Luke laughs.
‘I’m useless with names, aren’t I?’ I admit.
Luke laughs louder. ‘You really are. You called the new girl at work Linda for at least a month.’
‘It is Linda, isn’t it?’
‘It’s Lisa.’
Luke’s laughter fills the whole room. It makes me giggle too. Luke and I used to make each other laugh all the time, and my heart hurts when I realise exactly how long it’s been since we were like this.
‘Andrew Buckley’s daughter,’ Luke says. ‘My God.’
‘I know.’
‘Andrew Buckley’s daughter is our new neighbour,’ Luke says. ‘And she wants to give us lots of money.’
‘It’s crazy, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘It really is.’
‘I thought you’d be more excited.’
‘Our new neighbour is our new investor,’ Luke says. ‘Don’t you think that’s all a little coincidental?’
‘Yes. Definitely. And maybe it’s not ideal that we’re neighbours now. Living so close to a new business partner could get awkward. But we need this money, Luke. It’s going to save us. Everything is going to be okay now. It really, really is.’
Luke stands up and begins pacing again, a habit he’s picked up recently. Every now and then he stops and looks at me as if words are on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t let them spill. Finally, he sits down again and takes my hand in his. He takes a deep breath and I can feel something huge coming – he’s going to explode with excitement. My heart is racing.
‘Gillian Buckley. My God,’ he says. Luke’s expression is surprised as he remembers her. ‘The years have not been kind to her. But . . .’ he pauses, mulling it all over. ‘I guess she hasn’t had the easiest life.’
‘Did you know her well at school?’ I ask.
‘Nah,’ Luke says. ‘A few of the lads said she acted like she owned the place. Probably because her dad was throwing money around for the science lab and new tennis courts. And I wasn’t complaining. I liked tennis.’
‘We’re so lucky the Buckleys are still so keen to support alumni,’ I say.
‘Remember when she ran away?’ Luke asks.
I nod.
‘I wonder what changed. Over the years, I mean. Why did she come back?’ Luke asks, more thinking out loud than really posing a question.
‘Dunno.’ I shrug. ‘Time, maybe. People change a lot over the years, don’t they? I’ve had a nose job for a start and you’re not as fit as you were in school.’
Luke glares at me.
‘What?’ I shrug. ‘You’re not.’
‘Ouch.’ Luke’s shoulders slouch and he half smiles. ‘Twenty years! Can you really believe it’s been so long?’
‘We’ll never change, will we?’ I say, pausing when I realise I’m contradicting myself. ‘On the inside, I mean. We’ll always love each other, won’t we?’
Luke nods.
I rub my belly as the baby kicks hard, reminding me that everything is already changing. ‘Even when the baby comes. We won’t let it change us, will we?’
‘I promise I am the same guy now that you met in school. Even if my six-pack isn’t quite what it used to be.’
I smile.
‘You know what?’ Luke asks.
And I look at him with an expression that asks, What?
‘You never wanted anyone to take care of you. Even when we were in school. Once your parents were gone and your Uncle Tommy turned out to be such a dick, you knew you had to go it alone, didn’t you?’
I feel the familiar pinch of heartache, remembering.
‘But I wasn’t really alone,’ I say, my hands cradling my bump, and I still can’t quite believe that Luke and I will be parents ourselves so soon. ‘I had you.’
Luke takes a deep breath and I think I can see his eyes glistening.
‘I’m kinda glad Tommy is an arsehole,’ I say. ‘We’d never have met otherwise.’
Luke’s crooked smile grows into a toothy grin. ‘Right,’ he says, pulling himself straighter and taller. ‘I’m going to call Dr Whelan and let him know that we won’t be going to the hospital today. But any more—’
‘Any more,’ I cut him off. ‘I know. But before you get too comfortable, Dr Hogan, do you think you should call around to Gillian? Introduce yourself properly at last.’
Luke presses a kiss on my forehead. ‘And this is why I love you,’ he says, ‘because you’re full of good ideas.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
TINA
Thursday 4 July 2019
I’ve never enjoyed change, but I am slowly beginning to enjoy this apartment. Mostly, I like the privacy. The whole house is set back from the road with a larger front lawn than back garden. It’s a bit overgrown and I wonder if someone will cut it. The people upstairs, perhaps. It’s one of the few houses on the road with foliage around the perimeter – green prickly stuff that looks as if it should flower at some stage but just hasn’t.
Most of the other houses are surrounded by a low wall with ebony wrought-iron bars on top. Each one identical to the next, their only individual feature is the colour of their front door. And the houses almost all stand closer to the road. As if trying to catch the eye of passers-by so they can stop to admire how grand and beautiful the old, red-brick buildings are. And they are grand and beautiful. Just like the people inside. No wonder Luke and Darcy live here. They fit right in.
This house is bigger than the rest. Although, with my scrapbooks scattered around the kitchen most days, it does make the space feel cluttered, and I tell myself today is the day I will tidy up. But I’m reluctant in case another juicy news story breaks and I have to find my glue and scissors again. Maybe I’ll just move everything into the bedroom – out of sight. Because, not for the first time, I remind myself that collaging cold cases is a slightly unusual hobby and I probably shouldn’t leave bits and pieces lying around.
