My Best Friend's Murder

by Polly Phillips

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Not that version, the updated one. Sorry, Bec. Give me two seconds.’ My heart plummets. Of course Izzy and Ed have the same number now they work together. It’s weird how normal her voice sounds when we haven’t spoken in weeks. Probably because she’s in her natural element: giving orders.

  ‘Sorry about that. We’re run off our feet today. No, not this one. The red line one with the tracked changes. If you can’t find it just look for the most recently saved document. Honestly.’

  I reach over and pick up a copy of the Metro from the seat opposite. Clearly I could be here a while.

  ‘Now, Bec, are you still there?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘I wanted to call and thank you for babysitting Tilly the other night. It’s awful of me not to have called before now. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘No worries.’ I feel a surge of guilt, parcelled up with anxiety.

  ‘Rich says you guys had a real laugh.’

  She sounds overly casual. My hand tightens around the phone.

  ‘It was nice to see him.’ I read somewhere liars get caught out by giving away too much detail so I dole my words out sparingly.

  ‘I think you must have reminded him of how miserable it is being single,’ she tinkles, dousing out any last residue of guilt. ‘He was very family orientated – going to the dump, taking Tilly swimming, cooking dinner. He even did some of our tax returns. It was wonderful.’

  ‘You remember I’m not actually single?’ I try to keep the hostility out of my tone. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

  ‘You are until you have kids. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Sure. Anyway, Iz, I’m coming back from an int—’

  ‘Oh yes, it was the big interview today, wasn’t it? Here you are at last. Now, I’m going to need you to make two copies. In colour. Sorry, Bec, it’s so frantic here. You were saying…’

  I’m so irritated by the fact that she’s called me only to direct her minions down the phone that I speak without thinking.

  ‘It went amazingly. She said loads of really nice things about Rob and asked me if I wanted to hang out again.’

  As soon as I’ve said the words, I want to call them back. Her keyboard is clacking in the background. There’s a chance she won’t notice. But she’s on it like a cat on a mouse.

  ‘Why would she say loads of nice things about Rob?’ Pause as she pieces it together. ‘Wait, don’t tell me he’s shagging her.’

  I do what I should have done earlier: say nothing.

  ‘He is, isn’t he? God, that’s hilarious.’

  ‘Why’s that so funny?’

  ‘Didn’t she just get totally dumped by that guy who looks like Justin Bieber? The one from that prison series who’s now up on some tax-evasion charge? Don’t they think he’s going to be the next Martha Stewart-style celebrity behind bars? And didn’t he cheat on her before he got banged up?’ She gives a pitying laugh. ‘Now she’s dating her personal trainer as revenge. What a cliché. Do you want me to have a word with Daddy to make sure your interview gets published before it’s all over?’

  ‘Your dad doesn’t have anything to do with editorial,’ I say through gritted teeth. Only Izzy could make having a celebrity girlfriend sound like a bad thing.

  ‘I’m sure he could if I needed him to. Shall I ask? You don’t want to miss your moment.’

  ‘It’s serious between them.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Izzy laughs. ‘Until it isn’t. You wait. She’ll go running back to her budget Bieber and it’ll be like it never happened.’

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘I know he’s your brother, hon, and granted he is quite good-looking, but what’s he really got to compete against a Hollywood A-lister?’

  ‘She’s pregnant.’

  In the silence that follows, I feel a brief fizz of satisfaction that I’ve managed to shut her up, before the enormity of what I’ve done slams me in the face.

  ‘She’s what?’

  Shit. ‘Izzy, promise me you won’t say anything to anyone.’

  ‘That’s one heck of a whoopsies. I didn’t think he had it in him.’ Her laugh sounds like a cackle. ‘What a joke. There goes her career.’

  I look around to see if anyone can hear me. But apart from two teenage boys in school uniform huddled over a mobile, the carriage is empty.

  ‘Izzy, seriously. Please. If you say a word to anyone – even Rich – I could be in all kinds of trouble.’

