My Best Friend's Murder

by Polly Phillips

  ‘If you explain her PR is the one who okay’ed it—’

  ‘I’m the one who wrote it. Rob’s going to be furious and he’s got every right to be.’

  Jules’s mouth flaps open as she gropes for something comforting to say. When she can’t think of anything, she squeezes my arm. My mobile starts ringing. It’s the Darth Vader theme – the tune Rob programmed to play whenever he rings.

  ‘Right on cue.’ I pick up the phone and squeeze my eyes tight shut. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry? What the actual fuck? You’re sorry?’

  ‘They put the headline in after I left for the day.’

  ‘Oh not on my watch, guvnor. So that makes it okay, does it? What about all this other Mills and Boon crap about her stroking her stomach wistfully and looking dreamily out the window. I suppose they put that in without you as well?’

  It’s worse than I thought. I didn’t realize they’d tampered with the text as well.

  ‘They did. I know it doesn’t make it any better but—’

  ‘Damn right it doesn’t make it any better. Do you know where I am right now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m in some scuzzy hotel in fuck knows where because Sydney’s hotel is surrounded by paparazzi. The whole of Charlotte Street is a write-off. Thank God they’re all too thick to realize we made it out the fire exit. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘That doesn’t make it any better. This isn’t kids’ stuff, Bec. You don’t say you’re sorry and get a do-over. I’ve got Sydney ranting and raving and crying her eyes out on the bed. I’ve had to cancel all my clients this morning because I can’t leave her.’

  ‘Maybe it’ll blow over?’ Even as I’m saying it, I know it won’t.

  ‘Nice try. It’s an absolute clusterfuck.’

  ‘I know.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the picture of Rob and I that I’ve got pinned up on the wall of my cubicle. We’re at some festival – I’m wearing a sombrero and he’s got my heart-shaped sunglasses on. There’s a wisp of blonde hair in the corner of the shot. Izzy. I rip the photo down.

  ‘I swear I didn’t tell them. It was Izzy.’

  ‘You what?’ Rob’s voice sounds quiet. Dangerously quiet.

  ‘She must have told her dad and they would have changed it after I went home for the night. I’m really sorry but there was nothing—’

  Then comes the explosion. ‘How the hell did that poisonous bitch find out in the first place?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘You told her. Of course you did. I said this would happen, Bec. I bloody warned you. I said someone would get hurt. I just didn’t think it would be me. But you couldn’t let her go, could you? You’re like a fucking addict and you just threw me under the bus to get your fix.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that—’

  ‘It was exactly like that. One thing I asked you. One thing.’

  ‘Tell me what I can do to make it up to you. I’ll do anything.’

  ‘You’ve done enough.’

  ‘There must be something.’ My voice cracks.

  ‘All right, there is.’ There’s a pause and I think he’s going to relent. Then he says, ‘Tell that bitch she’s going to get what’s coming to her and stay the fuck away from us.’ He hangs up the phone.

  I press redial but it goes straight to voicemail. I put my head against my computer. The back of my throat feels full. I don’t care who is watching. I want to cry but the tears won’t come.

  ‘How did it go?’ Jules is hovering again.

  ‘Imagine the worst and multiply that by a thousand.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do to help? I know you probably don’t feel much like celebrating but if you want to bin the launch and go for a drink and talk about it, I’m still around tonight.’

  ‘That’s really kind, but I’m okay.’ I twist my mouth into a smile that’s more of a grimace. ‘And I’m going to be busy tonight. Very busy.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to go and see Izzy.’ After Jules has walked away, I add under my breath: ‘And then I’m going to kill her.’

  Twenty-Two

  5.50 p.m.

  The rest of the day passes in a kind of blur. Jules keeps coming to check on me like an anxious parent and a few people stop by to say well done. I call Rob repeatedly and even try Sydney but both go straight to voicemail. I don’t blame them. I don’t leave my desk, even to get lunch. I think Tina realizes something’s wrong. Normally she makes a little speech about each new issue but today she stays in her office. I keep staring at the clock, waiting for the hands to inch their way towards 6 o’clock. When the minute hand stabs ten to, I can’t bear it any longer. I push back the chair with such force it nearly falls over and leave the office without saying goodbye to anyone.

