Harry couldn’t look at Celeste. ‘He was our God and I think I was a little in love with him, in the way that teenage boys crush on their heroes. A few weeks after the fire, before I got expelled, I wanted to tell our teacher – that was the only person I could think of – because I was appalled by your pain. But Ben blackmailed me to keep quiet. There was a thing that had happened between him and me and another boy a year before. Ben had instigated it – you know, just a one-off locker-room sexual experiment between teenage boys after a rugby match. It meant nothing. He had forced me into it. But that gave him power over me. I was confused. He said that if I didn’t have his back, he would make me suffer for it. I wasn’t man enough to run the prospect of him making out to the whole world that I was gay.’
Harry bundled up the jacket. ‘And then there was the fact the key was in the pocket of my jacket. Ben said the police would never take any action against you as you were Tom’s sister and it was such a terrible family tragedy. But if they thought it was him or me, it would be a different story. That could lead to a criminal prosecution. Ben told me that if I told the truth, he would swear blind that I was the one who had locked Tom up in Ben’s bedroom. It would be his word against mine. I would be locked up myself. I admit it, Celeste, I’m a coward. I was terrified.’
Celeste sat dumbfounded for a few minutes, gazing at the stars, while the blood seeped into her dress. Then she stood up.
‘Thank you for having the courage to tell me the truth at last,’ she said and began to walk along the pathway to the exit of the club. She turned once. ‘I never want to set eyes on you again.’
And then she disappeared into the dark.
PRESENT
47
The ‘XYX’. I’ve no idea what the letters stand for, but it sounds extreme – painful and sexually deviant, if the website’s anything to go by. No, it’s not a reincarnation of an extremist right-wing clan. XYX is the hottest new gym north of the river in London town, and You just joined it.
Not content with wearing out your Nike trainers running me ragged circling the garden squares and parks and manicured residential streets of The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea (in the end I had to buy myself some running shoes too), now You decide that not only do you want to be fit, but you also want to be strong! For me, that’s a step too far.
When I see You registered as a member (I’m still checking your devices remotely every day), I google the XYX. Their promotional video is terrifying – I’ve overheard some people saying I’m ‘a bit weird’, but this lot are lunatics. Their studios are torture chambers of weights and pulleys and ropes and chains and psychedelic bicycles that don’t take you anywhere. Their classes have names that sound like criminal offences – ‘HIIT and Run’, ‘TRX Suspension’, ‘Sweat and Burn’. Whatever possessed You to give these gangsters your credit card details?
Tonight, You are signed up for the ‘Meta-XYX 4X4 class’ with ‘Niklaus’ and ‘Juan’. I read the description.
‘This class is not just a status symbol. It’s powerfully built, as hard as a rock, and it’s going off-road. Total body workout incorporating power, speed and endurance – 4 stations X 4 exercises make this the ultimate smash HIIT’ing, fender-bending extra to your weekly workout programme.
‘Buckle up, Biatches, and sign up for your test drive.’
Biatches…?! Call me old-fashioned – but honestly, have You lost your self-respect? Those suffragettes who died for You would be turning in their graves.
I can’t follow you into that house of horrors. I can see from the photographs of ‘Niklaus’ and ‘Juan’ and ‘Nikita’ and ‘Kym’ that you need a body beautiful before darkening its doors. So now I have a new class of rival: the up-close and personal gym instructor – Fake tan, bulging muscles, reeking of testosterone and Paco Rabanne (I can tell just by looking at the pictures), glistening hairless chest (yes, man-waxing’s all the rage these days). That’s just not fair competition.
No wonder You deleted your Tinder account. It’s all there for the taking at XYX.
*
Jessi and Anya wanted to hear all about Celeste’s school reunion at the RAC Club when she got back to the flat late that night. Celeste was giving nothing away.
‘It was fun,’ she said. ‘None of my old girlfriends were there but the boys were on good form. I spent most of the evening with Harry.’
