Keep You Close

by Lucie Whitehouse

  He returned with the bottle of Evian from the fridge door, sat down on her side of the bed and poured her a glass. When she’d finished, he filled it for himself, drained it and then got back in. His fingers found her hip under the sheet, doodled softly on her skin.

  ‘Do you remember,’ she said, ‘we kissed years ago, at that party? Mazz and Turk found us, we …’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Why didn’t we ever track each other down again that night?’ Or any other.

  ‘I wanted to – I was going to. And the next day, there you were in the kitchen and we’d had that one kiss and I just wanted to grab you and do it again.’

  ‘You should have. I wanted you to.’

  ‘Mazz asked me not to.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She asked me not to get together with you – she knew I liked you, that it wasn’t just going to be a drunken thing. Well, maybe from your point of view,’ he raised his eyebrows, self-deprecatory, ‘but not from mine.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘She said it would be too weird, you and me getting together, her best friend and her brother.’

  Despite all the time that had passed, the fact that Marianne was dead, for God’s sake, Rowan felt a rush of anger. The next day, while they were clearing up, filling one black bag after another with the bottles and plastic cups that littered the house and garden, Rowan had waited until she and Marianne were on their own then broached the subject of the kiss so that it didn’t become an issue between them. Marianne was the one who championed total honesty, transparency, but she hadn’t even hinted that the idea of Adam and Rowan together made her uncomfortable. She’d apologised again for bursting in on them and sympathised – yes, Rowan remembered quite distinctly – she’d sympathised that it seemed to have messed things up. And all the time, she’d secretly warned him off.

  Rowan played it off as nothing, saying she was sure she’d have felt the same if she had a brother, but when they turned off the light, she lay awake. How could Marianne have done that, scotched things and then lied to her – kept on lying? When the heat went out of the anger, a deep sense of hurt took its place.

  She listened to the change in Adam’s breathing as he fell asleep and abandoned her to the silence of the house. The wardrobe loomed at the end of the bed, a black behemoth in the darkness. Marianne’s drawing was in there, stowed right at the bottom of the box, its decade-old Sellotape undisturbed, but nevertheless fewer than ten feet away. What would he think if he saw it? However this worked out, whatever happened, she must make sure that he never, ever did.

  The clock’s luminous hands glowed in the dark: three. She’d seen the same time last night, lying here with the echo of running feet in her ears, knowing that as soon as she fell asleep, she would be deaf to the sound of footsteps on the patio, the turn of a door handle, breaking glass. In normal circumstances, she could never sleep in a man’s arms but she pulled Adam’s more tightly around her waist, grateful that tonight, instead of being across the landing, he was here in her bed, his skin sticky and too hot where it touched hers, his chest hair tickling her back.

  She didn’t remember falling asleep but as the first weak light began to edge the curtains, she woke suddenly, soaked in sweat, with Marianne’s voice in her ear.

  ‘Dad’s got a new dolly bird.’

  Twenty-one

  The next time she woke up, it was much later and the doorbell was ringing. For a second or two – she must still have been drunk, she thought afterwards – she took it for a dream or a particularly vivid bit of déjà vu but then Adam stirred and the night came flooding back. He opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Who’s that? Are you expecting someone?’

  The image of Michael Cory, coffee in hand, flashed into her head. Shit. She hadn’t worked out last night if Adam knew about the portrait: by the time she’d thought of it, she’d drunk too much. As she stumbled into her jeans and picked her top off the floor, she tried to think straight. Obviously Adam knew Marianne had known Cory, he’d been at the funeral, but he would have mentioned a portrait, surely, if he’d been aware of it, given how strongly he felt about Marianne’s anorexics. Given Cory’s reputation. And either way, said the dry voice, whether he knew or not, wouldn’t he find it a little odd that she hadn’t mentioned Cory coming here, to their house?

  ‘It’s probably Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ she said. ‘Nice and early on a Saturday morning.’

  ‘Not so early – it’s eleven.’

