My Best Friend's Murder

by Polly Phillips

  ‘I haven’t exactly agreed—’

  Ed’s face closes down. ‘I can get you out of it if that’s what you really want.’

  He turns back to the stove; his shoulders are stiff.

  I bite back my annoyance. The last thing I want is to fight over this. I wrap my arms around him from behind.

  ‘Of course I’ll do it. I don’t know why I’m making such a fuss.’

  ‘I should have checked with you first. I assumed ’cos it was Izzy you’d be only too happy to step in.’

  ‘Normally I would be…’ I nestle into him. I don’t want to be on the outs with him as well.

  ‘I know she can come across as a bit overbearing but she’s a good friend to you,’ he reminds me. ‘To both of us. She’s got me out of a few holes already since we started back.’

  ‘I just feel a bit funny around her at the moment.’ In the past I’ve purposefully kept Ed out of any ups and downs with Izzy because I didn’t want to put him in the middle. Now I realize it doesn’t matter that she knew him first – he’s my fiancé. He should be on my side, not in the middle. ‘There have been some things—’

  ‘Why don’t we have them over for dinner when I get back?’ Ed’s turned back to the food. ‘I’ll cook. I’m sure it’ll have blown over by then. Everybody’s a bit busy and stressed at the moment. We just need to sit down together.’ Ed kisses the top of my head and hands me the wine glasses. ‘Why don’t you take the plates and glasses through?’

  I take everything across the hall to the sitting room, wishing I shared his optimism. What Ed doesn’t realize is that it’s not about whether or not this row will blow over or how busy Izzy is. It’s about whether or not Izzy and I have ever had a friendship at all.

  Sixteen

  Thursday 17 January

  6.05 p.m.

  Despite Izzy’s five reminder texts, I’m the last to arrive at nursery pick-up. Tasha, Sydney’s press agent, rings as I’m closing down my desktop, wanting to talk interview details. I rush the call and run all the way from the station to the nursery but I arrive, red-faced and panting, at least ten minutes after everyone else.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say to the girl on the door. ‘I came as quickly as I could.’

  The girl, who looks about seventeen, frowns. ‘At Oak Tree our day runs from 7.30 to 6 p.m. We ask our parents to be considerate of those hours. Any late pick-ups do incur an additional fee.’

  ‘I am sorry…’ I peer at her nametag. ‘Kayleigh.’ Normally I instinctively kowtow to authority figures but the backless rabbit slippers she’s wearing on her feet make it hard to take her seriously. And there are at least half a dozen mothers still shepherding their children into black four-by-fours outside. The street looks like a presidential cavalcade. ‘I’m picking up someone else’s child and I wasn’t quite sure how long the journey would take.’

  ‘Who are you here to pick up?’

  ‘Matilda Waverly.’

  Kayleigh visibly starts to thaw. ‘On this occasion, I think we can make an exception. Mum did explain a few months ago that she’d be going back to work so we expected a few teething problems. We thought we might see a little more of Dad instead though. What’s your name?’

  Much as I’d like to point out that Izzy and Rich aren’t Kayleigh’s parents, I keep my face neutral. ‘Rebecca Maloney. I should be on her list.’

  ‘One moment.’ She closes the door in my face. I try to peer in after her but the glass door is frosted and emblazoned with the nursery’s name and a pretentious-looking crest. I can’t see a thing. When she comes back, she’s holding a clipboard and wearing a disappointed expression. She cracks the door an inch.

  ‘I’m afraid your name isn’t on the list.’

  ‘What? I’ve picked her up loads of times and there hasn’t been a problem. Perhaps I’m there under Bec? That’s what I generally go by.’

  ‘There’s no Maloney here at all.’

  ‘Could it be misspelt?’

  Kayleigh bristles at the implied criticism. ‘I’m afraid the only two names I have down for Tilly are Jenny Waverly and Glenda Maxwell-Martin.’

  I grit my teeth. I was there when Izzy filled that form out just before Tilly started nursery. I can’t believe she’s been petty enough to change it. This is the last time I do her a favour. ‘Well, Mum’s on a conference so she asked me to pick Tilly up. I can show you the messages if you need.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ The woman holds up the phone in her hand. ‘We’ll give Mum a call.’