  As the tube rattles towards Clapham, I lay out the facts against Izzy, like a lawyer trying to clinch a case. She was the only person I told about the pregnancy. And she’s been out to get me since I got engaged. Since before that, really. When I look back at all the things she’s done – the engagement ring, the party, the flowers – they all seem like an elaborate game of one-upmanship. I can’t think of the last time she was genuinely on my side. Even Ed’s gone off her. He’s hardly mentioned her since that conference. That reminds me. I need to message him when I get off the tube to say I am going to be home tonight after all. Thanks to Izzy. Celebratory drinks are one more thing she’s robbed me of.

  When I get to Izzy’s house I can see she’s left the shutters wide open. The lights are blazing. I can see right into her sitting room. The armchair in the bay window squatting beside an antique side table, dripping in Diptyque candles. A glass of white wine on the table next to them, the condensation glistening. On a coaster of course. Most people are protective of their privacy. I’ve no doubt Izzy does this on purpose so everyone can see her perfect life.

  I’m stomping up the front path when my phone rings. Unknown number. Normally I don’t bother with these – they’re uniformly either life insurance or calls about PPI – but after everything that’s happened today, a sixth sense tells me to pick up.

  ‘Hello?’

  Heavy breathing on the other end.

  ‘Hello?’ I say again.

  ‘Bec?’ Even tear-drenched, I recognize Sydney’s American twang.

  ‘Oh my god, Sydney, is that you? I’m so sorry. Are you okay?’ My words come out in a rush, falling over each other. There are a thousand things I want to say. I don’t get the chance.

  ‘Have you seen Robbie?’ Her voice sounds hoarse, like she’s been crying for hours.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Robbie? He went for a walk an hour ago – he was so mad – and he hasn’t come back. I need him.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him.’ She sounds frantic. I understand she doesn’t want to be on her own but this is quite extreme. It makes me feel even worse. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry—’

  ‘Someone pushed me,’ she croaks, ‘when I was trying to leave the hotel. I thought I was safe going out the back but there was a guy with a camera by the dumpster. He got up in my face and when I tried to push past, his camera was right in my face and I… I stumbled. And now I think I’m losing the baby.’ She breaks down completely.

  ‘Oh my god, Sydney.’ I feel sick. ‘Where are you now? You need to get to a hospital.’

  ‘How can I leave the hotel?’ She’s sobbing again. ‘They’re all out there. I just want Robbie.’

  ‘Get the hotel to get you a cab. You can tell him to meet you there. I’ll call him if you like. I’ll keep calling till I get through. Are you bleeding?’

  ‘No,’ she says and her voice sounds small, like she’s stopped talking into the receiver.

  ‘Okay, that’s good.’ I try to recall every pregnancy saga I’ve ever seen play out on ER or Grey’s Anatomy. ‘That’s a really good sign. Did you
land on your stomach when you fell?’

  ‘I didn’t fall.’ Sydney’s less hysterical now. I can hear the fight coming back into her voice. ‘He pushed into me but I didn’t fall. I don’t need to go to the emergency room. I need to see Robbie – I want to make sure he’s doing okay.’

  ‘He’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.’ At the back of my mind, I dare to hope this might be the conversation that brings us back together. If Sydney and the baby are okay, this could be the moment that we heal the rift.

  ‘You didn’t see how mad he was.’

  ‘He gets like that. He’ll have gone for a run to burn it off.’ I try to sound reassuring. ‘But you need to get to a hospital, just for a check-up. Where are you registered?’

  I look up the path towards the house, remembering Izzy’s insistence on giving birth at Chelsea and Westminster hospital, despite being closer to St George’s. All for the sake of a better postcode. My whole body is thrumming with rage.

  ‘Don’t you tell me what I need.’ The tears have gone. Sydney’s voice has hardened. It’s as though even by letting Izzy into my thoughts for one second, the gap has widened.

