by Tess Stimson
POLICE
[Laughs.] I spent two months learning how to salsa because my wife taught the class.
JD
We’ve all done it. There’s a very fine line between the normal behaviour, if you can call it that, of someone in love, and criminal stalking. I wasn’t about to call the police because a nineteen-year-old girl with her whole life in front of her had had her heart broken by a man who wouldn’t know the truth if it punched him on the nose.
POLICE
So the first time you met Louise Roberts in person was when she came to your house, the night of 4 February 1996?
JD
Yes.
POLICE
Can you tell me what happened?
JD
I’m sure you’ve seen the police report.
POLICE
Your story and hers conflict, as you know. I’d rather hear it directly from you.
JD
I was in the middle of cooking dinner. Roger had a late tutorial, but as soon as I answered the door I knew who she was.
POLICE
Did you let her in?
JD
She took me by surprise. She just came in, and I didn’t stop her.
POLICE
Did you have a conversation?
JD
Not really. She said something about setting him free, or whatever, the same kind of thing she’d written in her letters. And then she just grabbed the knife out of my hand—
POLICE
You were holding a knife?
JD
I’d been getting dinner ready. I was paring apples for a new recipe, a sweet-and-sour sauce – God, it’s funny the things you remember.
POLICE
What did she do after she seized the knife?
JD
It all happened so fast. She grabbed it and just stabbed herself in the stomach. I mean, hard, not just a superficial cut. There was blood everywhere.
POLICE
What did you do?
JD
Well, for a moment I was in shock, and then I grabbed my apron and tried to stop the bleeding, and called 999.
POLICE
At the time, she claimed you were the one who stabbed her.
JD
If you know that, you must also know her version of events did not stand up to scrutiny, and I was later granted a restraining order against her. If I recall correctly, she spent some time at an in-patient facility.
POLICE
So she lied?
JD
It’s not that simple. As I’m sure you know, memory is a very unreliable narrator, Detective. We all think memories are stored in our brains just as they are in computers. Once registered, the data are put away for safe-keeping and eventual recall. The facts don’t change. But the truth is, every time we remember something, we are reconstructing the event, reassembling it from traces throughout the brain. We also suppress memories that are painful or damaging to self-esteem. Our memories reshape themselves to accommodate the new situations we find ourselves facing. Memory is flexible.
POLICE
I’m not sure I follow.
JD
Put simply, Louise Roberts was so plausible because she believed everything she said. It’s how she remembered it actually happened. She’d have passed a lie-detector test, trust me.
POLICE
Are you saying she didn’t know the difference between truth and fiction?
JD
In a manner of speaking.
POLICE
You’re a psychologist, aren’t you? Did you think she was mad?
JD
I think she was in love. Which is a kind of madness, don’t you think?
Five days before the party
Chapter 30
Caz
I know it’s a Hail Mary pass, but if I don’t ask, I’ll never forgive myself. Patrick’s a shrewd operator with an eye on the bottom line, but he’s a decent man. If I’d been here last Friday, instead of chasing Andy, maybe I could’ve spoken up for AJ and stopped this happening in the first place.
‘If anyone’s to blame over Vine, it’s me,’ I say, before I’ve even sat down. ‘Please, Patrick. I’m the Account Director. I’m the one you should be firing, if you have to fire someone.’
To my consternation, my throat suddenly feels tight. Patrick stares at me for a long moment, then wordlessly reaches into his desk and produces a box of tissues. I snatch one and blow into it, willing myself not to cry. I hate women who cry at work. I can hear my mother’s acid voice, whenever my lip trembled as a child: That’s right, put it in the crier’s hands. Think that’ll bring your father back?
‘I’m truly sorry about AJ,’ Patrick says, as I ball up the tissue and stare fixedly at my lap. ‘This wasn’t a decision I made lightly. But you and I both know he’s been on borrowed time for a while. You’ve covered for him more than once. Things are tight financially at the moment; we lost a lot of business over Vine. AJ doesn’t put in the hours, and cuts corners. He’s dead weight we can’t afford to carry.’
