Keep You Close

by Lucie Whitehouse

  Gently she lifted the latch and opened the window. She waited a moment then leaned out until she had a clear view of the lit area outside the kitchen window, the narrow patio and the steps to the lawn. No one. The only sound was the breeze.

  She walked into Adam’s space and looked out of the dormer. No one on the drive, and the pavement was deserted. Both the cars parked at the kerb were empty.

  She pressed her forehead against the glass and waited for the pounding in her chest to subside. The anorexics were to her left, half-lost in darkness. Would anyone really break in to steal them, though? An opportunist hoping for some decent electronics seemed more likely.

  Anyway, no one was in the garden. It had been the wind or she’d imagined it in her jittery, half-drunk state. And no one had been hanging round the house the night Marianne died, she knew that for certain now.

  As she closed the window at the back of the house, she glanced over at the flats in Benson Place and her heart thumped again. On the top floor, almost on a level with her, a man was standing in the window, silhouetted by the light. He was looking her way. For a moment she was transfixed but then, nerves frayed, she thought ‘What the hell?’ and gave him a jaunty wave. Why shouldn’t he look out of his window? She was looking out of hers.

  Nine

  ‘I get them online,’ he said. ‘From Square Mile. They only sell whole beans, you have to grind them yourself, but you want to anyway, don’t you, for the freshness? This one’s Brazilian, Capao. Wait ’til you taste it.’ Turk took a Brita jug out of the fridge, filled the bottom of the espresso-maker then smoothed the grounds in the filter. ‘They’re the best in London, Square Mile. All the top coffee places use them.’

  Rowan watched as he adjusted the gas so the flames didn’t lick up the sides of the pot. He’d known she was coming so skinny black silk trousers with a paisley pattern were obviously what he thought the occasion demanded. He’d answered the door barefoot but, coming into the kitchen, he’d scuffed on a pair of beaded Indian slippers. He looked like a wrestler playing Aladdin in panto.

  The kitchen was clean and ordered but beyond the back door, chaos reigned. Even now, at the end of January, a billowing mass of green engulfed the small paved area, and the sprawling laurel bush reached as high as the first-floor windows of the house behind. Dead nettles filled the narrow alley that ran alongside the kitchen.

  ‘You’re not tempted to do an extension?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Extend into the side return, like that.’ She pointed to the house next door, whose outer wall now ran right up against the boundary of the property, making room for what – over Turk’s mouldering fence – looked like a huge and very stylish kitchen.

  ‘Oh, yeah. One day. It’s just so disruptive, isn’t it, building work?’

  He filled the espresso cups and brought them over to the table. Rowan sat on a bench made from an old railway sleeper and he rummaged in a basket on the worktop. ‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘I went to Borough Market this morning. I get these biscotti from an Italian guy there – he makes them with lemon oil that his grandmother sends over from Sicily.’ He glanced at the coffee, disappointed. ‘I can never get a crema on top.’

  ‘It’s delicious, Peter. Probably the best coffee I’ve ever had.’

  Gratified, he shook some biscuits on to a plate and came to sit down. ‘So,’ he took a tooth-endangering bite, ‘nothing for years and then suddenly, twice in a week, here you are. You want to talk about Mazz, obviously.’

  She’d decided just to say it. ‘I can’t believe she slipped.’

  When Turk looked at her, she saw his face properly for the first time. Grey channels were scored out from the inner corners of his eyes, which were pink and visibly under-slept. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘No, that’s not true. She must have, if that’s what the police think. If there was any doubt, they’d be investigating, there’d be an inquest, all that. This isn’t bad TV – they’re not idiots.’

  Rowan thought of Theo and suppressed a shudder of disgust. ‘I know.’

  ‘But yes, it’s weird – it doesn’t make much sense to me, either.’

  ‘You said she definitely still had vertigo.’

  ‘The last time we were up there, it was the same as ever – she wouldn’t get off that little wall. Got panicky every time I even walked about a bit.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘A month ago? Six weeks?’