  Ed never answers his phone at these conferences so I doubt Izzy will. ‘You might be better off trying Dad.’

  ‘I’m trying Mum now.’ Kayleigh holds the phone to her ear and turns away. After a couple of minutes, she hangs up, refers to the clipboard and taps in another number. She holds the phone out so we can both hear.

  ‘Hello.’ Even through the tinniness of the receiver, I recognize Rich’s deep baritone. He’ll sort this out.

  ‘Mr Waverly?’ It’s as if Kayleigh’s swallowed helium. ‘I’m sorry to bother you at work but I’ve got a Rebecca Maloney here to pick up Tilly. Only she’s not on the list. Can I release Tilly into her care?’

  ‘You most certainly can.’ I can hear Rich chuckling. ‘She should be top of the list. Please could you give her my profuse apologies and tell her I’m finishing up here in the next half an hour. I won’t be too long.’

  Kayleigh hangs up, looking considerably friendlier than she did when I arrived. ‘I’m happy to say we can release her to you. And Dad says—’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘I’ll call upstairs and get somebody to bring Tilly down. I’ll need to see some ID first, though. It’s nursery procedure.’

  Only when I’ve dug around in my wallet for my driving licence does she let me in. I guess you expect them to be this security conscious with the fees that Izzy and Rich pay. I nearly choked when Izzy told me; a year of nursery, five days a week, is almost equivalent to my annual salary. Before tax.

  The foyer’s painted the colour of custard and plastered in framed artwork. I’m scanning it, trying to find something of Tilly’s, when she appears at the double doors on the other side of the foyer. She’s togged up in a coat so padded it looks like a mattress and she’s holding a picture slick with wet paint. She runs over as soon as she sees me and throws her arms around me.

  ‘Hey, Tills.’ I try not to wince as the painting connects with my favourite indigo jeans. I need some new ones anyway. ‘What have you painted?’

  ‘Spring.’ Tilly says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

  ‘Oh.’ I look again at the picture, which seems to consist of little more than green swirls of paint. ‘That’s excellent. Are these leaves?’

  ‘It’s the inside of a seed.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Fearing I’m at risk of being intellectually outclassed by a four year old, I nod my thanks at Kayleigh and open the door. ‘Shall we head for the hills? What do you want for tea?’

  Tilly prattles on about her day all the way home but she doesn’t answer the question. I probably shouldn’t have asked. Izzy’s fairly militant about what Tilly eats. I’m sure there will be a veritable smorgasbord of healthy options available. When it comes to cooking, I need all the help I can get.

  What I’m not expecting when I open the front door is so many Post-its stuck to the walls it looks like the house has been engulfed in a snowstorm. Beware the yellow snow. I finger the closest one, tacked next to the alarm. Instead of telling me something useful like the code, it reminds me to wipe my feet and leave my shoes on the rack. Down the hall there’s one advising us to ‘eat your snacks downstairs’. There’s more lining the stairs but I don’t bother to read them.

  The kitchen is worse. I can’t even open the biscuit cupboard without being reminded to ‘eat fruit first’. It’s as if Izzy thinks I’m the same age as Tilly. I resist the urge to rip them down and set Tilly up on the sofa in front of CBeebies even though the Post-it next t
o the TV dictates ‘no screen time’. This one’s underlined. I put the kettle on, making sure to fill it to the brim as instructed, then I pick up the laminated piece of paper headed ‘Instructions’ lying on the breakfast bar.

  According to the sheet, I should have fed Tilly by 6.15 at the latest so that I can do ‘bath and bed’ on time. It doesn’t say what she should be eating or what will happen if I’m five minutes late. Heaven forbid Tilly miss out on her beauty sleep when she needs to be as pretty as Mama. I think of Glenda’s tight face and unnaturally plumped cheeks and wonder if Izzy will feel the same competition with Tilly that Glenda displays towards her. Maybe that’s what drives her relentless search for perfection. If I wasn’t feeling so put upon, I might be able to eke out some sympathy for her.

