by Emma Rowley
Sabrina and I stand by the net, my damp T-shirt cooling against my skin.
“She’s a bit of a sore loser,” says Sabrina. And she laughs, like it’s funny.
“You’re not kidding,” I say. There was nothing jokey about Olivia’s show just then.
Josh is lingering at the back of the court, smashing balls into the net to collect them.
I lower my voice. “Is something up with her?”
“Well, we all like to win.”
“I know, but—she seemed angry.”
She raises her eyebrows. “You really do want to know everything about her, don’t you? Oh, don’t tell me—you’re not just a writer,” she says loudly, so Josh can hear as he walks over to us. She smiles unpleasantly. “You’re a fan.”
“Never mind.” I turn away, annoyed. I don’t know what was up with Olivia tonight, but Sabrina’s not my ally. It was just a stupid tennis game, anyway.
“Well,” says Josh, tapping his racket against his leg, and he looks at Sabrina. “Drink?”
She brightens. “I’m gasping.”
“I’ll just . . .” I gesture to nowhere, but I don’t need an excuse as the two of them set off back to the house, the wind carrying their voices away from me.
Finally I breathe out. Thank God that’s over.
Chapter 26
I don’t go straight back inside the house, looming against the darkening sky. I don’t believe in bad energy, anything like that . . . only, it is hard not to think about what happened inside its walls, after seeing Joey’s photos of the ruins. It looks so stately and permanent, as if it’s been there forever. But it’s just a fake, really.
So instead I leave my racket and wander down to the edge of the lake. I stand there, feeling the evening breeze, admiring the great sweeping willow, its long branches reaching down to touch the water. Then I pull my phone out of my pocket.
I had brought it down with me to the court, out of habit. And no one else is out here. So I am going try that number again, the one I found for Neil Stone, who was in business with Alexander Vane.
This time, someone picks up on the third ring.
“Hello?” Whoever it is sounds irritable.
“Hi!” I say, too keen. “I mean, hello. I’m hoping to talk to Neil—”
“This is he. I’m not buying anything from you—”
“About Alexander Vane.”
“Ah yes. I got your message. I wondered when someone would want to talk to me about that.”
* * *
I have my spiel down pat by now. “I’m writing his daughter’s autobiography and doing research. She doesn’t like to look into it all herself. It’s such a painful subject.”
“Is it?”
“Uh, yes. Her father died.”
“I didn’t mean anything bad by that, love. I didn’t know the family. Just him.”
He doesn’t live locally, Neil Stone explains; he’s a Yorkshireman born and bred, and is there full-time now that he’s retired. A mutual contact had recommended him to Alex Vane, who was thinking about setting up a consultancy after leaving London.
“He asked me to be a director of his company, thought I could keep an eye on the accounts side of things—the boring stuff.” This guy is more down to earth than I’d imagined—perhaps that was why Alex thought he’d be useful.
But the business didn’t come to anything, he tells me. “Alex seemed to spend more time having lunches and meetings in London than getting any actual work done. No skin off my nose, once I realized I wasn’t expected to do anything for my salary.”
Because they weren’t friends, I feel able to be direct. “I heard that some people thought he might have got in some kind of financial trouble before the fire?”
“Financial trouble? No, no,” he says firmly.
“But would you have even known?”
“Thankfully, yes. I used to play golf with his personal accountant. And I made sure to check it wasn’t all fur coat and no knickers, as my dear old mum would have said. No, he was the real deal—not all down to his own efforts—there was the property, various other assets. Poor sod,” he adds.
I am disappointed—and then feel bad for feeling so. What was I wishing for?
“What was he like?” I continue.
“Oh, charming—they must teach them that in private school. Very good with people. He could have made a go of his business, if he had really wanted to.”
“When he died, did you ever think he might have, well, done something?” I press on. “Because I did hear that some locals wondered . . . he had access to guns, I heard.”
“I don’t doubt he did. But I wouldn’t have pegged him as the type to self-destruct.”
We keep talking, but he hasn’t anything else to tell me. After a while, I thank him, starting to wrap up.
And it’s a funny thing I’ve noticed: as soon as someone knows that you’re bringing the conversation to a close, it can change the dynamic. They finally relax.
“You know,” he says, “I always thought someone might want to ask me about him. I didn’t think it would be an author.”
I don’t correct him. “So the police never spoke to you?”
“No. I didn’t have anything to tell them. And I didn’t see the point in talking to the press, at the time. But it’s funny that you asked about money.”
“It is?”
“Well, it’s hardly worth mentioning—but now you’ve reminded me, he was worried about money once, though in a very roundabout way. It was at one of our meetings. Nice dinner, lots of wine. Alex always liked to pay cash—easier to impress the waiters with a big flashy tip.” Stone laughs. “But he didn’t have what he expected when he got out his wallet. He seemed annoyed. Into appearances, stiff upper lip and all that.”
“So Alex might have been under financial pressure, after all?” Joey’s theory about him getting mixed up with the wrong people comes to mind.