Although Celeste’s flatmates had been in the year below her at school, they knew many of Celeste’s peer group socially and the three girls had many ‘mutual friends’ on social media.
‘Ben didn’t show his face, of course,’ said Celeste, ‘now that the wedding’s off. Thank God, Mia came to her senses and bailed at the very last minute!’ The girls were all ears but Celeste didn’t want to get drawn into a deep discussion about it. ‘Harry didn’t seem to know the reasons for the break-up,’ said Celeste evasively. ‘Ben’s been putting around his own version of the story. Something about a former boyfriend turning up and rocking the boat. The bride got cold feet and is going back to the US. I’m sure you’ve seen it on the chats.’
Although she knew it not to be true, Celeste referred to the rumour that was doing the rounds in an effort to close down the conversation. There were things Mia had told her in confidence about her relationship with Ben that she had no intention of sharing with her friends. A lot had happened in the time between Celeste’s visit to see Mia in the hospital and her reunion with Harry. Celeste knew only too well that Mia’s safety and security depended on her absolute discretion. Anya and Jessi were lovely girls, but they couldn’t keep a secret to save their lives.
She had discussed Mia and Ben’s affairs only briefly at the club with Harry before she managed to get him away from the group to speak to him privately about his memories of the night of the fire. Re Mia’s last-minute non-appearance, Harry had told her that Ben ‘wouldn’t give me the intel, but seemed pretty cut up about it’. Ben had told Harry that his fiancée had told him she was ‘going back to her teenage sweetheart.’ Ben had refused to elaborate, said Harry.
‘That’s surprising. I thought she was pregnant and that he was the father,’ Celeste had said, trying to test how much Harry knew.
Harry had looked at her strangely. ‘How did you know that? I thought it was a secret.’
Celeste had frowned. That was a careless slip on her part. She didn’t want Harry to guess at the extent of her involvement with Mia.
‘Oh, just idle gossip,’ she had said. ‘You know Chelsea, it’s like a big village.’ She spoke lightly. ‘Anyways, I’m glad that woman dumped him. He doesn’t deserve a wife or a child.’
*
Celeste’s conversations with Harry at the RAC had stirred up the embers of so much heartache and pain about the death of her little brother that she couldn’t get to sleep when she retired to her room long after midnight. She felt anxious and agitated, almost scared to be alone in her room, even though she knew that Anya and Jessi were only next door. Raking up those memories had left her feeling violated and exposed. She lay in her bed shivering. The headlights of passing cars flickered in the corner of her room. A nearby streetlight lit up the back of her curtains with a dim grey glow. Normally these things didn’t bother her. But in her sleep-deprived purgatory of 3am, she was alert to noises and shadows outside her open window.
Although it was stuffy in her room, she got up to close the window and pulled the curtains all the way until the fabric overlapped and the gap was closed. Had she turned her head she would have known that she wasn’t being paranoid. Her fears were justified. A small black object, something like a mini spacecraft, not more than a few inches in diameter, hovered almost soundlessly above the branches of the tree, only a few feet away from where she stood at the window.
As Celeste stood at the open window, looking up at the stars and the moon, an almost spiritual feeling of lucidity, strength and determination seemed to flood into her being. At last the smoky ‘fume of sighs’ had lifted, and her eyes sparkled wit
h a fiery passion for justice. She had seen the light. Now she knew for sure what she had suspected for some time: for the last seven years she had been suffering from false memory syndrome. Ben’s lies and manipulations had embedded false memories in her brain of what had happened on the night of the fire. Now that she knew the truth, it was time to have it out with him. Better late than never. She still had her whole life ahead of her. She couldn’t put off this confrontation any longer. Only once she had put the past to rest could she could she move forward with rebuilding her life.
PRESENT
48
You are a very busy lady these days, Celeste. When you’re not in class or serving in the shop, You go out for a run or work out in the gym. And when you’re not working on your strength and fitness regime – what are You doing? Sightseeing!