  Instead I open the freezer, feeling harassed. Given that it’s almost half past six, I’ll be pushing it to hit bath and bed on time but if I bung some fish fingers and chips in the oven I should just make it. Aren’t fish fingers kiddy crack? Izzy must have some knocking around for playdates. I dig around in the freezer but it’s full of Tupperware containers, labelled things like ‘béchamel’ and ‘stock’. Not a fish finger in sight. I try the fridge instead. There’s a plate covered in tinfoil with Tilly’s name and ‘heat in oven not micro!!’ printed on it. I can almost see the condescension poking through her neat lettering. I nudge the tinfoil back to see salmon, rice and what looks like mung beans.

  ‘Right, Tills. Will you go and wash your hands? I’m going to heat up some salmon for your tea.’

  ‘I don’t want salmon.’ Tilly throws herself on the floor.

  ‘But it’s delicious. And it’ll be ready in two ticks.’

  ‘I hate salmon. It’s all mushy.’

  ‘Mummy made it specially. Think how happy she’ll be when you’ve eaten it.’

  ‘Please don’t make me.’ Tilly’s eyes start to go glassy. ‘I had it before. It’s so yucky.’

  I hesitate. I don’t want a repeat of Tilly’s Christmas Day meltdown. I also feel sorry for her. When Izzy and I were young, everything we ate was covered in bright orange batter and came out of a packet.

  ‘Tell you what. Why don’t we order a pizza as a treat?’

  Tilly’s eyes go as round as a pizza. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. But let’s make it our secret.’ Aware that my words are those of a child abuser, I rush on. ‘Mummy and Daddy would much rather hear about what you did at nursery than what you got up to with me.’

  ‘You sound like Daddy when Mummy goes for a run and he lets me watch his iPad.’ Tilly giggles. ‘And do you know what?’

  ‘Tell me.’ I’m already scrolling through Deliveroo options but I pause. My interest is piqued. What other secrets might Rich be keeping from Izzy?

  ‘Sometimes he gives me chocolate!’ Tilly collapses in hysterics.

  ‘Let’s get this pizza ordered then. Shall we have some doughballs too?’

  8.13 p.m.

  Tilly’s in bed by the time Rich gets home. The high ceilings down here make for great acoustics so I hear the rustle as he takes his coat off, followed by what sounds like paper ripping and a scrunch of something hitting the wastepaper basket. I shove the pizza box under the sofa. The process is repeated for several minutes before his feet hit the stairs. I guess he isn’t a fan of the Post-its either.

  ‘Bec, I’m so sorry for the mix-up at the nursery.’ Rich rubs his forehead then sweeps his hands through his hair as he comes over. ‘What a nightmare. Of course you were on the list but a couple of months ago Glenda kicked off about not being included and Iz had to change it. Predictably she hasn’t been near the place since.’

  ‘These things happen.’ I stand up and reach for my bag, wondering whether I should try and sneak the pizza box out now or leave it for the cleaner to find in the morning.

  ‘How did Tilly settle?’

  ‘She went down really well.’ I gesture at the monitor on the table. ‘I think she was tired.’

  ‘You’re not going straightaway, are you? Say you’ll stay and have a drink.’

  ‘Well… maybe a small one.’ Being so irritated with Izzy seems to have made me feel less edgy around him.

  ‘Thank God. I’ve been staring at screens all day. Really, you’re carrying out a mission of mercy.’

  ‘Well when you put it like that, maybe you can make it a medium.’ I settle back on the sofa. I’ll stay for a quick one. Rich and I haven’t hung out on our own since we were teenagers. We haven’t been allowed. I watch him open their state-of-the-art wine fridge and pull out what looks like an expensive Shiraz.

  ‘There’s an open Sauv Blanc in your actual fridge,’ I protest.

  ‘I know you prefer red.’ Rich’s thighs tense as he puts the bottle between his legs and pulls the cork. ‘Here you go. Now, if we leave that to breathe for a few minutes, it should be good to go. God, I sound like a pretentious twat, don’t I?’

  I push Rob’s comments to the back of my mind. ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘Do you remember the days when we used to drink anything as long as it was wet?’ Rich undoes his shoelaces, takes off his shoes and throws himself into the armchair opposite me. ‘In fact, screw that. Let’s drink it now. It’s Penfolds. It’s going to taste good whether we drink it now or leave it open all night.’