  ‘Why would Rich care?’ There’s an odd intonation in her voice when she says his name. It makes the back of my neck prickle.

  ‘Er—’

  ‘Don’t you think Rich has got enough going on in his own life to care about what’s happening in yours?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’ I’m itching to ask her why she’s being like this but I can’t afford to rile her up.

  ‘He got the promotion, by the way. What with that and me going back to work, he’s got far too much on his mind to worry about what your family’s up to. He can barely focus on his own.’

  Her tone changes again, like it’s all a big joke.

  ‘Mind you, he does go on the Mail Online more than I do. He even knows which Kardashian is which. I despair sometimes.’

  I’m gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles have turned white but I strain my voice to inject some jollity into it. ‘You know you’ve got to worry if he gets into the Jenners as well, right? Seriously though, Izzy, please don’t tell anyone. Not even your dad. It’s more than my job’s worth. And Rob would literally kill me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you can trust me.’

  There’s the weird emphasis again. What if she knows something happened? I tell myself I’m chasing shadows. If Izzy knew something there’s no way she’d keep it to herself. In the past I’ve watched her eviscerate people for even daring to talk to Rich. On our last day of school, when the whole year went wild with water pistols and I ended up on the Maths corridor with Rich, dousing each other at point blank range, she didn’t stop flaring her nostrils until she pushed me into a puddle outside the sports hall. I fell flat on my face. What I’ve done now is so much worse. I would definitely know if she knew anything.

  This is the point where I should say: ‘And you can trust me.’ Instead I squeak. ‘Thanks, Iz. It means a lot. I’d better go. We should meet for drinks when things have calmed down. A proper night out. Like we used to.’

  ‘That’d be nice.’

  She sounds wistful. I breathe more easily. I’m being paranoid.

  ‘Right, well I—’

  ‘You don’t need to worry so much, Bec. I’m good at keeping secrets. Ask Rich.’

  She hangs up.

  There’s a slim chance she could have meant Rich knows she’s good at keeping secrets because he’s her husband. She could be referring to the innocent secrets that glue together every relationship; the gifts you pretend to like, the surprise occasions you fake astonishment for. But I think back to the way her voice faltered when she said Rich’s name earlier in the conversation. As if she didn’t want to say it to me. The Metro flutters from my lap to the floor. If there’s a chance, no matter how small, that Izzy does know what happened, I’ve given her a weapon to destroy me. And Rob. I fumble over to the train doors. If I get off at the next stop, I can get the tube into the City. I know I shouldn’t. I promised myself I’d forget about him. But much as I don’t want to, the best way to find out what Izzy knows is to ask Rich.

  Twenty

  12.14 p.m.

  I stare up at the building. City workers in dark suits and regulation Hackett overcoats cross in and out on their way to and from lunch. The plate-blue glass is glinting in the winter sun and the lifts look like tiny bugs scaling the building from the outside. There’s a fountain in the lobby that people have dropped one- and two-pound pieces into instead of coppers. Gold-plated wishes.

  Izzy was annoyed with me the first time I came here. It was just
after we’d left university. Rich’s bank was doing welcome drinks for its new graduates. Izzy spent the evening fending off job offers while Rich drank free champagne with me at the bar. At the end of the night she left me flicking coppers into the fountain and herded him into a taxi without asking if I needed a lift. It took me three night buses to get home.

  Three night buses will be the least of my troubles if Izzy finds out what happened between me and Rich. She’s a human wrecking ball when it comes to protecting what’s hers. I hurry into the building, brushing past two Antony Gormley statues that guard the glass doors like sentries. The circular reception at the centre of the room is so buffed I can see my reflection in it. I drum my fingers against it, leaving greasy marks, as the receptionist prints me a visitor’s pass.

