by S. E. Lynes
‘I didn’t want to come.’ The words are out before I’ve censored them, but she doesn’t flinch.
‘I’m not surprised. But you can stay in here all evening if you want, or walk out right now; like I said, you won’t offend me or Johnnie, and we don’t matter anyway and nor does anyone else. You don’t have to think about anything other than what you want to do.’
How like Matt she sounds, except… except what?
Except she means it, perhaps.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘I’m not going to ask how you are. How could you possibly be? But you’re here and it really is lovely to see you and I love your hair.’
‘Thanks. Bella did it. And I’m glad I came. We need to get our lives back at some point. For the baby, you know? I mean, we should.’
‘Sod should.’ Jennifer stands as the door opens a fraction. She lifts the drinks from a pair of seemingly disembodied hands in white gloves that make me think of the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. They’ve hired staff then. Bella said they would; she’ll be delighted. I heard Neil complaining about being treated like the staff, in our kitchen a few minutes ago, and for one ridiculous moment I envisage him in white gloves, holding a silver tray, boiling irritation glowing red through his blonde hair.
‘Here.’ Jen hands me a glass of what looks like cloudy water. Two chunks of lime fight for space with a handful of ice cubes. ‘It’s fresh lime juice with sugar and a Brazilian white rum called cachaça. Johnnie couldn’t find any Sagatiba, his favourite brand, so he had to use 51, which he was delighted about obviously. God knows how he’d cope in a global crisis. Cheers.’
‘Sod should,’ I reply, by way of a toast.
She grins. ‘Sod should. My new toast.’
‘My counsellor says it too.’ I drink, surprised to find my throat open. ‘God, that’s delicious.’
‘My favourite cocktail.’ She pushes her hair behind her ear. ‘So, tell me to shut up or don’t answer if you don’t want to, but I didn’t have time to ask you last week where they’re up to. The police. Have they closed the case?’
‘They scaled back a few months ago. To be honest, I think they pretty much called it after they found Abi’s coat, but DI Farnham – that’s the lead detective – checks in every month and she said to call her if I need to ask her anything or if I hear anything that might shed new light on things. But I know… I feel, anyway, that they’ve presumed… I… Matt thinks we should say goodbye. If only for the sake of our mental health. He thinks we should have a ceremony.’
‘Should. That word again. So, no suspects at all? No leads?’
‘No. It’s looking like a tragic accident.’
Soft music drifts from somewhere. Matt promised not to leave my side, as did Bella, and yet here they aren’t.
‘It’s the not knowing,’ I hear myself whisper into the perfect amber light. ‘That’s the worst.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not that I wish she was dead.’
‘I didn’t think you meant that for a second. But you have no one to bury. No one to grieve for. And yet you’re grieving every day while feeling guilty for forsaking her by even letting yourself feel that very grief.’
‘That’s exactly it. And guilty for ever letting her out of my sight. For leaving the door open.’
Jen puts her arm around my shoulders. I remember her holding me to her last week, how she has never shied away from the scenes I try so hard not to make. After so long feeling like I was infectious, it is a comfort to be touched by a human being who isn’t my husband, son or mother. I wait for her to tell me not to beat myself up, that guilt is a wasted emotion. But she doesn’t.
‘How often are you having counselling?’ is what she says.
‘Once a week.’ I take another sip of my drink. The alcohol burns but it feels good. ‘It’s less often now than it was. It helps, but it doesn’t change anything, that’s the trouble. I can pick it all apart, I can go through what happened endlessly, but I just want to know she wasn’t hurt. Sorry, I’ll stop talking about it – I’ve bored you enough.’
‘Don’t be silly. My shoulders are broad, believe me.’
‘It’s just the thought of her in the water wondering where I was as she… or worse… taken, you know?’
‘I can imagine. Well, I can’t. I just wish we’d been here to help that day. We had no idea.’
A log shifts in the orange fire. We contemplate it together in the silence. I have no idea why, but I feel in some small way soothed.
