My Best Friend's Murder

by Polly Phillips

‘I don’t think being proud of me is in his range of emotions.’

  Rich is trying to smile but the vein in his temple is pulsing the way it did at Christmas. When he sees me looking, he takes a swig of his wine to cover it. I follow suit, embarrassed to have been caught watching him.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he says, but his voice burns with resentment. ‘I know he loves me. He just wishes I was someone else.’

  I always thought that Rich had won the parental lottery. I want to tell him that he can confide in me, that I’ll always listen. But it’s not my place. I opt for jokey instead.

  ‘Families – who’d have ’em? At least your dad is actually in the country. Although maybe that’s not such a good thing.’ I knock my glass against his. ‘Forget him. You’ve almost finished writing a novel, Rich. How many people actually do that? It’s major.’

  ‘Only the first draft. Apparently that’s when the work really begins.’

  ‘Most people don’t even get that far. You should celebrate.’

  ‘Speaking of which…’ Rich picks the wine bottle off the floor. I can hear the dregs rattling at the bottom when he shakes it. ‘Shall I open another?’

  ‘I dunno. It’s getting late.’

  ‘Come on, live a little. We don’t have to finish it.’

  I’ve never been able to say no to Rich. Perhaps I’m not that different to Izzy after all. ‘Fine. But don’t let me have more than one.’

  The door to the wine fridge makes a smooching sound as he tries to open it. I dig my back into the sofa. I can feel the alcohol gliding through my veins, loosening my muscles. Rich sloshes wine into both glasses and flops down on the sofa next to me. Catchphrase has been replaced by some random Japanese game show where the contestants seem to be attempting to kill each other. We reach to turn it off at the same time. I let my hand fall back. I’m trying to remember the last time I felt this comfortable when he asks me, ‘Have you ever thought about writing a book?’

  ‘Me? God, no. I don’t have the patience. Or the talent.’

  ‘Don’t put yourself down. You’re insanely talented. Even the stuff you used to write for the school magazine was on a different planet to the rest of us. I was going to ask you to cast your eye over my stuff, once I’d plucked up the courage.’

  ‘You want me to read it?’ I take another sip, absorbing the compliment.

  ‘Why’s that such a big shock?’

  ‘Izzy says you won’t let anyone read it. She says even she doesn’t know what it’s about.’

  ‘That’s because it’s not finished. When it is, I’ll need all the help I can get.’

  ‘Go on then, tell me what it’s about.’

  ‘This and that.’ He waves his hand vaguely and his wedding ring clinks against the rim of his glass.

  ‘Sounds gripping.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘Seriously, if you want me to read it, you’ve gotta tell me what it’s about. Imagine I’m your agent. Give me an elevator pitch.’

  ‘This is stupid.’ Rich’s cheeks flush.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘It’s about two people trapped in an unhappy ma—relationship, if you must know.’ Rich puts his glass to his lips. I watch the wine recede into his mouth. ‘Entirely fictitious, of course.’ He puts his glass on the floor.

  ‘Of course,’ I echo. Meeting his eye would feel too intimate so I stare into my alarmingly empty glass instead.

  ‘I’m thinking of changing it anyway. Nothing’s set in stone.’

  ‘You probably couldn’t handle my feedback anyway.’ I do my best imitation of a verbal swagger to cover the awkwardness. ‘I can be pretty harsh.’

  ‘I don’t buy that. You’re too nice.’

  ‘Now who’s bringing who down?’

  ‘What’s wrong with being nice?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The word feels thick in my mouth. I’m drunker than I realized. ‘I should go soon.’

  ‘Seriously, what’s wrong with being nice?’ Rich tries to pat my shoulder but ends up hitting the sofa instead. ‘It’s a good thing.’

  ‘As long as you don’t mind people walking all over you.’

  ‘Who’s walking all over you?’

  The comment makes me snigger into my wine glass. The fact that I’m here in the first place should make it perfectly obvious who’s walking all over me.

  ‘Nobody respects me,’ I say instead. It’s one of those thoughts that, despite never having thought it before, seems instantly true.