  ‘Is it?’ She glanced at the clock. ‘I’ll go and get it, anyway, then bring some coffee up. Stay in bed.’

  The size of the silhouette on the step did nothing to quell her alarm but when she opened the door, it wasn’t Cory leaning against the porch wall but Peter Turk. His eyes went straight to her silky top. ‘Big night? I like the bed-head look on you.’

  In her relief, she resisted the urge to tell him that she liked the ageing-rock-star look on him. Today’s outfit – black leather jacket, black skinny jeans and a torn grey T-shirt with a peeling transfer of a naked woman – was so perfect, it could go on tour on its own. The only thing that detracted from the impression of classic rock debauch was the rucksack at his feet, a new-looking blue JanSport, standard geek issue.

  ‘Come on then, spill the beans: who was the lucky sod this time?’ he said, coming in and closing the door behind him.

  ‘No sod at all, I’m afraid – sorry to disappoint – but I’ll admit to a hangover.’

  ‘I’d worked that out for myself. Got any coffee?’

  ‘If you’ll make it.’

  She sat on Jacqueline’s sofa and drank a pint of water while Turk moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, opening the cupboard and reaching for the bag of beans without thinking. She thought of Adam in bed upstairs and hoped he hadn’t heard the exchange. Was there any chance she could keep him up there until Turk left? Turk had a world-class nose for gossip. But Adam’s being here wasn’t incriminating, was it? It was his house, for God’s sake, of course he would stay here, and they were old friends so why wouldn’t they go out for a drink? She’d just made up her mind to tell Turk that when she was pre-empted by the sound of movement overhead. He turned to look at her, eyebrows halfway to his hairline.

  ‘Adam,’ she said.

  ‘No way.’ His eyes widened. ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Stop it – just behave yourself.’ She gave him a warning frown as footsteps started down the kitchen stairs.

  ‘Pete. I thought I heard your voice. How are you?’

  Adam looked substantially brighter than she felt. He’d left yesterday’s shirt in its wrinkled pile on the carpet and just put his jumper on, which, with the jeans, was a plausible Saturday-morning outfit. He and Turk gave each other a brief man-hug, a quick squeeze of the shoulders followed by a reassuringly distant clap on the back.

  ‘Doing okay,’ Turk said. ‘But I think on a deep level I still don’t really believe it.’

  ‘I know. Especially here.’

  Turk nodded, bleak. ‘Rowan says you’re putting the place on the market.’

  Adam, taking his mother’s chair at the end of the table, looked at her, surprised.

  ‘I mentioned the agent from Savills was coming,’ she said.

  ‘We’re thinking about it,’ he said. ‘Mum can’t bring herself even to come here now. What are you doing up in Oxford?’

  ‘I’ve just come for the day to visit my mum – she’s got a few things that need mending and I said I’d do them, save her hiring anyone.’ Rowan had forgotten that side of Turk, the surprisingly handy fixer of things. When Dan Whyte had pulled the downstairs sink off the wall during that party, it had been Turk who’d mended the tap and redone the grouting before Jacqueline and Seb got back from Barcelona.

  He brought the coffee pot over to the table. At the sight of the three mugs, Rowan, under-slept and still full of alcohol, felt laughter bubbling inside her. It was too much, too strange, to be expected to sit here in last night’s outfit
making polite conversation when, only hours ago, Adam’s hips had pressed her down into the bed. Her nostrils flared with the effort of keeping a straight face and she saw Turk’s eyes narrow infinitesimally: What are you up to?

  Adam, thankfully, seemed not to notice. He poured the coffee and took what had to be a scalding sip. ‘What have you been doing lately, Pete? Work-wise.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve been working on a film script. I met this guy who’s a producer and he’s really keen on the story so …’ He tipped his head from side to side.

  ‘Good for you. What kind of thing is it?’

  ‘A thriller. It’s about a guy who’s approached by someone who insists he’s his brother even though his mother died years before this guy could have been born. It’s pretty dark – gothic, really.’

