that challenged her. ‘I see how this is,’ she said slowly. ‘You think I should be sorry for doing it. You want to punish me, get me to punish myself by printing some sort of apology.’
This had been Tabby’s hope exactly, but now the idea had been explicitly stated she saw how inadequate it would be, even in the miraculous event of Nina agreeing to it. What good were a few words buried somewhere in a newspaper where no one would notice them? She thought of Emmie and the sheaves of cuttings spread out around her, the vitriolic headlines about her. What she needed was retraction on the same scale, and that could never be achieved. The clock could not be turned back.
‘Do you really not see,’ Nina said, ‘that I’ve had my punishment? All of us who knew and loved Sylvie and the boys, we’ve been punished for every single one of our bad deeds, ten times over. We’ve lost far more than Emily has. No loved one of hers died in the crash.’
No, but Arthur might as well have, Tabby thought, because Emmie mourned him like a death.
Nina stood, signalling that Tabby’s audience with her was at an end. ‘Look, if you want to know where Arthur is, all you have to do is ask her.’
‘You mean Emmie? She’s the last person who’d know,’ Tabby said.
Nina made a sharp barking sound that Tabby realised was laughter – the sound of mocking amusement. ‘Oh, Tabitha, what on earth are you doing getting involved in this? You’re clearly out of your depth and don’t know Emily half as well as you seem to think. Now, I’m sorry, but I really must catch up with my family and then get on with some work. I have a deadline in the morning.’
Tabby stood and followed her to the front door. ‘Thank you for your help. I know you’re very busy.’
‘Glad to be of service,’ Nina said mechanically, and even before Tabby had cleared the first step, she could hear the journalist’s heels stalking back down the hallway, no split-second hesitation, no trace of self-doubt.
There was nothing left but to try Arthur’s private practice in Harley Street. His biography remained on the Marylebone Eye Clinic website, though the last entry in the Staff News section was months ago and it was possible his departure was among the updates yet to be made. Or perhaps he remained a business party without seeing any patients? She decided she would learn by Emmie’s mistakes and bypass the phone in favour of an investigation in person.
It was almost six o’clock, however, and the clinic line offered only recorded information about consulting hours and the suggestion she contact the hospital by email. She realised she would have to wait till morning, no bad thing given how she felt after the encounter with Nina: not so much demoralised as war-torn. It was a surprise, when she next looked at her reflection, not to see blood. Searching online for a local hotel, her eye was caught at once by a name she recognised: the Inn on the Hill near the train station. Walking there, it was hard not to think of Emmie in her glamorous earlier guise, the erotic wiggle in her step as she made her way to those longed-for assignations with Arthur, dressed in the vintage skirts and blouses he liked so much, the high heels and candy-pink lipstick. What was it Emmie described herself as? A confection, that was it: sweet, mouth-watering, edible.
It was a Tuesday, the place was near-empty, and so she was able to negotiate a cheap rate. Checking in, she wondered if it was the same member of staff who had checked Emmie and Arthur in and out, trained to treat their separate arrivals and exits as nothing untoward. On the wall was a framed feature from one of the glossy magazines: ‘Boltholes for Bad Girls’, a guide to the best hotels for dirty weekends. The Inn on the Hill had made it on to the map thanks to Emmie, of course: ‘No longer as clandestine a choice as it once was, having been revealed as the favoured hideaway of Emily Marr and her married lover Arthur Woodhall. Best room: a little bird tells us Marr and Woodhall favoured “M
arrakech”, with its huge wrought-iron bed and copper en suite fittings.’ For once, a piece of reporting that was accurate, thought Tabby.
She was becoming aware of an underlying thrill in the retracing of her famous friend’s steps, in verifying the knowledge that the low-key, defensive woman who barely allowed herself to make eye contact with other people had so recently been a notorious femme fatale, albeit just for a few weeks. She was gaining a sense of what it might be like to be one of Emmie’s ‘fans’, the ones whose admiration she grew to fear as much as she did the loathing of her detractors. Perhaps it was less problematic to consider herself, instead, a pilgrim.
Either way, it was a relief to be handed the key not for Marrakech but for Stockholm, a compact, pale single at the back of the building.
She was in Harley Street for 9 a.m. It was a smaller clinic than she’d expected, with no open-door access to reception, but she benefited from the fact that a member of staff was just arriving and held the door for her. The receptionist was on the phone, evidently consoling a caller over some misunderstanding to do with eye drops, and Tabby kept a discreet distance from the desk. She took the opportunity to look about her. It was a beautiful property, its original architectural features stylishly restored, the floors polished and glossy. The few waiting patients Tabby could see sipped mineral water and read Tatler or The Economist. How different from the overcrowded scene at St Barnabas’ that Emmie had described. Tabby wondered what kind of a man it took to move between the two environments without being distracted by the injustice of it. (And then there was the West African charity: presumably, conditions there must make St Barnabas’ look like Harley Street.) Standing there, she had a sudden and acute sense of identification with Emmie; how could girls like the two of them have a chance at success in this world? Just because you had nothing, it didn’t mean you were worth nothing, deserved nothing. Perhaps the truth was that you deserved more?
The Disappearance of Emily Marr Page 35