Patrick is wrong: AJ does put in the hours, but not where it counts. I’m the one at fault for that: it’s my messes AJ wastes his time cleaning up. I know I’m not popular with the creatives; I don’t have the patience to sweet-talk them into doing jobs they’re paid to do. AJ’s wonderful at making the design team happy, but office politics has never been his thing. I can’t let him take the fall for me. He’ll never speak up for himself: he’s a Labrador puppy in a world of Rottweilers.
‘Patrick, I really need AJ on Univest,’ I plead. ‘I’m backed up with work as it is. I can’t afford to lose him. And I know Tina likes him, too. We could shuffle some responsibilities around, make him exclusive on the Univest account—’
‘This comes from Univest,’ Patrick says.
The penny suddenly drops. Univest equals Tina, and Tina equals Louise.
I stop fighting, knowing the battle is lost. Patrick’s never going to risk upsetting Tina, and she and Louise are tighter than two coats of paint. I feel like I’ve just had my legs cut from under me. AJ has been at Whitefish my entire career. I can’t imagine working there without him. I don’t think I’ve ever hated Louise more than I do at this minute.
I leave Patrick’s office and flee to the bathroom, locking myself into a stall so I can cry in peace. It’s not just losing AJ. It’s everything. Patrick doesn’t trust me anymore, or he’d have brought me in on AJ’s firing last week. My job is on the line, and right now I’m not even sure I want to work here any longer. And then there’s Andy. I still have no idea where he really was last Friday. When he got home and I asked him how ‘work’ had gone, he looked me in the eye and lied to my face about being stuck in the studio all day. But I’d tracked his mobile: I already knew he’d spent the day in Brighton. With her.
Andy would flip if he knew I’d installed stealth spyware on his phone, but I’m not a fool. Leopards don’t change their spots.
My mobile buzzes, startling me. I take a deep breath, clearing my voice of tears, and then laugh in disbelief when I see the name on the screen. The sheer chutzpah of the woman is breathtaking. If Louise was within reach, I’d shove the phone down her throat until she choked on it.
It vibrates seconds later with an incoming text. Where’s Andrew?
I ignore her. A second text hits my inbox. At ED with Bella. He’s not at work. Not answering his phone.
That brings me up short. The Emergency Department? I love that kid, though she doesn’t always make it easy. Is she OK? I type back. What happened?
I stare at the three cycling grey bubbles, waiting for an answer. But then the dots suddenly vanish, and Louise doesn’t reply after all. I resend my text, and when she still doesn’t respond, I call her. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. I try Andy, but he’s not picking up either.
Which ED? I text Louise, my anxiety mounting. Is Bella OK?
Nothing. If this is one of her sick games—
Louise has many faults, b
ut surely even she wouldn’t invent an emergency involving her child just to fuck with me. She probably had to turn off her phone inside the hospital. Oh, God, if anything’s happened to Bella, it’ll break Andy’s heart. It’ll break my heart. I can’t just sit here and wait for Louise to ring back.
I’ll have to go down there. They must be at the Royal Sussex Hospital in Brighton; it’s the nearest one to Bella’s school.
I let myself out of the bathroom stall and quickly touch up my make-up. I don’t bother to tell anyone I’m leaving the office. Frankly, I don’t care if Patrick fires me. Without AJ, I’m not staying at Whitefish a day longer than I have to. I have enough experience now to find another job at one of the bigger agencies. Maybe even finagle something for AJ there and take him with me.
I repeatedly try to reach both Louise and Andy on the train from Victoria to Brighton. His secretary tells me he’s not at work again today, and this time I can’t even bring myself to care where he is. Clearly not with Louise, at least, or she wouldn’t have bothered to contact me. His phone’s switched off, so I can’t track him. I lean my head against the cool glass of the train window, and close my eyes. I’m so tired of all the lying. I don’t know what it is I’m fighting for anymore.