“No, no. It would have been a drop in the ocean for him. He thought it was somebody who worked for him, who’d been lifting a few notes here and there. Even so . . .”
“Even so?” I prompt.
“I read all the newspaper reports to see if there was anything else going on, after it all happened. But I never saw anything mentioned about money. It was just a terrible tragedy.”
“Just a terrible tragedy,” I repeat.
“It was only a little thing,” he says, cheery to have unburdened himself. “I don’t know if I would have mentioned it, if anyone had got in touch back then . . . but it’s funny what stays with you, isn’t it?”
* * *
And I am still thinking about this practical man, and this detail that stuck with him all these years, as I go back in and up to my room.
It has been a long day, and not all that pleasant. But never mind about a stupid tennis match, I have much bigger things to do here, starting tomorrow, I—
The crash is loud, coming from inside the house.
Chapter 27
I take the stairs two at a time—the noise seemed to come up from below. In the main hall I almost collide with Josh, coming out of the corridor to the left.
“What’s going on?” I can’t see over his shoulders. “Is everything all right?”
It sounded like a pane of glass shattering, but heavier. I am thinking of screws holding shelving coming loose, a rack of plates smashed across the floor. Is someone hurt?
“Don’t worry,” he says, grim-faced. “Olivia just had some bad news.”
“Oh God—has someone—not her . . . ?” But who is left for her to lose?
“Nothing like that. Something on the gossip forums. Information that she, we, didn’t expect to get out,” he says shortly. “She just needs a moment by herself.”
I can hear nothing from the hallway behind him. “But—”
“This really isn’t a good time, sorry. Good night.”
He brushes past me and I watch, dismissed, as he walks down the other corridor to the kitchen. Then I start
down the hallway he came out of, seeing the door left ajar—
“And just where do you think you’re going?”
I swing around. Sabrina is behind me; one hand still on the banister. Did they tell me she was staying another night? But then, why would they?
“Olivia’s had some bad news,” I say. “She’s upset. . .”
“I get that.” She walks toward me. “What I don’t get is why you think it’s any of your business.”
“No, I mean—go ahead.” I am suddenly wary.
“Thanks,” she says, sarcastically. “You know, I’ve known Olivia a long time. I’m very protective of her.”
“Of course,” I say. She’s taller than me; I have to tilt my head back a little.
“And I’m not sure I much like how you’re going about your job.”
“Look,” I say firmly, “I was worried, that’s all. I’m going to bed.”
And I walk past Sabrina and back up the stairs, refusing to hurry—but my heart is pounding.
What did she mean about my job: that I was crossing a boundary just then? Or has Olivia complained to her about my questions? Or—and I almost stop on the stairs—has someone told Sabrina I’ve been asking around about the past?
On the landing, I look down to check which way she went, in to comfort Olivia or following Josh into the kitchen?
She is still standing there below, watching me.
* * *
Behind my bedroom door, I talk myself down. So Olivia’s friend is territorial. Surely she can’t be that angry about just me; she must be pissed off about something else. Still, it’s not ideal . . .
Anyway. I can’t think about that now. It doesn’t take long to check what Josh was talking about: just searching for “Olivia Hayes” brings it all up.
The site is one of the biggest of those dedicated to discussing influencers, their choices, lives, personas. The thread about Olivia Hayes covers all sorts: speculation about her earnings, whether she’d really wear the clothes from all the brands that sponsor her, whatever details they can glean about her husband.
Yet compared to other threads on there, there is not much—not for lack of interest, I’d guess, so much as lack of information. It’s all pretty tame, until a post that appears a few dozen pages back.
“This is her, right?” it reads. “So this is why we never hear about her background. Guess who her dad is? Or should I say was . . .”
And then there is the marriage announcement, which links the Olivia of today to her family—and one of the articles about the fire.
* * *
The post is recent, just a couple of weeks old, but the thread has blown up since then, placing it among the site’s “most commented.” In its wake, half the comments are about the tragedy, sharing links and details, while the other half argue for Olivia’s privacy. It got heated before a moderator froze the thread for a few days.
Not that that will put the genie back in the bottle, I think, as I click around similar sites and forums. The story has been spreading across the Internet.
Olivia is even tagged in a tweet about it on Twitter, from earlier today: @TheOliviaHayes so sry to hear about your dad so sad babe can’t believe it x
The tweet—not so tactfully—links to the thread on the website. That must have been how she learned about all the gossip, prompting tonight’s crisis. I know she avoids the forums. She said so.
And yet part of me wonders, even knowing how private she is, what’s so bad about it, that she’s been linked to something horrible in her past?
It’s a demonstration, as if I needed it, of just how tight-lipped she is about her personal life, how protective of her image.
But Olivia is not stupid: she will reach the same conclusion as me, if she hasn’t already. This won’t go away. Whether she likes it or not.
* * *
After that I get ready for bed and climb in between the covers. But when my phone tells me it is one a.m., I am still awake, staring into the blackness of the room.
It’s too quiet out here, in the countryside. And I am hungry, too, after tennis knocked out dinner. I get up, straightening my twisted pajamas, and open my door.
