My Best Friend's Murder

by Polly Phillips

  ‘It’s really great news, hon,’ she says. ‘What a scoop. But will they let you do the interview?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well she’s a big name, isn’t she? Won’t the editor want to do it?’

  ‘I think because I brought the interview in, they’ll let me do it.’ I dig my nails into the palm of my hand. The idea that Tina might take the interview never occurred to me.

  ‘I could have a word with my dad, if you like?’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Rob butts in. ‘Bec’s the one with the relationship with Sydney Scott. I imagine she’d stipulate that she wouldn’t do the interview unless it’s Bec asking the questions.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ Izzy carries on in a tone that suggests the opposite. ‘I remember my dad saying Tina sometimes likes to write up the bigger interviews herself. I just hope she doesn’t take it off you.’

  ‘I don’t think she will,’ I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

  ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven…’ Around us the crowd join in with the countdown, drowning out Izzy’s response. Then the pop of the gun splits the air apart and everyone surges forward. Izzy sprints off. Runners are tearing past on either side but I keep my focus on the back of Rob’s red windbreaker and don’t try to keep up. He said most people burn themselves out in the first few kilometres and not to try to catch her until the end. I turn my music up and try to zone out. Before I know it I’m nearly at the end of the first lap and I’m almost enjoying myself. More importantly, I’m getting quicker rather than slower.

  ‘You’re doing really well.’ Rob drops back briefly to talk to me. ‘You’re nearly halfway. Just keep going and remember you’ve got the Jelly Babies if you need a sugar hit. Don’t worry about Izzy. She backs herself too much – she always slows down for the second half.’

  I love that we’ve both abandoned any pretence that this race isn’t about Izzy. I can’t believe Rob’s gone the extra mile to analyse all her previous race splits. It must be a personal trainer thing. The course is a double loop of Clapham Common, skirting its perimeter and circling the bandstand before crossing the road to round the swimming pond and the church on the other side. I don’t see Izzy until I’m passing the church for the second time. The other runners have thinned out and I see her blonde plaits swinging about 200 metres ahead, up by the 9km sign. I watch her, envying the way her legs seem to kiss the ground as she lopes along. I, on the other hand, feel like each of mine weigh a tonne. I don’t know if I’ll ever catch her. I think of her face when she suggested Tina might write the interview for me – and all of the other things she’s taken off me through the years – and I pick up my feet.

  My lungs burn as I pass the 9km sign but I block the pain out. The gap between us is closing. If I keep going at this pace, I might catch her. Then she glances back. She gives no sign of having seen me but I’m near enough to see her press her teeth together before she turns back round and speeds up. If her legs looked long before, they seem endless now. I shove a handful of Rob’s Jelly Babies into my mouth and stick with her, although I have to take two steps for every stride of hers. There’s a rutted section, surrounded by long grass, before the course widens into the final stretch. As she turns onto it, I’m on her back. She turns again and I see her eyes narrow. She sticks her elbows out slightly, forcing me to drop back.

  I feel a final pulse of energy as we come into the open. The soles of my feet are burning but I keep thumping them down on the ground. I’m so close to Izzy that I can smell a faint whiff of Issey Miyake. I pull alongside her. Muscles I didn’t know I had are stinging and I can feel the chafe of my sports bra against my ribcage. I don’t care if it’s red raw by the end; I have to keep going.

  At the start of the finishing chute, I brush past her and see the look of surprise on her face. There’s the shadow of something else there too: is it resentment? Respect? I never get to find out. I screw my face up and put everything into the final few metres. Rob’s already at the finish line munching on a banana and giving me a thumbs-up. I find a final sprint. I can’t help focusing on Rich towering above those around him with Tilly on his shoulders as I’m about to cross the line. The look on his face is my first clue something’s wrong. His mouth is slack with shock. I wonder briefly whether it’s that much of a surprise that I might beat Izzy – then Tilly’s shout whips the thought from my mind. There are volunteers holding medals and a camera flashing in the corner. I turn away from them all. Instead, I look around. Halfway down the finishing chute, right at the point I overtook her, Izzy is lying on the ground, clutching her ankle.