Louise still hasn’t replied to my texts an hour later. I get an Uber from the station to the hospital, and rush into the ED, frantic for information. The receptionist gives me a tired smile, clearly used to desperate relatives seeking news, and turns to her computer without comment when I give her Bella’s name, calmly tapping her keyboard as I grip the edge of the counter with whitened knuckles. ‘Is she OK?’ I demand.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ the woman says sympathetically. ‘Are you family?’
‘Yes. Well, I’m married to her dad.’
Her expression cools. ‘So, not actual family, then?’
I suppress the urge to punch the woman on the nose. ‘She’s my daughter,’ I say tersely.
‘If you could take a seat, someone will be out to see you shortly.’
I eye the double doors to the right of the reception desk. I’m tempted to make a run for it and find Bella myself, but I tamp down my anxiety and frustration, and return to the waiting area. I go over to the vending machine, jabbing in the numbers for a strong black coffee. I realise I haven’t eaten all day, and add a mini-pack of Digestives.
As I reach into the vending bin, I suddenly catch sight of Bella sitting in a small bay just along the corridor to my left. Her head is heavily bandaged, but she’s upright and scrolling through her phone. As far as I can see, she’s alone.
I abandon my coffee and biscuits and rush over. ‘Bella!’ I exclaim. ‘Are you all right? What happened? I’ve been worried sick!’
She looks up, startled. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Your mother texted me. She was trying to reach your dad.’ I glance around. ‘Where is she?’
‘She went to get the car. The doctor said we can go home, but I’m not supposed to walk anywhere for a bit, and she parked miles away.’
I perch on the hard plastic chair beside her bed. ‘What happened?’
‘It’s nothing. A rounder’s ball hit me in the head. Don’t worry, I wasn’t playing,’ Bella adds, with a flash of dry humour. ‘I had a free period, and I didn’t feel like studying, so I went to watch. I was just unlucky, that’s all.’
‘Did you get knocked out?’
‘Yeah. You know, it’s true, you actually do see stars. I threw up, too, so the school called an ambulance. And Mum.’ She grimaces. ‘She totally freaked out. She’s been ringing everyone. I’m really sorry you came all the way here for nothing.’
‘She’s your mum. It’s her job to freak out. And I didn’t come for nothing. I came to see you were OK.’ I squeeze her hand. ‘The same thing happened to me when I was at college. Cricket ball. You’re going to have a bit of a headache for a few days, but just take it easy, and you’ll be fine.’
‘If Mum doesn’t drive me crazy first.’
‘Did she get hold of your dad?’ I ask, trying to keep my tone casual.
‘I don’t think so. He’s at work, right? He never picks up when he’s doing interviews and stuff.’
A male nurse joins us and pulls a privacy curtain across the bay, smiling at Bella. ‘Mind if I do a quick check of your blood pressure before you go?’
He wraps a cuff around her upper arm, the sleeve of her shirt riding up as he takes her pulse. Bella quickly tugs it back down; but not quite quickly enough. It takes an effort of will to keep the shock from showing on my face.
‘Yep, all good,’ the nurse says, unfastening the cuff. ‘No more stopping balls with your head, OK?’
Bella nods weakly. As soon as he’s gone, I reach for her arm, but she snatches it away. ‘Bella,’ I say softly. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she mutters.
I hesitate for a long moment. And then I hitch up my skirt, high enough for her to see the top of my thighs. ‘It’s not nothing,’ I say.
She stares at the criss-cross hatching of pale scars on my legs. They’re almost invisible now, but I know they’re there. I always know they’re there.
It’s been years since I cut myself, but the pull is still strong. I can still remember the exquisite way it used to sting right before it bled, and the sudden release of all the pent-up fear and rage and pain from my body, all the emotion I was powerless to express. Looking back now, I can’t think of a single day of my childhood when I didn’t feel sad. I used to lie on the floor of my bedroom, barely able to breathe, so angry and miserable I would cry for hours, hating myself for something I couldn’t control, that wasn’t my fault. I was depressed, but at the time, I thought my brain was broken. The only way I could cope with the pain was to shut down emotionally, to crush all my feelings and become numb.