‘Anyway, enough,’ I say, straightening my back. ‘This is your housewarming. I’d love to see the kitchen everyone’s talking about. You’ve no idea how much buzz there’s been surrounding your building work.’
‘Oh Gawd.’ She laughs. ‘Sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Ten more minutes in here, then we’ll go through. And whatever you do, mention the seamless transition from indoor to outdoor space to Johnnie, will you?’
I laugh. ‘Deal.’
The sight of what seems like the entire street gathered in one room almost has me running for the door. The space reminds me briefly of Glastonbury, or how I imagine Woodstock once was, or the Christmas lights at Kew Gardens perhaps – that same magical property, pulsating runs of coloured lights beckoning you forward, the hubbub of chatter, a soft samba vocal that sounds like Astrud Gilberto. The lights pulse, tiny pinpricks changing from red to orange to blue to green running around the perimeter. There must be floor lights too, because the polished concrete underfoot appears to glow. The work surfaces are snow white, high gloss, and the air is heavy with the sticky-sweet aroma of the cocktails, with spice, with floral scents that drift around us in a heady mix. It is almost too much, a sensory overload, and for a moment I fear I cannot go in.
But Jen is at my elbow and silently coaxes me forward. I am too hot with Fred strapped against me, but there is no alternative. I spot some neighbours I recognise: Matt is talking to Pete Shepherd, Bella is pinching the fabric of Louise Parker’s top between her fingers, and Active Wear Lizzie, who is talking to Johnnie, has on what I presume is the dress she bought – a bold red frock with an overlapping ruffled neckline that puts me in mind of a pirate. They are quite taken up with one another. No one is looking at me, I tell myself. This party is about the Lovegoods and their spectacular extension, their amazing house, not about me trying to face the world again; the only person who is thinking about Abi is me.
A breeze drifts in from the garden – equally hazed in rainbow colours – cooling the sweat on my forehead. The back wall of the house is almost entirely absent; the guests spill onto the rear patio, some sitting on gargantuan deep grey velvet sofas to the rear. On the left of what I think is the end of the house is a thick graphite strip of what must be a collapsed and incredibly expensive set of floor-to-ceiling glass doors. The kitchen space itself is even bigger than I could have imagined. Bigger than the outer dimensions of the house, it seems. I say as much to Jen, who laughs.
‘The joys of having a structural engineer for a husband,’ she says, and then, quickly, ‘And of course Neil worked miracles. Such a good builder. Johnnie recommends him to anyone who’ll listen.’
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Johnnie materialises in front of us.
‘Internal to external space,’ he says, following my gaze. ‘No boundary. Worth every penny, those doors. What do you think?’
I’m not sure whether I find him horribly brash or whether his asking what I think hints at a core of vulnerability or, actually, if I’m refreshed by his honesty. He has invited us here to admire the refurbishment – why pretend otherwise? And now he is looking at me so earnestly with his odd-coloured eyes that I don’t have the heart to let him down. He is, as his wife hinted, a kid.
‘It’s amazing,’ I oblige. ‘It’s so huge! But not cold, you know, in terms of atmosphere. I mean, it’s modern. But it’s welcoming.’
‘That’s the glass,’ he says, throwing his arm in
an arc, as if to describe a vision for an expanse of land, a settlement, say, or a kingdom. ‘It’s amazing what they can do now. And the colour base of whites and greys is actually green, which creates warmth within the pale colour palette without being twee; what I call your Boden brigade decor.’
‘I love that you haven’t boxed in the steels,’ I say, saving up everything he has just said for Matt whilst admiring the great metal struts across the ceiling. ‘Very industrial, in a cool way.’
He is pressing his lips tightly together in an attempt to suppress his glee. The result is even more smug than the smile would have been.
‘We wanted modern,’ he says. ‘None of this in keeping with the period property nonsense, what I call granny extensions; no, we wanted something bold, a contrast. A statement. People will think we’re mad, sure, but hey, I’ve always been something of a maverick.’