All that effort I made designing the software and setting up your website, is going to waste. Your clients are falling away. CelestialHeadstones.com is dying a slow death.
I miss spending my weekends mirroring your website on my screens. I miss our Sunday excursions by motorbike to country graveyards. Instead, I have to take public transport, which I hate – so crowded, and sweaty and claustrophobic – as You lead me from one tourist attraction to another.
What is your game? Five minutes in the Tate, ten minutes at the National Gallery… At Tower Bridge You queue for a ticket but turn away at the gate. In the Food Hall at Harrods, You stop at each display counter, but You don’t buy a thing. In the tearoom at Fortnum’s, You eat a mouthful of cake before pushing your plate away.
Late in the afternoon, it clicks – or rather, You click – again (one of the great bronze lions guarding the base of Nelson’s Column) and then I click: it’s not the experiences you’re interested in, it’s the photographs.
My homework this evening confirms my hunch was right.
You’re not as sweet and innocent as You look, Celeste.
What is your secret purpose in setting up the @MiaMadisonMemories fake Instagram account?
*
Almost a month later, Celeste was locking her bike to a railing outside Seventh Heaven when she noticed something unusual. Meghan always arrived an hour before the others to bring out the buckets of flowers that would be displayed on the pavement and to open up the shop. This morning, the flowers were set up as usual outside the shop window, but the sign on the door had been flipped over to read CLOSED. A police car was parked about thirty metres further up the street. She felt her stomach flutter and put on her brightest smile as she stepped through the door.
Inside the shop, three people were bent over the counter, examining some paperwork. Three faces turned to look at her as she came in – Meghan, looking sombre and concerned, and two police officers, a man and a woman, each with a face as blank as a mask.
Meghan made the introductions and explained briefly that the local police were following up some missing person enquiries received from overseas. A woman, who identified herself as Officer Whiteley, stepped forward to confirm that it was not a formal investigation as such, but that they had been contacted by a family member in the state of New York on behalf of Mia’s parents who were concerned about the whereabouts of their adult daughter.
Officer Whiteley was as tall and as broad as a man. Celeste skirted around the counter to put down her jacket and bag, as much to give herself some time to compose herself, as to put some space between herself and this giant of a woman.
Sensing Celeste’s discomfort Meghan spoke up. ‘You remember Mia Madison, the American woman who asked us to do her wedding flowers and then never collected them? Well, apparently, she’s gone missing, or not missing exactly, but her family are worried about her.’
It was unusual for Celeste to see Meghan sounding so flustered – she usually took all interactions, whether with officials or members of the public, within her stride – and Celeste imagined that it must be because she felt guilty for not having contacted the police sooner to look into the bizarre behaviour of their client, the ‘phantom bride’.
‘I remember,’ said Celeste. ‘How could I forget? I spent hours in meetings with her.’
Officer Whiteley explained that Mia had told her family that she was coming over to London for a three-week holiday with her new English boyfriend but this had extended into a three-month holiday and for the last two weeks they had had no direct communication with her. Before Mia’s departure for the UK there had been a family dispute because her parents disapproved of the new boyfriend whom they held responsible for the break-up of Mia’s long-standing relationship with her American partner (held in high esteem by Mia’s parents both for the large family fortune that he stood to inherit and for the fact that he came from a family of devout Catholics). In their eyes, the English boyfriend was a bad influence (new money, not old money, and more money than sense) who had turned her head and would leave her discredited and damaged as well as taking her away from the faith.
‘What an old-fashioned view of the world,’ commented Celeste.
Officer Whiteley ignored Celeste’s aside. ‘They were expecting her back a week ago,’ said the officer, ‘but she didn’t turn up. She’s been in contact by text and email. But she won’t answer her phone. She’s also been posting on social media – pictures of tourist sites around London, Carnaby Street, Harrods and the like. The usual thing…’
‘Well, perhaps she’s just too busy having a good time to keep in touch,’ said Celeste brightly. Eager to show her willingness to cooperate, she reached for the shelf to get down the file containing the invoices for the Madison Wedding.