  He grabs the bottle and fills the two glasses to the brim.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘So how are you, Bec?’ Rich takes a slug then puts the glass on the table and steeples his hands together.

  ‘You look like your dad when you do that.’ I regret it as soon as I say it.

  ‘You sure know how to bring a man down.’ All the warmth disappears from Rich’s voice.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘I guess you heard I’m going for the promotion after all?’ His voice sounds harder than usual.

  ‘Izzy mentioned it. How do you feel?’

  ‘Like I want to get hammered.’ He takes another gulp of his wine. ‘Cheers again.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I take a smaller sip to be sociable.

  ‘I’d much rather talk about you. How are the wedding plans going? Izzy’s hardly said a word.’

  ‘I haven’t done as much as I’d planned to.’ I gloss over Izzy’s lack of involvement. It’s nice to talk to someone who’s interested. ‘Looked at a few dresses online, that kind of thing. But nothing major. We were going to look at a wedding venue this weekend but now Ed’s at the conference and… I didn’t fancy going on my own.’

  ‘I’ll come, if you like?’

  ‘What?’ I allow myself the fleeting image of turning up with Rich on my arm. A taste of how it would feel to be Izzy for the day. I shake the idea away before it takes root. I can’t go to a wedding venue with Rich Waverly. ‘You’d be bored out of your skull.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate what I’d do for free champagne. You know most venues give it to you, right? It’s one of the best bits. The only problem is, people might think I’m the groom.’

  We take matching gulps of wine. I almost choke on mine.

  ‘Do you want to grab something to eat? I’m starving.’

  My mind returns to the remains of the pizza currently congealing under our feet. ‘I’m all right, thanks. I think Izzy left some salmon in the fridge. She mentioned it on a—’

  ‘Post-it note? I saw. In amongst telling me not to burn the house down and reminding me to breathe at regular intervals. I better take the rest of them down before Mum arrives and spits the dummy. I don’t really fancy salmon though.’

  ‘There’s a tonne of stuff in the freezer.’

  ‘Yeah, Izzy stocked me up for a nuclear winter. Anyway, what do you fancy? Anything you like. On me.’

  ‘I’m not really hungry.’

  ‘Sure I can’t tempt you to something like a… pizza?’

  He nudges the corner of the box out from under the sofa with his toe and creases up.

  ‘How long hav
e you known?’ I cringe.

  ‘Bec, the place reeks of pepperoni. I could smell it as soon as I came in. Plus I know you’re a pizza demon. Is there any left?’

  I pull the box out and flip the lid. ‘Two slices.’

  ‘One each?’

  ‘Nah, you’re all right.’

  ‘Don’t make a man eat alone.’

  ‘Honestly, I’m stuffed. Any more pizza and I think I’ll burst out of these jeans.’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be one of the normal ones. The one I can sit and have pizza and a beer with without you getting all paranoid and girlie about it.’

  ‘That’s me, always one of the lads.’ I finish my wine then refill it. ‘Shall we see what’s on the box?’

  Rich picks up the handful of the remote controls on the coffee table and points them haphazardly at the flatscreen mounted on the wall. ‘Any preferences?’

  ‘Something unchallenging.’

  ‘Right you are.’ He flicks channels, stopping intermittently to check if there’s anything that grabs me.

  ‘How many channels do you have anyway?’

  ‘Too many. Netflix, Sky, Amazon Prime. Anything to drown out the silence.’ He settles on the rerun of a 90s quiz show. ‘Can I interest you in some vintage Catchphrase?’

  ‘My mum used to love this. We watched it every Saturday night. It was on before Baywatch, do you remember?’

  ‘Gladiators was before Baywatch Catchphrase was before that. Ah, the glory of a misspent youth.’

  We grin at each other, complicit, as the sound of the contestants’ buzzers pipes out from the television.

  ‘Any progress on the great novel?’ I ask companionably as one episode rolls into another.

  ‘I didn’t really have a chance to work on it over Christmas. I’m hoping it’ll pick up now the holiday is over. Once I start the new gig, I’ve got no chance. If I put in the hard yards this weekend, I might get it done.’ He tops up my already full glass so the wine nearly slops out of the top. ‘My dad is probably weeping at the very prospect.’

  ‘I bet he’d be proud if he did read it.’