I nod. I feel a little dizzy, which may be the cocktail or may be the boast pummelling I’ve just taken to the head.
‘You should speak to Matt,’ I say. ‘He’s a commercial architect; I’m not sure if you know that. He’s working on an extension for some listed buildings up in London at the moment actually.’
He flicks his hand back, just once. ‘I didn’t bother with an architect. Drew up the plans myself. Fat pen sketch is easy enough, then it’s just the numbers, really.’
‘Right.’ I almost gasp, for some reason feeling like I’ve entered Matt into a competition of some kind without realising.
‘And Neil did a great job,’ he adds. ‘Safe pair of hands. A solid guy, you know?’
‘He speaks well of you.’
‘Well that’s nice to hear,’ he says, missing the irony. ‘Such a hard worker. Diligent. Always there bright and early before we even left for work, wasn’t he, Jen?’
Jen nods. ‘He was. Like clockwork. And smart too, and tidy. I liked that a lot about him. And he was so sweet with the girls.’
‘Johnnie,’ someone says. ‘Are these LED lights?’
‘Actually, they’re…’ Johnnie moves away, delighted to have found a willing victim.
Jen meanwhile has been collared by Louise Parker, from down the road, who is gesticulating towards the garden. For a moment, I am paralysed, my canvas pumps stuck to the floor. Everyone else seems to be talking animatedly, laughing, enjoying themselves. I am alone, utterly. I have no idea how to break into this crowd; any social skills I once possessed deserted me long ago. I glance around the enormous room. There are champagne bottles everywhere, a large silver container is filled with blue ice, stacked high with bottles of beer whose labels I don’t recognise. The low lighting pulses steadily; the music is instrumental now – Cuban, I think, judging by the loose chord progressions, the salsa rhythm. I let my eyes wander over the pale grey hand-made units, the artisan snacks on small black square plates on the bar, around to the open back of the house, where, through the heads, I spot Neil, standing beneath the weeping willow that forms the centrepiece of the garden, giving the lawn the appearance of a Japanese lake. He sips from a bottle of lager and glances about him. He looks tense, as if he’d rather be anywhere else but here.
He isn’t the only one.
With a jolt, I realise I have never taken the time to think about his feelings. Only by observing him now, at a distance, am I able to see that he, like me, is miserable. He is drinking fast, with intention rather than enjoyment. In this momentary parting of the clouds, I forget my own heart for a second and understand with piercing clarity that he was broken too that day – of course he was. For him, and for Bella too, socialising with us for the first time since has brought back painful memories, just as it has for us. He doted on Abi, and Abi adored him. He spoilt her rotten, used to throw her in the air and make her squeal with delight, used to make her laugh so much I’d have to tell him to stop for fear she might not be able to catch her breath. I haven’t really thought about how hard that morning, that day, that night, and what followed, must have been for such a robust, capable man. To be faced with his own impotence in such a dreadful catastrophe would have offended his very masculine brand of pride at the very, very least. It will have been devastating. I can still remember his face when we asked him and Bella to be Abi’s godparents. He struggled to keep it together; his eyes shone and he half coughed his thanks into his hand. It was a privilege, he said. An honour. It was a job he took almost too seriously, showering her with presents and attention as if she were his own.
My God. I have not thought about Neil at all, but now I study him and see that he is alone, alone like me in this crowded space, and I see his tortured face that day, the tears it must have cost him so much to shed, and my cheeks burn with shame. He is grieving too. There were two men broken on my front step in those black and desperate hours – Matt, the father, and Neil, the godfather. It has been worse for Matt and me, yes, yes, of course, but it has been awful for Neil too. And for Bella, who barely knows where to put herself in front of me anymore, wittering nervously over drinks just now like she didn’t know us at all, trying to fix me with a haircut and colour, another layer of make-up, a manicure.
But I can’t take that on. I can’t take on their grief too. I have enough of my own.
My glass is empty. I know I shouldn’t have more. I should stay sober.
Sod should.