  ‘I respect you.’ He’s close enough that I can see the sincerity in his eyes. He thinks he does but he doesn’t. Otherwise he wouldn’t have picked Izzy over me. Not that she gave him much of a choice. And I don’t want to make him feel bad.

  ‘That’s because you’re a nice guy.’ I try to fob him off but my ‘nice’ and ‘guy’ run together. I put my glass down and stand up. It’s time to go home.

  ‘It’s because you’re worth respecting. Now sit down and finish your drink. Then I’ll call you a cab.’

  He tugs my arm again but I’m more unstable than he realizes and I stumble, landing in an undignified pile on the sofa. On top of him.

  This is the time I should get up, brush myself down and be on my way. But the feel of his breath on my face unlocks something. I can almost hear the hum of the music spilling out of the house party; smell the roses in the air. The last time we were this close, a trio of boys from the year below were trying to rap along to Backstreet Boys. I feel his hand on my cheek. Like he did that night. I move my face an inch closer. The moment – which in reality is probably only a few seconds – stretches. I’m acutely aware of the smell of congealing pizza, the whir of the dishwasher and the soft velvet of the sofa. Then we’re kissing like teenagers, his lips as soft as I remember. The years fall away. I can feel him hard against me. His hands on my shirt. His tongue in my mouth. Nothing and nobody to stop us this time. Has there ever been a moment when I’ve stopped wanting this? The dishwasher beep jolts me back to reality.

  I force myself to pull away. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened.’ I stand up and start rebuttoning my shirt. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it beneath the buttons. My legs are shaking. This must be what earth-shattering feels like.

  Rich grabs a sofa cushion and shoves it on his lap. His cheekbones have gone pink, which only serves to make him look more attractive. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Other than two bottles of wine.’

  ‘We both had too much to drink.’ I back away, feeling suddenly achingly sober. In all my endless teenage fantasies, I never considered this would happen after he was married. ‘I’m going to go.’

  In my haste to get out, my foot catches the lip of the pizza box and it sends me sprawling. I put my hands out and manage to right myself before I hit the deck. It’s a reminder. Izzy is the girl who gets to lie on the sofa, snogging the guy of her dreams. She’s the one who married him after all. Not me.

  ‘Are you okay? Let me call you a cab.’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine. I’ll get the bus.’ I stagger towards the stairs, ignoring the pain in my knee from where it connected with the wooden floor.

  ‘Will you let me know you got home safely? I don’t like to think of you on the bus on your own.’

  I keep moving. I can’t bring myself to normalize the situation by replying to such a mundane request.

  ‘Bec?’

  I pause, barely allowing myself to hope.

  ‘I hate to be that guy.’ Rich looks genuinely pained. ‘But can we agree not to tell—’

  ‘Right. Don’t worry. I won’t say a word.’ The cliché of it feels like a slap in the face, although I don’t know what else I was expecting. It’s just like that night – he’s choosing Izzy all over again. I force the words out of my mouth. ‘It’s not like it meant anything.’

  ‘If things were different—’

  My heart does a silly little leap. I’m trying to unpick whether he means it or if it’s
just another platitude when he adds:

  ‘Ed’s a lucky guy.’

  I feel a hot rush of shame. I haven’t thought about Ed since Rich sat down on the sofa next to me.

  ‘Izzy’s the lucky one.’ I run upstairs and out of the front door. Only when I’m halfway down their road do I let the tears at the back of my throat wash over me.

  Seventeen

  Sunday 27 January

  3 p.m.

  ‘What a beautiful space.’

  Ed is showing unnatural levels of enthusiasm about the wedding venue. He’s been like this since he got back from the conference. I thought he’d be able to smell the guilt burnt into my skin. It’s the opposite. He couldn’t be more attentive. Clare, Bramley Hall’s on-site wedding planner, can’t get enough of him. She keeps shooting me little looks from behind her glasses as if to check I know how lucky I am. I do.

  ‘It’s nice.’ I can barely look at him. I was so excited about this venue but as we looked at the on-site chapel, the banqueting hall and the guest bedrooms, I kept my eyes on the floor the whole time. Now they’re walking across the lawn that runs towards the lake in the middle and I’m trailing behind, like a lost dog.