But I was a young girl, and no matter how dead I felt inside, the yearning for life was like water, forcing its way through barren rock. Despite myself, I desperately wanted to feel again. There was a time when the cutting was the only way I knew I was alive. When I cut, at least I felt something.
When my mother found out about it she hit me and screamed. I started to cut myself around my ribs and on my side to hide the marks. I couldn’t stop. I thought I was meant to be the girl who killed herself, so I didn’t care about the scars. I couldn’t imagine I had a future.
Angie was the only one who knew, apart from my mother. He did this to you, she said bitterly. You’re not going to let him win, are you?
I knew she was right, but it didn’t make any difference. It was only when my mother tried to hang herself that my rage was finally directed at someone other than myself. She had no right to take her own life. She’d known what had been happening behind my closed bedroom door, and she’d done nothing to help. Why should she get the easy way out, when I was the one in pain?
At college, I sought counselling, and it helped. It took time, and often it felt as if I was taking one step forward, only to end up two steps back. I avoided friendships and intimate relationships, I cut my mother out of my life, and eventually, I stopped wanting to harm myself. And then I found Andy, and for the first time, I knew what it felt like to be happy.
Except now I wonder: was it the old self-hatred that led me to fall in love with a man who’s always, always, made me feel second best? Was that all I felt I deserved?
Whatever has driven Bella to do this, I can’t bear her to feel such pain. The anger I thought I’d tamed long ago flares back into life, but this time, it has a new target. ‘I’m not going to ask why,’ I tell her. ‘But you need to talk to someone about this.’
‘No,’ she says, alarmed. ‘You can’t tell anyone!’
‘Bella—’
‘Please, Caz. They’ll send me to a shrink. I’ll stop, I promise. I’m trying.’
I know better than anyone how hard it is to stop what Bella is doing. Even if you manage to control the cutting, that doesn’t mean you stop self
-harming. There are so many ways to sabotage yourself. Drink. Drugs.
Toxic relationships.
But I also know that Bella needs someone to listen to her. Right now, neither of her parents are looking in her direction. I’ve been where she is. She needs someone she can trust, not someone else telling her what to do.
‘Next time you feel like cutting, you call me,’ I say, gripping her hands in mine and forcing her to look at me. ‘Day or night. You call me, OK?’
‘OK.’
I hug her, hard. I don’t know what – or who – is driving this beautiful, intelligent, funny child to hurt herself like this, but I’m going to find out. And then I’m going to stop it, whatever it takes.
Chapter 31
Louise
I’m fetching the car from the hospital car park when Min calls me. ‘I can’t talk now,’ I say, crooking the phone between my neck and shoulder as I scrabble through my bag for my car keys. ‘They’re discharging Bella, so I’m just about to drive her home.’
‘What did the doctor say?’
‘All the tests came back clear. There’s no swelling or bleeding on the brain, thank God.’
‘Thank God,’ Min echoes.
We’re both silent for a moment, remembering Nicky. My brother had been fine at first, after his accident; a bit banged up, certainly, several broken ribs and a lot of bruising, and a rather nasty cut on his forehead where he’d hit the windscreen, but the doctor had assured my mother it was nothing time couldn’t heal.
Except Nicky hadn’t had time, of course. The pathologist concluded he’d suffered from something called second-impact syndrome, when the brain swells rapidly, and catastrophically, after a person suffers a second concussion before symptoms of an earlier one have subsided. We had no way of knowing it until the inquest, but three weeks earlier, Nicky had been tackled to the ground during a rugby game. It was such a minor injury, he’d jumped right up and carried on playing; he hadn’t even mentioned it when he’d got home. But that rugby tackle had somehow left his brain vulnerable, and the car crash then unleashed a series of metabolic events in his head that had doomed him even as the nurse had written up his discharge papers.