The empty corridor is black and white in the moonlight—no one has closed the curtains to the clear night sky—so I don’t need to take my phone to light my way, as I pad down the hall and stairwell as quietly as I can. Olivia’s room is the other end of the house, anyway, so she won’t hear me.
But as I enter the kitchen, I see there is a light on: someone is in the living room. It’s too late to go back, so I round the corner.
Josh is sitting in an armchair, still fully dressed.
“Sorry to disturb you,” I say, my voice coming out croaky. “I was getting some toast.”
He nods, not lifting his head. Something brown and smoky sits in a squat glass in front of him.
“Well, good night,” I say, turning away.
“Don’t go on my account.” Then he looks up, and seems to switch back into host mode. “Sure we can do better than toast. Can I get you a drink?”
I try to think of a reason why not. There are lots, I suppose.
But I say: “A G&T please, if you’ve got it.”
He comes past me and starts to clank around in the dark kitchen.
“Here you go,” he mutters finally, handing the drink to me.
It is cold and punchy, burning my throat. I wince. “So if you’re drinking through the night—I take it this evening was a bit of an ordeal.”
“Tomorrow will be worse,” he says, his tone sour.
I sip my drink carefully. “Can I help at all?”
He looks down into his glass, swishing the liquid around. “How could you help?”
I just said it automatically. “Well, I don’t know. But what about Julia—her assistant? Couldn’t she come up this week to help Olivia, if she’s upset?”
He pauses a second too long. “No, I don’t think so.”
And then I get it. I should have guessed: there has been no sign of any assistant, remote or otherwise. Really, she barely bothered to disguise her voice on the phone.
“There is no Julia, is there?”
His face is in shadow. “Olivia likes to be in control, if you haven’t noticed. Even got rid of the nanny. Poor old Annie’s rushed off her feet.”
I digest that. “But what about friends, family—support?”
“Olivia?” He is quiet for a moment, before his tone hardens. “You know she wouldn’t even go to the funeral? Has she told you that?”
“Whose funeral?” I can’t follow his train of thought. “Her father’s—Alex’s?”
“No . . .” He looks down at me. He is much drunker than I realized; I can smell the alcohol on his breath now.
“Sab thinks you might have had something to do with it all coming out, you know,” he says lightly.
For a moment that sinks in, then I react with anger: “But that post went up online before this week! I hadn’t even got here, I can’t help that she only found out today—”
“Oh, don’t worry. I told her that. Anyway,” he says, “plenty of people round here know about what happened, it was going to come out online one day. Olivia just hates for people to think anything about her is less than perfect. And I’ve had enough of it.”
He throws the glass back with a decisive movement, downing the rest of his drink, and leans past me to leave it on the side of the sink. In the darkness, I can feel the warmth of his body and his smell, cotton-fresh and a tang of sweat. Suddenly we are far too close.
“I’d better go up now,” I say, too loudly, and quickly step round him and away. He stays where he is, staring out of the window, the blinds up to the night outside.
I climb the stairs as quietly as I came.
Chapter 28
Despite my lack of sleep, I am up early on Thursday, dressed and ready for my morning session with Olivia.
It is my second-to-last day, and I have decided: I am going to convince her that sh
e must talk about that night—that the gossip on the forums means that she must rebut any hurtful speculation and set the record straight with a definitive, dignified account of what happened.
Surely she can’t argue with that.
I go downstairs with my recording equipment, taking my laptop, too. The radio is on in the empty kitchen, where I help myself to breakfast.
Still she doesn’t appear—no one does. And we haven’t actually arranged a time.
Eventually I get up and start to look around the ground floor, pushing doors open cautiously—“Olivia?”
Every room is empty, everything in place, but in the morning room something makes me linger in the doorway—in fact, this was the door open behind Josh last night—and then I realize what is different: the big mirror over the fireplace is gone.
There is nothing else to show that anything has happened, until I kneel down and see the splinters glinting in the empty hearth, where they haven’t quite all been cleaned up. The whole thing must have shattered in its frame—no wonder it made such a noise.
A glass was thrown, I’d guess, or something heavier. Bad luck to break a mirror.
* * *
I go back into the kitchen, wondering what to do. It is balmy this morning, the summer flaring out in a blaze of warmth.
I push open one of the French windows. There is a big wooden table and chairs, where I sit, opening up my laptop. I can jot down some more thoughts for the manuscript, in case Olivia asks again.
But I soon start to feel drowsy. I let myself slump back in my chair, feeling the sun on my face. I can hear the trickle of the radio from the kitchen and the rustle of the trees all around. It’s so peaceful out here. I feel better than when I am in the house.
I drift off, and when I come to I can hear voices.
“. . . no. That’s just unreasonable.” Olivia.
I hear a deeper voice reply—Josh—but I can’t make out the words.
“. . . you’ve decided to care about the cost now,” says Olivia, “there’s a very simple answer.”
She must have woken me: her tone is irritated, sharp. They must be in the kitchen. No: overhead, in the upstairs hallway that looks over the terrace and garden.