  ‘I know it might be difficult to imagine at this time of year but we’ve even had some of our more nautically-minded couples choose to arrive by boat,’ Clare pointed out with a little tinkle when we first passed it. Ed made the right noises, even though he hates the water. I could barely muster a smile.

  ‘Others choose to pitch their marquee in the area over there in front of the Orangery.’ Clare pitches her voice louder so I can hear as we round the other side. ‘In the summer, those flowerbeds are teeming with roses. They really bring it alive. Will you be considering a marquee for your big day or would you prefer to take advantage of our banqueting rooms? I can show you a mock layout of one of those rooms if you’re interested.’

  ‘We haven’t looked into that part yet,’ Ed tells her. When we turn the corner to see the croquet lawn he mouths, ‘Are you okay?’ at me.

  ‘Just tired.’ It’s true; I haven’t been sleeping. Ed thinks it’s because I’m nervous about the Sydney Scott interview. He has no idea it’s actually guilt that is keeping me tossing and turning every night. That and the memory of Rich’s mouth pressed against mine.

  ‘I thought we might finish off in the Orangery? You can ask me any questions you might have over a cup of tea. And perhaps a biscuit?’ Clare clasps her hands together and beams. If wedding planning doesn’t work out for her, she’s definitely got the relentless perkiness for a career in children’s TV.

  ‘Sounds great.’ Ed waits for me to start walking again so he can fall into step with me. He keeps looking at me and then away again as if he wants to say something. I have to stop acting like a zombie. Ed’s not an idiot. I need to focus on the guy that did choose me, not the one who didn’t. I had my chance with Rich years ago. Or at least I nearly did.

  I haven’t heard from him since that night and I don’t deserve to. Whatever Izzy may or may not have done to me, what I did is unforgivable. When he said it, the fact that his book was about an unhappy couple seemed to have such personal significance. Now it just seems like a fairly well-worn topic. I’m reading something like that at the moment. Isn’t every book a bit like that? It means as little as our kiss did. The Waverlys are impenetrable. Izzy hasn’t been in touch either. Not even a thank-you for babysitting, which normally I’d think was pretty rude. After what I did, I can hardly complain.

  3.20 p.m.

  ‘So have you talked about dates?’

  I blink. Clare’s stirring her green tea and smiling at me. We’re sitting in the Orangery, a rather chintzy-looking brasserie whose only connection to citrus seems to be the glass bowl of lemons dumped on the counter by the coffee machine. I need to stop being so negative.

  ‘Not really—’ I start at the same time as Ed says:

  ‘Perhaps early next summer?’

  I look at him. A month ago, he couldn’t even commit to looking at the venue. Now he’s practically skipping up the aisle. I shouldn’t have doubted him.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got some talking left to do together. I must say it’s nice to see a groom taking such an interest. Some of these fellows just sit there and play with their phone.’

  Fellows? Is she from the nineteenth century? I try to catch Ed’s eye but he’s drinking her in.

  ‘But I’m afraid it’s time for me to lay my cards on the table.’ She makes a sad face. ‘As you can imagine, summer is Bramley Hall’s most popular time and I have to tell you every single Saturday is booked from now right through to next October. And as you know we don’t hold Sunday weddings.’

  ‘How disappointing,’ says Ed.

  ‘There are, however, plenty of other options.’ She hurries to reassure him. ‘You could look at later in the year and think about a winter wedding. Or we are finding that it’s becoming increasingly popular to get married on a Thursday or a Friday. Sometimes even a Wednesday. We’re able to offer slightly reduced rates for weekdays and we do have a handful currently available.’

  ‘I don’t think we want to make our friends use up their holidays to celebrate our wedding,’ I say before Ed can say anything.

  ‘How about one of the bank holidays?’ Ed suggests.

  ‘Unfortunately our bank holidays are our most popular times of all. People do love the chance to extend the party. What about looking at a Friday earlier in the first half of the year? If you went for a late afternoon wedding, you’d only be asking friends to take a half day. And we often have some of our best weather in March or April.’

  Ed looks eager. ‘Could you check your availability?’