  ‘Was she all right? Not – down? Depressed.’

  ‘No. She was knackered – she’d been working like a navvy for her new show, I hadn’t even spoken to her for a couple of weeks – but she was high as a kite. You remember what it was like when she was doing good work – that excitement, like she was bubbling?’

  Rowan nodded. Marianne had tried to explain it once. She’d said that when her work was going well, it felt like the world had organised itself specifically to help her: everything was poignant, relevant, brighter than usual. ‘“A brilliant kind of mania.”’

  ‘That’s what she said?’

  ‘Once. Do you think it was?’

  ‘What, mania literally?’ Turk ran a fingertip round the lip of his tiny cup. ‘No. No, I don’t. But she was definitely high, wasn’t she? It was definitely an altered state.’

  ‘But not drugs?’

  ‘Mazz?’ He half-laughed. ‘She didn’t even smoke weed any more. She wouldn’t even get drunk. God, you’re out of touch.’

  Rowan took a moment to absorb that. Marianne had never been into drugs, neither of them had. They’d shared the band’s weed if there was any going round and, twice, more out of curiosity than any great desire, they’d tried coke. It hadn’t done much for either of them.

  ‘And if she’d taken anything, the police would know, wouldn’t they? I mean, there was an autopsy – any sudden death has to be …’

  ‘I know.’ She cut him off. She couldn’t bear the parade of images the word triggered: a mortuary table, Marianne’s body naked and cold, the tray of implements.

  For a few seconds neither of them said anything. A cat emerged from the laurel and, to dislodge the pictures in her head, she watched it pick its way along the top of the fence. It was too thin; she could see the bones moving under its fur. A stray or else it was old, ill.

  ‘Marianne changed,’ Turk said suddenly. ‘After it all happened. She wasn’t the same. She was … muted. Serious. She didn’t drink any more – I mean, she drank, she’d have a couple of glasses of wine, but she would never throw caution to the wind and get plastered like we used to. And the work – my God, if you thought she was a workaholic before? There were a couple of times when Jacqueline and I had to pretty much kidnap her from the studio.’

  ‘Kidnap?’

  ‘We were worried. She was living on biscuits, not sleeping, smoking way too much. I took her to a friend’s place in Cornwall for a week and she basically slept straight through the first two days. At one point I went in to check she hadn’t died.’ He looked down, realising what he’d said, then picked up his cup and examined it as if he’d never seen it before.

  ‘My theory,’ he said, ‘is that she felt guilty about what happened.’

  Rowan’s heart beat hard. ‘Guilty?’

  ‘About the woman who was killed.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘Yeah, it sounds crazy but you know how … conscientious she was. She felt responsible. Did you know she paid to put the son through university? Fees, living expenses – the whole thing.’

  ‘What son?’

  Turk looked at her as if she was mentally impaired. ‘The woman Seb killed when he crashed – you remember? Who was in the other car. She had a son who was fifteen at the time. Mazz put him through college.’

  Rowan brought her hands to her mouth. ‘Sorry, yes. Of course. No, I didn’t know she’d done that.’

  ‘I think she was trying to expiate – you know what I mean? Not just by paying for his education but the whole mad work thing. It was self-f
lagellation – I think she thought that if she pushed herself to breaking point, denied herself everything, even her health, she could pay. Atone.’

  ‘That’s … insane.’

  ‘I know. But you remember how mad she was about Seb, how much she loved him. I’ve even thought that maybe she deliberately took on the guilt – consciously – because it kept her feeling close to him. Connected.’

  He stood and fetched the coffee pot. Still standing, he eyeballed Rowan. ‘And of course that was when you disappeared.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Pete. You know it wasn’t my choice. You remember that afternoon – I was …’

  ‘I’m not accusing you – don’t get defensive. I’m just saying that maybe, if you’d still been around, it would’ve helped. That she needed you.’

  ‘She could have had me. I tried – you know I did. I was still trying – every year I sent a card with my number. Every year – I sent one six weeks ago.’ And Marianne had opened it, saved it, sent her card in return.