  I have to type the number of the floor I want into a pod by the bank of lifts to call one. My fingers are so sweaty I get it wrong twice before a set of doors open for me. I step in and immediately feel as though I’ve left my stomach in the lobby. I try to ignore the traffic on the ground getting smaller and focus on what I’m going to say. I don’t want to sound accusatory. Or desperate. I try to recall exactly what Izzy said on the phone, what made me so sure she knew, but my memory’s shredded the conversation. Maybe I’m overreacting. I can’t be sure. By the time the lift lands on the 57th floor, my chest feels tight. What am I doing here?

  There’s another reception desk beyond the lift. The woman behind it has an expression like a prison guard. The patterned scarf around her neck looks like a rope tied around a tree. I smile, trying to suppress my nerves.

  ‘May I help you?’ She appears to speak without moving her lips. No chance of a smile back.

  ‘I’m here to see Rich Waverly.’

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘No but—’

  ‘I’m afraid without an appointment…’ She looks back at her desk as if I’ve ceased to be of interest.

  ‘He’ll see me.’ I point at the bank of telephones in front of her, hoping he’s not out to lunch. ‘If you tell him Bec is here, he’ll see me.’

  The receptionist’s expression changes and she sits up straight in her seat. I pat myself on the back mentally for not backing down to someone who looks like Kathy Bates in Misery. Then I realize she’s looking at the space behind me.

  ‘Bec, what a nice surprise.’ Rich is striding down the corridor, holding a coffee in one hand and a chocolate muffin in the other. ‘Don’t tell Izzy. We’re on a health kick.’

  It’s the first time I’ve seen him since that night. The moody lobby lighting makes him look tanned and he’s taller than everyone else in the vicinity. When he smiles, his dimples dance in his face. I make a point of thinking about Ed, who doesn’t have dimples, but makes a mean risotto and has been putting up with my bad mood for weeks. I’m done being flustered over Rich Waverly.

  He turns to the receptionist. ‘I’ll take it from here, Jean.’

  I square my shoulders and follow him back down the corridor, resisting the urge to stick two fingers up at Jean on the way.

  He ushers me into a huge office at the end of the corridor and sits down behind a desk the size of a front door. He leans back in his chair so he’s at a forty-five-degree angle. The Thames shines like a sheet of metal through the window behind him.

  ‘What can I do you for? Do you want a muffin? I can get someone to bring you one.’

  Normally I’d tease him for having a corner office, a huge desk and a minion prepared to bring him muffins. Today, I dispense with the niceties and blurt out my worst fear.

  ‘I think Izzy knows what happened between us.’

  ‘What?’ The tan seems to slide off Rich’s face. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just got off the phone to her. There are some things she said… that made me think she knew.’

  ‘Like what?’ He lurches forward in his chair. ‘What exactly did she say?’

  ‘She said she was good at keeping secrets. But it was the way she said it. And she was really funny about you. The way she said your name it was like… she didn’t want to share it with me.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘That was it. But it was the way she said it…’

  The corner of Rich’s mouth starts to twitch. ‘Should I be flattered that you were talking about me?’

  ‘It’s not funny. This is serious.’

  ‘I know it is. But in the nicest possible way, I think you’re running away with this. Have you seen Jean?’

  ‘Jean on reception?’ I frown. What has she got to do with this?

  ‘The lovely Jean. One of the perks of running this new team is we get our own floor. Jean was the twenty-third candidate we saw for that job.’

  ‘I’m not following.’

  ‘Izzy sat in on the interviews, Bec. She insisted. Jean was the only one who passed muster. Probably because she bears more than a passing resemblance to my grandfather. My wife is possessive. If she knew, there’s no way you and I would still be standing, having this conversation. Or if we were, I’d be talking in a much higher voice.’

  ‘You didn’t hear how weird she sounded on the phone.’

  ‘If she knew, she’d say something.’ He shakes his head. ‘You know she would. She’d murder us in our sleep, but she’d say something first.’

  ‘So what did she mean about being good at keeping secrets? Then she said “just ask Rich”. Don’t you think that means she knows you’re keeping secrets?’

  ‘I don’t. Look, Bec, I know it’s a weird thing to say but there’s loads of things she could have meant by that. I’d go into them but they’re very boring.’