  ‘I’ll go and get the diary,’ Clare practically purrs. ‘That way we can have a good look and see where we are.’

  I stab a spoon into my hot chocolate as she sashays off, her heels clipping against the tiled floor.

  ‘What do you reckon? Fancy being a March bride?’ Ed circles an arm around my shoulders.

  ‘I hate going to weddings when you have to keep your coat on all day.’ I know I sound snarky but I can’t help it. Ed’s enthusiasm is having that effect on me. I hate myself for it.

  ‘So we’ll have heaters. You’re the bride,’ he points out patiently. ‘You won’t be wearing a coat. Plus you heard what she said. The past few years have been wall-to-wall sunshine.’

  I can’t believe how nice he’s being. It should bring out the best in me. It seems to be bringing out the worst instead. ‘You can’t guarantee that.’

  ‘You can’t guarantee the weather any time of year. I thought this was the place you liked?’

  ‘It was. It is. I’m sorry. I’m tired and my headache’s back.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s all it is?’

  I freeze. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe you’re coming down with something?’ Ed presses his hand to my forehead, totally failing to notice when I flinch. ‘You haven’t been yourself all week.’

  ‘I’ll feel better when this interview’s out of the way.’

  Ed nods. He takes everything at face value. That’s one of the things I used to like about being with him. It lacked the dark subtext that defined some of my other relationships. I try to recall how happy I was when he proposed. The cinnamon in the air; the candle reflecting in his eyes. The relief of being chosen at last.

  ‘You’re right. This place is fab. And it’s definitely going up in my estimations.’

  A man in a dark green waistcoat comes over with a bottle of champagne. Clare is strutting behind, carrying a thick blue diary.

  ‘This is very generous.’ Ed motions to the champagne as Clare sits down and starts flicking through the diary.

  ‘Oh no.’ Clare flushes and starts flicking harder. ‘I’m afraid I can’t take the credit for this. A friend of yours called earlier this week and arranged to have it sent over at the end of the tour. It’s one of the reasons I suggested we end in the Orangery.’


  ‘Who was it?’ Ed asks.

  I remember the curve of Rich’s lips when he said getting the champagne was the best bit. A twisted bubble of possibility builds in my chest.

  Then Clare says: ‘A Mrs…’ and the feeling fizzles like someone’s stubbed out a cigarette. Of course.

  ‘Waverly? Izzy Waverly?’ Clare asks. ‘I took the call myself. What a nice gesture. In all my years as a wedding planner, it’s the first time someone’s done such a thing. She’s even left a note. I have it here.’

  She clears her throat like she’s about to make an announcement.

  ‘It says, “A toast to cherishing each other and forsaking all others, you lovebirds”. Isn’t that nice?’

  It feels like a shot across the bow and I wonder for a crazy moment if Rich has told her what happened. But no sane person would send champagne to a woman who’d just snogged her husband. This should exacerbate my guilt but Izzy’s pomposity irritates me instead. Who even uses the word ‘forsake’ anymore? With that and Clare’s ‘fellows’ it’s like we’ve wandered into the set of Pride and Prejudice. Minus Darcy. Even Ed looks like he thinks she’s gone over the top. He’s shifting in his seat like he’s ready to go home. Only Clare looks charmed.

  ‘Should I be “mum” and do the pouring?’ she asks.

  I suppress a scowl. I’ve always hated that phrase.

  ‘Can we offer you a glass, Clare?’ Ed’s recovered his solicitousness.

  ‘You’re very kind but I’d better not. I’ve two more couples to show around before I’m finished for the day. Now, where did we get to on those dates?’

  Eighteen

  4 p.m.

  ‘If you’re not feeling well, perhaps we should head straight home?’ Ed suggests as we get in the car. As designated driver, he stopped drinking after one. I choked down half a glass to be polite but in the end we left Izzy’s champagne almost untouched. I hope Clare ferrets it away to drink after her shift. She didn’t look the type though. ‘You could cancel your drink with Rob and we’ll have a night in front of the telly.’

  ‘I’m not “having a drink” with Rob. I’m meeting Sydney to discuss the last few details of the interview before tomorrow. It’s a work thing.’