  When he sat back down, Turk seemed heavier, resigned. ‘I know. It was just odd, that’s all. One day you were in our lives and then, abracadabra, you were gone. We didn’t fall out, you and I, but you dropped me as well.’

  ‘I didn’t drop you.’

  ‘You certainly didn’t stay in touch.’

  ‘You chose Marianne that afternoon.’

  ‘That afternoon. For God’s sake, I didn’t know I was choosing forever.’

  ‘I thought you hung around with me because I was Mazz’s friend. That I was part of the package.’

  ‘Well, I thought we were a gang.’

  Rowan felt a pang of nostalgia so powerful it brought tears to her eyes. Turk saw.

  ‘It hurts,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it? It hurts like hell.’

  ‘At least you didn’t waste the time you had.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve wasted plenty. Other things. Relationships …’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve never had one that most people would dignify with the name. How could I commit to anyone else when I was in love with her? I’ve been dumped more times than you’ve had hot dinners, love.’

  Rowan had another unpleasant memory of Theo Marsh, his face looming over her as he pressed her into the mattress.

  ‘You know,’ Turk said, ‘I thought you’d get in touch when the record came out.’

  ‘That was exactly when I wouldn’t have got in touch. We don’t speak for a year then you have a hit and, lo, here I am again? How much of a star-fucker would I have looked?’

  ‘God, you’re weird. How about a friend congratulating another friend on their success? Can’t you see it that way?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Pete.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘It was a long time ago now – just ask my agent.’

  ‘What a mess. The whole thing.’

  They sat in silence until Turk picked up the plate. ‘Have another biscuit,’ he said, and the sheer absurdity of it made her laugh. He started, too, and then it was as if a lid had come off and they laughed until they were weeping, far beyond the point of knowing why they were even laughing at all.

  Rowan got a grip first. ‘I’d forgotten how ridiculous you are,’ she said, running the pad of her thumb under her eyes.

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ He handed her a tissue.

  ‘How well do you know James Greenwood, Pete?’ she asked.

  ‘A bit. Quite well now, I suppose, but only through Mazz.’

  ‘What do you think of him?’

  ‘Much as it pains me to say it, I think he’s all right. Solid. Surprisingly bullshit-free for that world, too.’

  ‘Jacqueline seems to like him.’

  ‘Yeah, she does. And for all the tabloid furore about the break-up, he’d been with Sophie – his wife – for years; they might even have been at college together. He isn’t some Lothario sleaze-bag who dangles big promises to get into impressionable young artists’ knickers. And you saw Bryony, his daughter. He’s a really good dad, Mazz said; he fought tooth and nail to get joint custody. Sophie – or Derry, probably – hired those people who did the Mills-McCartney divorce and it sounds like he had to hand over a kidney on a golden platter.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Seventeen. No, eighteen – her birthday was just before Christmas. She’s leaving school this year.’

  ‘Is she?’ She’d looked younger. ‘Did they get on, she and Mazz? She seemed pretty upset at the funeral.’

  ‘They were best buds.’

  ‘Even though Marianne split her parents up?’

  ‘I met them for lunch in town a couple of months ago when they were shopping together. They’d been to a gig at the Roundhouse the night before. Marianne used to take Bryony to events, private views, all that; they used to share clothes and shoes. It was more a sister thing than Mazz being the evil stepmother.’

  ‘Well, she was nearer Bryony’s age than Greenwood’s.’

  ‘Meow.’

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it – just? If he’s forty-eight – is that right? – and his daughter’s eighteen?’

  He shrugged. ‘Bryony loved Marianne because she treated her like an equal. That was Mazz’s thing, wasn’t it? She made you feel like when she looked at you, she really saw you. The real you, not the …’ A rasp of stubble as he scratched his cheek, embarrassed. ‘You know, even though I knew she wasn’t like that at all, I wanted to believe Greenwood was a career move for her.’

  ‘Oh, Pete.’