  Fourteen

  12.10 p.m.

  Two medics are huddled over Izzy by the time I get to her. They’ve taken her trainers off and they’re watching as she points her right foot like a ballerina. Rich is standing beside her, shielding Tilly.

  ‘Oh my god, what happened?’ I crouch next to Izzy. ‘Did you trip?’

  ‘You can put your sock back on now, love.’ The medic who has been rotating her foot hands back her trainers. He’s got a thick white beard that’s so fluffy it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if it’s real or just for the occasion. But with Izzy sprawled out like an injured footballer, now’s not the time. ‘It’s not sprained and I can’t see any signs of a tear. You may have bruised it. The best thing to do is to ice it when you get home and stay off it for the rest of the day. Use it as an opportunity to put your feet up.’ Behind the beard I can see his cheeks crease into a smile.

  ‘It’s really sore.’ Izzy’s face is scrunched in pain.

  ‘If it’s still giving you trouble in a few days, see your GP. But honestly, I don’t anticipate you having any more problems. Here, let me help you up.’ He puts out a meaty hand but Izzy shakes her head.

  ‘I think I’ll sit here until I’m feeling a bit stronger.’

  The man tugs on his beard – which stays firmly in place – and glances back at the race. ‘I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to move. You’re on the course and we’ve got other runners coming through.’

  He holds his hand out again but she refuses.

  ‘I can manage.’ She puts her hands on the grass beside her to pull herself up and winces.

  The medic hesitates. ‘Look, the van will be around for another hour after the race finishes. If it’s feeling sore when you’re ready to leave, come back and see us.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. Izzy, trying to pull herself up from the ground, ignores him.

  ‘Rich.’ She snaps her fingers and he rushes forward. I take a few paces back so I’m not in the way.

  ‘Bec,’ I hear a small voice at my side. I look down to see Tilly’s worried face staring up at me.

  ‘Hey, Tills.’

  ‘Is Mummy going to die?’ Tilly’s face crumples up.

  ‘God, no.’ I pull Tilly close. ‘She’s got a little ouchie on her foot, that’s all. Why on earth would you think that?’

  ‘Harry’s daddy had an ouchie on his head and he died.’

  ‘Well that’s very sad for Harry but your mummy’s going to be just fine. Look over there, can you see that squirrel?’

  Tilly looks unconvinced.

  ‘Shall we go and see if Mummy’s feeling better?’ I ask Tilly. ‘I bet one of your magic hugs would really help.’

  Tilly skips the few paces to where Izzy is standing, swathed in Rich’s jumper and jacket, bracing herself between him and an oak tree. The way he’s rubbing his hands together and digging his neck into his t-shirt makes me glad I’m wearing a jumper. When we get closer, Tilly stops skipping and jerks back.

  ‘Oh, Tilly, don’t be silly,’ Rich says. ‘Come and see Mummy.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’ Tilly hides behind my legs.

  ‘I promise you won’t hurt me.’ Izzy grimaces as she straightens up and holds out her arms. Tilly throws herself into them. Two seconds later she asks Rich:

  ‘Can I have my ice-cream now?’

  ‘There was a van over on the
corner by the pond. I said she could have one when you finished.’

  ‘We’re going to have lunch in about…’ Izzy goes to check her watch, then stops. ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’ll make sure it’s a small one. Can I get either of you anything?’

  Izzy and I shake our heads and watch Tilly scamper away. Rich strides across the grass to catch up, the wind whipping at his t-shirt.

  ‘What happened out there?’ I ask.

  ‘Like you don’t know.’

  ‘Did you catch your foot against one of those stumps sticking out of the grass? I only just managed to avoid them.’ The sour look on Izzy’s face makes me wonder why I’m even bothering. I’m like one of those old dogs that pine for the owner that beat them.

  ‘You know it wasn’t the logs that tripped me up.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You tripped me when you passed me.’

  ‘What? You can’t think I tripped you?’

  ‘I don’t think it. I know it, so pack in the innocent act. Nobody’s around to see it.’