  ‘Sydney, please let me explain.’ I try again. ‘It wasn’t—’

  ‘I could care less, Bec.’ There’s a bite to her tone now. ‘I trusted you. But you crossed the line. So I don’t want to hear you’re sorry and I don’t want to talk it out. I just wanted to know if you’d seen Robbie. And you haven’t. So there’s nothing more to say.’

  The dial tone serves as her goodbye. Unlike Rob, Sydney didn’t shout at me. Somehow that makes it worse. Every bone in my body oozes with shame. And fear. What if Sydney is losing the baby? How will Rob ever forgive me? I may as well have pushed her. The paparazzi outside their hotel are my fault. Not just mine though. I march up the remaining stairs, put the pad of my index finger flat against the doorbell and press. When she doesn’t appear, I start slamming the doorknocker against the door, imagining I’m driving it into Izzy’s face with each knock. She must be hiding, waiting for me to give up and go away. I’m not going anywhere. Finally, after five minutes of solid pounding, I hear footsteps clipping down the hall and the door swings open.

  Izzy looks exhausted. There are purple shadows under her eyes and she looks paler than I’ve ever seen her. Gone is the usual pristine orderliness. Tilly’s stuffed animals and the remains of a tea-set are strewn across the hall. The house is a mess. Six weeks ago, I might have been worried. We’re past that now.

  ‘Goodness, Bec, are you trying to wake the dead? What are you playing at? Tilly’s in bed.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ A shrill voice floats down from upstairs.

  ‘What am I playing at?’ I can’t believe her.

  Izzy holds up a finger like she’s marking a page. ‘Wait. Tilly, if I have to come up there again, I’m going to take away a privilege.’

  ‘Don’t know what yet,’ she mouths at me. Like we’re friends. Like this is a social call. ‘Anyway, what are you doing here?’

  ‘What am I doing here?’ My voice gets louder with each word. ‘What do you think I’m fucking doing here?’

  ‘Calm down, Bec.’ She frowns then glances over my shoulder. She doesn’t seem concerned at how angry I am. Probably thinks she can talk her way out of it like she usually does. ‘Have a nice walk, Mrs Rudge,’ she calls cheerily to the old woman on the other side of the street. She looks back at me. ‘Are you coming in or what?’

  This is just typical. Even when I’m standing here shouting in her face, I can’t hold her full attention. My blood starts to boil.

  ‘I’m hungry.’ Tilly calls down again. There’s a pause, then she adds: ‘Fucking hungry.’

  Izzy knits her hands together and gives me a reproachful look. She’s the type of parent who says ‘sugar’ instead of ‘shit’.

  ‘I warned you—’ Izzy goes over to the bottom of the stairs, almost tripping over a particularly ragged-looking elephant. She stomps halfway up and calls, ‘If I have to come in there, there’ll be no swimming with Daddy on Saturday. Do you really want that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then get into bed.’

  Tilly’s door slams shut and I hear the sound of bed springs squeaking.

  Izzy must be tired because when she turns back, she wobbles. For one glorious moment, I imagine her losing her footing entirely and crashing down the stairs face first. She puts a hand on the wall to steady herself and I give myself a mental shake. I can’t believe my thoughts could be so dark.

  ‘Sorry, I feel a bit light-headed. I didn’t eat lunch today. Now where were we?’

  I look at her, standing in the middle of her perfectly decorated Clapham townhouse. There’s a series of pictures set against the wall next to her, each one a smug memorial to her perfect life. It makes me hate her even more.

  ‘You were about to tell me why you’ve been such a fucking bitch.’

  Twenty-Three

  6.40 p.m.

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ Izzy flares her nostrils. The gesture takes me right back to school. But this time is different. This time I’m going to stand up to her.

  ‘I know what you’ve done.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She stalks down the stairs. Up close, her features may be perfect but there’s an iciness about them. I can’t believe I’ve never noticed how cold she is before.

  ‘Why did you do it? You must have known it would hurt them as much as it would hurt me. Or was that the point? Did you want to hurt Rob as well?’ My voice rises like a piano scale. ‘For what? Because it didn’t work out when you were fourteen?’