‘What the family find strange,’ the officer went on, ignoring Celeste’s intervention, ‘is that there are no images of her in any of the posts. Apparently, this is out of character for her. She’s in the habit of posting lots of selfies.’
Meghan had made a pot of coffee and Celeste handed round the mugs.
‘We’re not unduly concerned,’ the officer concluded. ‘Our hunch is that maybe Mia Madison doesn’t want to go home or wants to keep a low profile for some personal reason. It will probably turn out that she’s had a perfectly reasonable change of plan or that she doesn’t want to be found because she’s got the hump with her family. But we’ve agreed to look into it and ask some questions of anyone we can find who’s been in contact with her since she arrived in London.’
‘Mia kept the planned wedding a secret from her family’ said Celeste. ‘She’s pregnant. She didn’t want her family to know. She thought they would be scandalised, especially as she knew how much they disliked her new boyfriend.’
*
The atmosphere had changed for the better after this revelation which came as news to Meghan also. At last a rational explanation for Mia’s inexplicable behaviour seemed to be emerging. Celeste had removed her notebooks from the safe and handed them to the officers.
‘Here are all my notebooks from my meetings with Mia,’ she had said. ‘It’s mostly about the flowers and designs but you’re welcome to take them away if you want to.’ They all sat down to drink their coffee. Meghan seemed relieved as if she had been let off the hook for not reporting Mia’s disappearance earlier. The police officers speculated unguardedly with the jaded air of professionals who had seen it all before. When they got up to leave, Officer Fairway, who had taken the back seat so far, but appeared to be the senior of the two, thanked both Meghan and Celeste for their time. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ he said. ‘As my colleague mentioned, at this stage, we have not launched an official enquiry, we’re simply asking around in the hope of being able to provide some reassurance to the family. Do please let us know if Mia Madison makes any contact with you or if anything else occurs to you – our door is always open.’
Celeste was about to close the door to the safe, when suddenly she hesitated. This could be the moment, she thought to herself. This is my opportunity to put up the smoke-screen.
She handed Officer Fairway the black bin liner containing all the photographs of herself,
which had been displayed in front of the headstone in the North London cemetery.
‘It’s probably completely unconnected,’ she said, preparing to sow the seeds of suspicion. ‘But in the interests of full disclosure, I should give you these. I think I’m being followed by a stalker. We spent a lot of time together, Mia and I, over a period of several weeks. He could have been watching her too… so… well… I think you should see them… just in case…’
*
When the police had finally left Seventh Heaven it was almost lunchtime. The disclosure of the photographs had led to another hour of ‘conversations’, which had ended with Celeste giving the police officers the address details of Theo’s college and accommodation. She had been careful not to overplay her hand. She had repeated what she had said to Meghan. Theo was a young kid. He had a crush on her. He was socially awkward. He was probably completely harmless. But the police had taken it seriously. If the unexplained disappearance (or social disengagement of Mia) turned into something more sinister, it was sensible for the police to have him on their radar in case Theo’s behaviour towards Celeste could be indicative of a more generalised dangerous and predatory disposition.
As soon as she had closed the door on the officers, Meghan announced that she was feeling emotionally drained and intended to keep Seventh Heaven shut for the rest of the day.
‘What’s the point of running your own business and being your own boss if you can’t occasionally have an afternoon off?’ she declared. ‘We’ve lost all the morning’s business anyway and I can’t face dealing with the fall-out from the clients today. I’m just going to write this day off.’ As far as Celeste could make out, Meghan didn’t have too much compassion for the ‘phantom bride’ herself. ‘I knew that woman was bad news the minute she stepped into the shop,’ she said. ‘This is all so distressing.’
No Smoke Without Fire Page 26