  ‘Would we have heard of him, the producer?’ Rowan asked. ‘What else has he done?’

  ‘Well, nothing yet – he’s just started his own company. But I like him and he’s got a friend who’s a hedge-fund guy and wants to get into film production so, you know, we’re sort of working it out as we go along …’ He tailed off.

  ‘Are you still writing music?’ Adam took a sip of coffee.

  ‘Sometimes. Kind of. I did a couple of jingles for radio adverts last year.’ Turk looked down and turned the mug between his hands as if he’d never seen such a thing before. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve been feeling a bit … I suppose burned out is the best way to describe it. What’s it like for you being back, though? You must be missing the Californian weather. Cambridge is bloody freezing in winter, isn’t it, wind straight from the Urals?’

  Adam gave Turk a potted version of what he’d told Rowan over dinner then abruptly put his mug down. ‘Right,’ he said, standing. ‘I’m sorry to have to run off but I’ve got to be in London by two, I’m meeting an old friend. No, don’t get up, Pete.’ He ushered him back into his chair. ‘I’ll just go and grab my stuff then let myself out. Good to see you.’ He put a hand on Turk’s shoulder and then came round the table. Rowan stood, expecting to walk him out, but he shook his head.

  ‘Don’t let your coffee get cold. I’ll let myself out. Thanks again for everything … looking after the house.’ He touched her shoulder but his eyes met hers for only a second before he looked away. ‘I’ll ring you,’ he said.

  Turk busied himself with pouring another half-mug of coffee and waited until Adam’s feet crossed the hallway above their heads before leaning across the table. ‘Sure there’s nothing on your conscience? You’re hungover as dogs, the pair of you. Come on, don’t be shy – you can tell your uncle Pete.’

  It was clear by the way he was looking at her that he saw the heat in her face. It was shock, though, not embarrassment. How could Adam do that after last night, just get up and go without a word?

  ‘We went out for dinner,’ she said, ‘and ended up drinking two bottles of wine after a couple of gin and tonics each. Nothing more salacious than that, I’m afraid, unless you count falling asleep in your clothes.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  The front door closed and they heard the scuff of Adam’s feet on the steps then the fading crunch of gravel. Rowan thought suddenly of the night before last, the sound of running feet.

  ‘Does he know?’ Turk said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Adam, about Cory – the portrait.’

  ‘No. At least I don’t think so – he didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Did you?’

  She shook her head, making the room lurch queasily. ‘I was going to today, before he went. It didn’t feel like the right time, last night. Too much booze involved.’

  ‘What did Cory say, when he came here? You didn’t tell me on the phone.’

  Rowan hoped her eyes wouldn’t give away the frantic mental calculation going on behind them. How much should she say? ‘He didn’t give a lot away,’ she said. ‘He told me that he’d been spending quite a bit of time here, getting to know Mazz, sketching.’

  ‘Do you think they were having a thing? An affair?’

  ‘No, Pete, I don’t. Honestly. Stop tormenting yourself – please.’ She wondered why the idea bothered him so much. It wasn’t as if he’d ever stood a chance with Marianne; she’d been straight with him about it years ago. ‘And you told me yourself you thought she was happy with Greenwood.’

  ‘I know. I know. It just sticks in my craw, the idea of that … slippery, opportunist creep coming here, trying to expose her.’

  ‘What was there to expose?’ She looked at him sharply.

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing. I mean, nothing extraordinary, nothing we don’t all already know, her friends and family. Just … she was fragile, wasn’t she, the breakdown, what Seb did, and Cory’s … predatory. You only have to look at his record. He’d use all that, her past – he wouldn’t hesitate.’

  ‘Pete, did Mazz ever talk to you about dying?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Exactly that – did she ever talk about dying? Death.’

  His eyes didn’t leave her face for a moment. ‘What are you saying? That she spoke to him about it? Cory?’ His voice was rising quickly. ‘For fuck’s sake, Rowan – did she talk to him about suicide? Did he know she was going to … ?’