  Izzy looks at me as though I’m insane. ‘I dumped him, as you recall. Not that he took the hint, not that it matters. Unlike you, I don’t spend my life obsessing over what was going on when were fifteen.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I should think it’s perfectly obvious. Go on, humour me. Tell me what I’m supposed to have done this time.’

  ‘You’re really going to pretend you don’t know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That the whole world is talking about Sydney’s pregnancy and she nearly lost the baby thanks to you.’

  Izzy shrugs. ‘I’m sorry to hear that but I don’t see what it’s got to do with me.’

  ‘So the fact that Flare’s front cover has a huge headline blaring on about Sydney Scott being pregnant is news to you as well?’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to buy it today.’ Izzy glances upstairs as if she’s worried Tilly might still be up. But I know it’s because she can’t look me in the eye.

  ‘I gave you a subscription for Christmas, Izzy. You don’t buy it. It appears on your doorstep every month.’

  ‘I haven’t had a moment to look. I have more important things to worry about than a Maybe Baby headline.’

  ‘So you have seen it.’

  ‘It’s an expression.’

  I can’t believe she’s going to deny it. It’s like when she copied my GCSE coursework and looked our teacher in the eye and swore I was the cheat. Even though my notes were found in her locker. She’s like Teflon. Nothing sticks.

  ‘You couldn’t bear to see things going well for me, could you?’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Bec, stop playing the victim. Change the tune. It’s boring.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’ve been playing this record since we were about fifteen. Ever since your mum died, you’ve acted like the world is out to get you. You use it as an excuse to sit around in the same rubbish job, in the same tedious relationship. Doing nothing to change it. You act like everything comes so easily to me. I work at things, Bec. That’s why good things happen to me. Whereas all you do is sit around and wait for me to sort out your life for you.’

  ‘What, so now you’re my hero? Don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘You’re making my head hurt. I’m tired, I’m not feeling well and Tilly’s being a pain. All I want to do is have a glass of
wine and a bath and go to bed. So can you unravel your latest little conspiracy theory and we can all go to bed?’

  ‘My life is falling apart because of you and you want to have a fucking bath? Are you even human at all?’

  ‘Bin the histrionics, Bec. You remind me of Tilly.’

  ‘You told your dad Sydney Scott was pregnant and he put it in the magazine.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to my dad all week. And even if I had, I’ve better things to do than pass on crappy Z-list celebrity gossip. Unlike you, I’ve got a serious job to hold down and a family to look after. When you’ve achieved either of those things, come back and talk to me. Until then, you can take your accusations—’

  ‘I do have a serious job.’ I feel my fists clench. ‘And Ed is my family.’

  ‘Ha. Why don’t you give Mr Family Man a call right now and see what he’s up to. It might not be as PG as you think.’

  ‘How dare you? You wouldn’t even have a job if it weren’t for Ed, and all you do is put him down.’

  ‘I got that job because I was the best candidate.’

  ‘If you’re so brilliant, why did Rich tell me you couldn’t handle it?’

  Izzy stops dead.

  ‘Rich would never say that.’ But there’s doubt in her eyes.

  ‘Really? Why don’t you ask him?’ I feel something vicious take hold of me. I wasn’t planning on detonating this because I didn’t want to get Rich in trouble. But I can’t help myself. ‘He told me he was worried. I guess he felt he couldn’t talk to you.’

  ‘Why were you talking to Rich?’

  ‘It’s a free country. I can talk to him when I want. I knew him before you even existed.’

  Izzy gives a loud, theatrical groan. ‘Are we really going to do this again?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Give your tragic crush on Rich some more air time.’

  ‘I… don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I feel hot and flustered.

  ‘You think I don’t know that you’ve been obsessed with Rich since the night he and I got together? Cornering him in the garden like that even though it was obviously me he liked. So tragic.’ She takes a step forward, backing me against the wall. She’s standing so close the smell of Issey Miyake clogs in the back of my throat. ‘Oh, hon, we’ve been laughing about it for years.’