  ‘But she was happy with him. Whatever she needed, he had it. I never did.’

  She reached across the table and put her hand on his arm.

  ‘Poor sod,’ said Turk. ‘Can you imagine how he’s feeling?’

  Down the hallway came the sound of a key in the front door. Rowan looked at him. Was he living with someone? A woman? Turk had turned away, though; she couldn’t catch his eye.

  The ticking of a bicycle being wheeled into the hallway then, ‘Hello?’

  ‘In here, Martin.’

  Rowan raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Friend of a friend. He’s staying for a few days, that’s all.’

  Footsteps down the corridor and then in the doorway there appeared an ectomorph in an electric-blue Lycra all-in-one. He had a neat round skull with neat light-brown hair and a face that was strangely innocent for a man of thirty or thirty-five, an impression reinforced by the two pink patches in his cheeks. A naïve but friendly accountant, she thought, describing him for Mazz.

  ‘Martin, this is Rowan, an old friend of mine from Oxford.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you, Rowan. Are you staying for dinner? Thought I’d make the time-honoured chickpea curry, Pete, if you fancy it. I like to cook on Saturday nights,’ he explained. ‘Don’t get much opportunity in the week, alas, by the time I get back from the office.’

  Turk, Rowan noticed, was mortified. ‘That’s very kind,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got to get back. Flying visit.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame. Next time.’

  Turk was still standing on the pavement as she turned the corner. She wound down the window and waved, and in the rear-view mirror he raised his arm in a kind of salute.

  She’d told him she was heading straight back to Oxford but since then she’d had a better idea. Instead of joining the traffic crawling towards the North Circular, she pulled over and got the A–Z out of the glove box. A couple of minutes later, she swung the car round and headed east.

  In her final year at the Slade, Marianne had rented studio space in Bethnal Green with a woman called Emma Hammond. Rowan had never been entirely sure whether Emma was at the Slade, too, or if she was just part of the artistic network that Marianne had plugged into when she came to London. She was a couple of years older, anyway, and made what she called ‘cloth sculptures’, bizarrely shaped fabric-covered frames that looked like tents erected in high winds by particularly dyspraxic people.

  The studio had been just off Hackney Road. By the time Rowan got there, it was dark but the huge gas storage cylinders lit up agai
nst the sky told her she was getting close. She slowed down and the car behind overtook in an angry roar of acceleration.

  After a couple of false starts, she found the street, recognising the 24-hour corner shop and the curry-house next door where they’d eaten together two or three times. There was a parking space outside.

  The studio was a single-storey cube originally built as a garage, and its car-sized mechanised door was layered with graffiti. Emma had once made a joke about local Basquiats. On the street side, a filthy metal grille covered the single window but at the back, large glass doors opened onto a south-facing yard.

  Next to the garage door was a standard-size steel one. The handwritten names in the display panel were bleached beyond legibility but Rowan pressed the buzzer and waited. A passing bus sent a tremor through a petrol-streaked puddle at the kerb. It was ten years since Marianne left – no, eleven – so Emma was highly unlikely still to be here. Could she really sell enough to pay for studio space anywhere, let alone Bethnal Green these days?

  It was still worth a try. Turk had always been protective of Marianne but if there were any rumours doing the rounds, Emma would be delighted to share them. They had been friends in the beginning but the longer Emma had been around Marianne, the harder she’d found it. While she’d been stapling cloth to her wonky frames, Mazz had painted the still lifes that made up Blood Sports. The final straw came when Artforum mentioned her in the same breath as Sam Taylor-Wood. That night, fuelled by half a bottle of peach schnapps, of all things, Emma had let rip, telling Marianne she was a spoiled bitch who only got attention because her parents were famous and men wanted to fuck her.

  Rowan pressed the buzzer again. It was working, at least; she could hear it. A car went by and when the blast of hip-hop faded, she heard a bolt being drawn. The door opened four inches to reveal a vertical slice of an Indian woman in pink dungarees.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ Rowan said. ‘I’m trying to track down Emma Hammond.’