Eighteen
Ava
It’s a little after 9.30 p.m. I have been here too long, spoken to maybe five people beyond the ones I came with. They are all in their small pockets of conversation, specific words melting into a dull collective roar. No one has asked me anything other than how I am. How I am coping is what they mean, and that’s kind. They’re right, I am defined by what has happened. The thought of talking about it here fills me with dread. The last thing I want to do is end up in a public display of tears. But I am incapable of talking about anything else and so I have nothing, nothing at all to say.
I find Bella in the garden, next to the Brazilian-themed bar, swaying to the music.
‘Hi,’ I say, still shy of her despite yesterday’s hair appointment and our drinks earlier.
‘Babe!’ Bella throws her arms around me – an awkward affair with Fred in the sling – and, bizarrely, starts to cry. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, releasing me from her rather sweaty grasp.
‘What for?’
‘Everything.’ Her eyes are red; the make-up has smudged black beneath them. In all the years I’ve known her, all the partying we’ve done together, I’ve never seen her with smudged make-up. ‘I know we haven’t been there for you and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, babe.’
Oh, this is not the time or the place. But Bella is holding on to my arm, looking up at me through her top lashes with big sorrowful eyes, and she is, without doubt, inebriated. I try to flatten a bristle of annoyance. The sight of Neil earlier has softened me, sobered me to my own self-absorption, shaken me out of my grief. Yes, Bella will have found it tough too. She was Abi’s godmother and, I suspect, was the one responsible for all the expensive gifts.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say. ‘Really. It’s been hard for you guys too – I do get that. Just because it’s been worse for us doesn’t mean—’
‘Neil did everything he could,’ Bella says miserably. ‘He looked everywhere. He was broken, Ave, absolutely broken; you know that, don’t you?’
‘I know.’
‘He’s still not the same. It broke him. He’s still not right.’
I glance towards the kitchen. I’m desperate to get away from her, but I don’t want to offend her, not now that we’ve made this big step.
‘I mean,’ she is saying, one hand pawing my shoulder, ‘he looked everywhere that night.’
‘I know he did.’ I humour her. ‘Honestly, you guys did everything you could.’
‘He looked all night, Ave. All night long he looked. He was broken, I’ve never seen him like that. We’re… we’re going through a bad patch at the minute. He’s drinking a fair bit, do you know what I mean?’ She pu
shes her fingertips to her eyes and lets out a groan.
I know I should comfort her. Instead, I step back. Horrible to admit, but I feel suffocated. Weighed down. Frankly, I wish she’d shut up, fear I might tell her to do just that.
‘We should’ve come over more,’ she goes on. ‘I just feel so bad about it, but it was too difficult.’
‘Bella, listen.’ I lift her hand from my arm in a show of holding it before letting it drop. ‘It’s hard not to be able to fix things. It’s hard to see your friends in pain, I understand that. But we’re getting there, don’t worry. Let’s just… let’s just try to move past it, shall we? We all need time to heal. And I won’t heal, not completely, that’s really what I’ve got to learn to navigate.’
She sniffs loudly; I wonder if she even heard. ‘Just want you to know that Neil did everything, no matter what. He loved Abi, he really did, no matter what.’
‘I know he did.’
‘We both did. I mean, we want kids too, you know.’
‘I know. Look, let’s talk about this again, eh? I’m going to head off, so I’ll see you tomorrow or something, OK?’
‘OK, babe. Sorry, I just got a bit emotional. I get emotional, you know? I’m an emotional person.’
‘I know. It’s OK. I’ll see you later, OK? OK.’
In the kitchen, a crescendo of chatter, the music pushes upwards in volume and tempo – a trendy remix bossa nova, I think, but can’t be one hundred per cent sure. Whatever, already under the influence of strong cocktails, some of my neighbours are swaying a little to the beat, risking a head bob here and there. They want to dance. But we’re in suburbia now and I doubt they’d dare.
‘Ava.’ It is Johnnie. He looks flushed, a little shiny.