  ‘She sent me a WhatsApp pretending to be you.’ I pull out my trump card. ‘It was like she was trying to catch me out.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  Rich puts his hands behind his head and leans back in his chair again. I feel like he’s indulging me.

  ‘She said she hoped I liked the venue and that I deserved the best. But it was from your phone. She didn’t say it was her until the next message.’

  ‘Oh that.’ Rich waves it off. ‘Don’t worry, I was there when she sent that. Tilly had done something to her phone and she felt bad she hadn’t thanked you.’

  The idea of them sending the text message together makes me feel embarrassed, like I’m back on the outside. Which is ridiculous. Rich and Izzy are married. Obviously I’m on the outside. I go on the offensive, to cover up.

  ‘You shouldn’t have let her send that message without saying it was from her. I could easily have replied with something that… gave away what we did.’ It sounds so tawdry. I wish there were a more eloquent way to put it.

  ‘You’re right. I screwed up. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I still think something’s off.’

  ‘I don’t know how to say this without sounding like I’m totally up my own arse.’ He pauses like he’s trying to figure out how to fit the words together. ‘But have you considered maybe you’re reading too much into things because you feel guilty about what happened? Not that you have any need to… what happened was far more my fault than yours. But I’m saying it because I was the same at first. Every time Izzy said something I was convinced it was because she knew and she was angry. When I calmed down, I realized she was the same old Izzy. Nothing had changed except my reaction.’

  I can see his point. Izzy was funny with me weeks before what happened with Rich. That’s the whole reason it happened. Or that’s what I’ve been telling myself anyway.

  ‘Look, you know Izzy’s been pretty stressed out. It’s not hard to see why.’

  He gazes at me as if he’s expecting me to contribute. I don’t say a word. I can’t see what Izzy’s got to be any more stressed out about than the rest of us. He frowns.

  ‘I know she’s told a few people how good her work–life balance is—’

  I try to hold back a snort. Izzy’s been telling anyone who’ll listen how great her life is for as long as I can remember. And for that brief moment,
when I got to lie on her sofa and pretend to be her, I could see her point.

  ‘But she’s struggling to juggle it all. Tilly’s playing up – probably cos of the change – and I think it’s a lot harder than she thought it would be. That’s probably why you think she sounded funny on the phone.’

  ‘Do you really think that?’

  ‘I really do.’

  What he’s said makes sense. Mainly because I know how vicious Izzy can be when she’s wronged. ‘Then I’m sorry for bursting into your office like this. And for bringing the whole thing up again. I feel like a total moron.’

  ‘Don’t. It’s always a pleasure to see another human being. Particularly one with a personality. God love Jean but most of the time, I’m staring at screens.’ He gestures to the computer monitors on his desk, all of which are filled with columns of figures. ‘Have you met the four horses of the apocalypse? Famine, Plague, Pestilence and what was the other one?’

  ‘Do you really hate it that much?’ I notice that, apart from the monitors, his desk is completely empty. No books, no photographs, nothing that gives a hint to the kind of person he is. His bookshelves are the same. Lined with heavy books bound in red and gold that look as though they’ve never been read. The office could be anybody’s. Where’s his personality?

  ‘More than life itself.’ Rich’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes and my stomach twists. He looks like an abandoned dog. I hate seeing him so miserable. ‘You don’t want to hear about the boring life of a wanker banker. What else can I do for you? Are you hungry? Do you want to grab lunch? Save me from my sad little muffin.’

  I want to say yes but I know I shouldn’t. ‘I can’t. Ed’s mum’s in town so it’s going to be a big dinner.’ Invoking Ed’s name reminds me of my priorities. I make a point of looking at my watch. ‘I’d better get back. I’m on a deadline.’

  ‘Of course, the interview.’ Rich smacks his hand to his head. ‘I can’t believe I forgot to ask. How did it go? I bet you absolutely knocked it out of the ballpark.’ He puts on a surprisingly authentic American accent. ‘Is that the kind of thing she said?’