  ‘Izzy, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I would never want to hurt you.’

  ‘Perhaps you did it subconsciously then. It’s not like you haven’t been waiting your whole life to trip me up.’ She mutters the last words out of the corner of her mouth but I hear them. Like I’m supposed to.

  ‘You’re the one who had your elbows out.’ My voice is louder than I realized. A couple of racers, clutching medals in one hand and bananas in the other, look over. Izzy pastes a smile on her face until they walk off. She hates a scene. I stand there, waiting for her to take it back. Instead, the grass squeaks as she adjusts her feet. ‘I’m going to catch up with Rich before we both say things we regret.’

  She flips her plaits over her shoulders and marches off without turning around. As she rounds the pond to catch up with Rich and Tilly, I notice her limp has disappeared.

  12.35 p.m.

  I sit under the tree for a few moments, feeling winded. I’ve spent years working hard not to mind how easily things come to Izzy. Or how much she takes them for granted. She has no idea what it’s like to walk into a room behind her and see people’s smiles dip. I never complain. But this is it. I’m done. I pull my jacket tighter around me. The sky is threatening rain. I want to go home. But Rob’s chatting to the organizer over by the finish.

  ‘You ran a good race,’ the guy says as I come over.

  ‘Thanks.’ I expect he tells everyone that. ‘Rob, are you about ready to make a move?’

  ‘Don’t forget to rate us on Facebook,’ the organizer calls after us.

  Rob waves a hand in acknowledgement. We start to walk back to the car. Aside from a few stragglers, the race is finished and the crowds have dispersed. Rob checks his phone to see if Sydney’s called, then puts it away. ‘He’s right. You did run a good race. How come you’re not wearing your medal?’

  I look at the brass disc slapping against his chest.

  ‘I forgot to collect one.’

  ‘You forgot? Bec, the medal’s the whole point of doing the race. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s for the satisfaction of competing.’ He cuffs me on the top of the arm. ‘Do you want to go back?’

  ‘Never mind. I just want to go home.’

  ‘Does this have something to do with Izzy’s dramatic collapse?’

  ‘You saw that? Why didn’t you come over?’

  ‘I thought she had enough of an entourage. What did she do, break a toenail?’

  I laugh hollowly. ‘If only.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She accused me of tripping her.’ I wait for Rob to have the same horrified reaction as I did. He strokes his chin instead.

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Is that all you’re going to say? You could try being a bit more supportive.’

  ‘Look, I know you’d never trip her. Mainly because you’re so mal-coordinated that you’d end up tripping yourself up in the process.’ He stops smirking when he sees my face. ‘Bec, she knows you’d never trip her. But I’m not surprised she said you did.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘Duh. To save face. She needs to stay one step ahead of you, pardon the pun, to feel like she’s worth anything.’

  ‘That’s crazy. She’s the one with the perfect life.’ Which she doesn’t even appreciate.

  ‘That she has to work like a Duracell bunny for. I saw her face when she found out you were interviewing Syd. She looked like she’d swallowed shit. She can’t stand it when you do well. She was the same at school. She was never going to let you win that race. And if she wasn’t going to win…’

  ‘You think she tripped herself up deliberately?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s manipulative. You know that.’

  I look at him. ‘You’re either a genius or a total nutter. How did you come up with all that stuff?’

  ‘It helps when you’re going out with an American. They have a lot of therapy.’ Rob grins. ‘And I’ve had front-row seats for the way you two are with each other for years.’

  We’ve reached the edge of the common. I can see Rob’s Alfa Romeo glinting on the opposite side of the road. Missy’s sprawled halfway across the passenger seat onto Sydney, who has Rob’s cap pulled so low over her face she looks like a PI on a stakeout. It seems incongruous that my brother is dating her but somehow they fit together. Part of me envies the ease they have with each other. I wonder whether people think that about me and Ed. I hope so. Our relationship might not have the glossy novelty factor that theirs does, but we look out for each other. I glance at Rob to see if he’s noticed Missy on the front seat but he’s looking at me.

  ‘Look out for yourself, Bec,’ he says. ‘You heard what Syd said about her roommate. These kinds of friendships can get nasty.’