  ‘No. No. That’s not what he said. He just said it was a subject she came back to a lot. I think it was because of the anorexics, that it made her think about …’

  ‘If he knew – if he was pushing her, mining her for …’ Turk stood up from the table, the legs of his chair screeching against the floor.

  ‘Stop it!’ Rowan’s voice came out louder than she’d planned. ‘Just stop it, Pete,’ she said more quietly. He was radiating anger; it came off him like a heat haze over tarmac. ‘Come on – sit down.’

  His breathing was high and shallow, and he glared at her for several seconds before capitulating and reaching for the chair.

  ‘I asked him specifically,’ she said when Turk was sitting. ‘I called him on it. He knew about the breakdown, obviously: it was in the newspapers, even if she hadn’t told him herself – which, for the record, she had. I asked him if she’d ever seemed suicidal and he said no.’

  Turk considered that. ‘And was he telling the truth? You believed him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because if …’

  Rowan put up a hand. ‘He told me about Greta Mulraine,’ she said. ‘Straight up, unprompted.’ She saw surprise cross Turk’s face. ‘He said he knew what suicidal looked like. Actually, he asked me if I thought he was the kind of person who would do that, know someone was desperate and stand by. He asked if I thought he was a monster.’

  ‘And do you?’

  She paused. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not like that.’

  ‘What was Marianne’s costume?’

  ‘Her what?’

  ‘For the party, when she borrowed the cufflinks.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Turk nodded. ‘Al Capone. It was gangsters and molls.’

  Rowan remembered Marianne standing in front of the long mirror in her parents’ room forcing a safety pin through the back of a cardboard dog collar.

  ‘I’m not dressing like a stripper just because Martin decided it was fancy dress. Tarts and vicars? What is he, a middle-aged swinger?’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Rowan. She picked up the mugs and carried them to the sink. ‘I had a look for them yesterday. I don’t know if she had a jewellery box – she never used to – but there weren’t any cufflinks in the tray on her dresser, which seemed like the obvious place. Or her bedside table – there are some bits and pieces in the top drawer. Maybe they got mixed up with Seb’s – his things are still there, in their old room.’

  ‘All right. Thanks for trying, anyway. Okay if I run up and have a quick look?’

  ‘Of course.’ She turned the tap on then glanced over her shoulder. ‘You’ve got the advantage of knowing what you’re looking for.’

  She washed the coffee pot and put it on the rack to dry, trying to think. In that
momentary glance, she’d seen something odd though she hadn’t quite registered what it was. When the last of the water gurgled away, she stood still, hands on the edge of the sink, and listened for movement in the house overhead. Nothing – silence.

  She crossed the kitchen quietly and made her way up to the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, making sure she was invisible from the landing, she stopped and listened again but there were no sounds of opening drawers or feet on creaky boards.

  He’d taken his rucksack up with him; that was what had struck her. When he arrived, she’d noticed, he hadn’t dropped it under the coat pegs as they always used to do with their schoolbags. He’d brought it with him down to the kitchen and kept it by his feet, and in the few seconds she’d had her back to him, clearing the coffee things, he’d picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.

  As quietly as possible, she went upstairs. From the hallway, she’d seen that the door to Seb and Jacqueline’s room was closed. Going along the corridor to Marianne’s, she composed her face into a benign expression just in case but when she put her head around the door, her suspicions were confirmed: the room was empty. As she turned to go, there was a squeak overhead.

  The pieces dropped into place one by one but when she reached the top landing, what she saw through the open doorway still shocked her.

  Turk was on his knees in front of the worktable, one of Marianne’s square boxes pulled out, its lid off, five or six A4 sketches ranged on the boards around him. The rucksack’s soft canvas mouth was open and next to it, also open, was what it had contained: a rigid artist’s carrying case. A sheaf of papers rested on it now, a charcoal sketch of a pair of cupped hands on the top.

  ‘Explains why the police couldn’t find any signs of a breakin.’

  Turk hadn’t heard her coming. He spun around, eyes wide with shock.