  ‘This is Izzy we’re talking about,’ I laugh. ‘She’s hardly going to stab me in an alleyway, is she?’

  ‘I’m only saying—’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Look, why don’t you come have lunch with us?’ Rob suggests. ‘Syd knows this great vegan deli in Notting Hill. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘I never thought I’d hear you utter the words “vegan” and “fun” in the same sentence. I’ll pass. My legs are killing me. I think I’ll head home.’

  ‘Need a lift?’

  ‘You’re the opposite direction. I’ll be fine.’

  I don’t want to tell him that I want to be on my own.

  ‘If you’re sure.’ Rob gives me a quick hug. ‘Don’t be a stranger.’

  ‘You sound like Jenny.’

  ‘Waverly?’ Rob rolls his eyes. ‘Give me strength.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Jenny.’

  ‘Bec, the whole lot of them are up their own arses. Rich used to be all right but even he’s changed.’

  ‘What do you mean? You seemed pretty pally with him earlier.’ My voice goes up an octave. Rob’s too busy waving at Sydney to notice.

  ‘He’s so pretentious these days. Did you see the Gucci loafers he was wearing today? On the common. And all this talk of writing the great novel? I bet he hasn’t written a word. He probably sits in his office watching porn.’

  ‘You’re wrong. I bet it’s really good.’

  ‘Whatever you reckon.’ Rob taps on the car window and Sydney lowers it. ‘You must be baking in there with all these windows up. And what is that dog doing on the front seat?’

  9.43 p.m.

  I’ve eschewed the usual festive selection of Only Fools and Horses re-runs for back-to-back episodes of CSI when the doorbell rings. Do Jehovah’s Witnesses work over Christmas? I’m not expecting anyone and I’m not in the mood for company. Given that Boxing Day is the calendar’s official built-in post-Christmas hangover day, I’ve never expected much from it. But what with the race and Izzy, this one has been particularly rubbish. I consider not answering but it rings again and Missy clatters down the hallway and starts whining like she knows who
it is. For a fleeting moment, as I hobble down the hall, I wonder if it’s Ed. He didn’t mention leaving early when I spoke to him after the race but I know his family is doing his head in. I didn’t tell him what happened with Izzy but maybe he heard something in my voice and decided to surprise me. That would be one way to turn this mess of a day around. But when I pull the door open it’s Izzy on the doorstep. And there are tears running down her face.

  I’m so surprised I stand there with my mouth open. Izzy hasn’t been here in months. ‘Izzy, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh, Bec.’ She launches herself at me, practically choking me as she flings her arms around my neck. ‘I’ve come to say sorry.’

  Izzy’s tears have made her cheeks shine. When I cry my eyes shrivel up and my nose looks like somebody’s punched it.

  ‘For what?’ When we’ve fought in the past, she’s never come round to apologise in person before. In fact, I can’t remember the last time she said she was sorry for anything.

  She dabs at the corners of her eyes. ‘I know you would never trip me intentionally. I must have got disorientated with all the pain. I wasn’t thinking straight. Can we forget it ever happened?’

  I hesitate. I was going to take a step back. Make myself a little bit less available. Until the toxic atmosphere cleared. But it’s not as simple as that. Looking at Izzy is like looking through a kaleidoscope. Fragments of my childhood whirl around us. Her teaching me to smoke at a bus-stop when we were fourteen. The night she held my hair back when I vomited all over her parents’ kitchen. The moment we laughed so hard during a Friends marathon that I snorted Diet Coke over the sofa. Her hair might be glossier and her face thinner but she’s still the one I called the moment I lost my virginity. The guy had barely left the room before I picked up the phone. Then there’s how she held me up after my mum died. We’ve got so much history that sometimes I wonder where Izzy stops and I begin.

  ‘Go on. You’d better come in.’

  ‘When did you get the same floors as us?’ Izzy points at the floorboards as she tramps down the hall into our tiny sitting room.

  ‘About six months ago.’ I bite back the urge to point out half the houses in south London are carpeted in the same blonde wood as her place.