I gather a handful of newspaper clippings and tube of glue with a wonky lid into my arms and walk towards my bedroom, thinking about what key words I can google today to bring up the best articles about Andrew. I hope there’s something about his funeral. If I’m really lucky there might even be photos. Not any of those distasteful ones of upset mourners. I’m not that sick. Just maybe something with the hearse and coffin pulling up outside the church. I hope there are flowers. The pages of my scrapbook could definitely use some colour. All these black-and-white articles can be very draining on the eye.
I tumble everything out of my arms on to my bed and I’m about to flick on my laptop when I hear the crunch of pebbles underfoot outside. It sounds worryingly close to my window and I listen carefully. I spin around and stare outside at the silent garden: there’s not so much as a breeze ruffling the trees. I squint as bright sunshine streams into the house, shining off the walls, like a radiant spotlight ready to share my beautiful papered room with whoever comes around the corner. I dart across my room, grab a curtain in each hand and shut them quickly, almost ripping the flimsy satin from its hooks and eyelets.
It’s not dark. Light still shines in through the porous material of cheap curtains, but I suddenly feel blind, not knowing who is outside. I’m not expecting anyone. At first, I think it’s someone to visit that gym bunny who lives upstairs. But her door is to the front and up the steps. No one would come around the back looking for her, would they? The footsteps grow closer to the window, stopping right outside. There’s just a pane of glass and some floral curtains between me and whoever is out there. It could be that busybody cop with her damn dust sheets, but I quickly remind myself that she still doesn’t know where I live.
There’s a knock on the window and I freeze. Seconds tick by in painful slow motion before there is another knock. Louder this time, with enough force to rattle the glass. I don’t budge. The third knock is more of a thump and warns me of growing impatience. But I won’t open the curtains. I can’t.
I can hear the swish of my blood coursing through my veins. It�
�s loud and furious inside my head, like a tiny hammer tapping on the inside of my skull.
‘Hello?’ A deep male voice rattles through the glass, and an unmistakable sound of confidence clings to every syllable. ‘Are you there?’
He clearly knows I’m here. He must have seen the curtains snap shut as he rounded the corner. I hold my breath and wait for him to leave. His politeness should compel him to feel awkward and move on soon. But, there’s more knocking. It’s strong and determined. Each knock is a fraction more assertive than the last, and I’m reminded that Luke and Darcy are two very different individuals. He’s a little rougher around the edges than his wife. A little cockier too. It’s as attractive as hell, but nonetheless it’s terribly inconvenient. At best, he’s a beautiful distraction. At worst, he’s a very real problem.
The banging stops. And a calmer and somewhat concerned Luke says, ‘Is everything all right in there?’
He’s so charming I have to restrain myself from throwing back the curtains and smiling brightly at him. But alluring as his gruff voice is, I remain steady with my feet cemented on the spot.
Luke begins walking again. I can hear him move to the next window. The kitchen. There are no curtains in the kitchen, just a blind that I don’t think even rolls down. I hurry towards my bedroom door and open it slowly, as if the gentle creak of hinges that need oiling could be heard from outside. Silly, really. But that’s the effect Luke Hogan has on me. I can’t think straight when he’s around. I never could.
When my bedroom door is open enough to pop my head through, I peek out. It’s just my eye and nose, really. And I’m careful Luke can’t see me as he cups his face with his hands and presses his nose close to the window for an uninterrupted view inside. I’m suddenly so glad I tidied up my scrapbook and papers. The kitchen now just looks like any other. A mundane place to cook and clean and certainly not somewhere to plan a murder.
‘Hello?’ Luke says, his voice sing-song now.
I reach into my pocket and curl my fingers around the key of my bedroom. If I lock the door behind me, then perhaps I could let Luke in. I’m not sure he’ll go away otherwise. Determination was always his middle name.
I’m slowly pulling the key out of my pocket when I hear another set of footsteps outside and voices. They’re muffled and clipped. I’ve no idea what’s being said, but I can tell it’s an awkward exchange. I duck back into my room, afraid I’ll be spotted. But I keep as much within earshot as I possibly can.
‘Excuse me. This is private property,’ a female voice says. I recognise her slightly squeaky pitch from conversations that rain through my ceiling from the apartment overhead. ‘I mean it, mate. You need to go.’ I’ve no doubt she’s trying to be assertive, but the subtle tremble in her tone tells me that she’s unsure and afraid. She should be. But not of Luke.
‘This isn’t what it looks like,’ Luke says.
A third voice joins the conversation and there are lots of footsteps. I can’t tell how many people are out there, although I imagine it’s just the couple overhead and Luke. The exchange grows more heated. There are raised voices, shouting, more footsteps. I can’t make out who’s saying what. It goes on for several minutes. It ranges from loud to calm to loud again, and finally I hear the rapid crunch as someone walks away, followed by slower, calmer footsteps as the couple overhead don’t bother to give chase.
‘You okay?’ I hear the guy ask his girlfriend.
I don’t hear a reply and I wonder if she nods or simply cuddles him.
‘Who the hell was that?’ the guys asks.
‘No idea,’ she says. ‘But he looked familiar.’
‘Creep,’ he says. ‘Do you think she’s okay?’
The footsteps stop right outside my window and for a moment I expect to hear a knock, as if they know I’m hiding in here.
‘He’s obviously some guy from her past,’ she says. ‘Poor girl.’
I sigh. Luke isn’t just some guy from the past. He’s so much more than that.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
TINA
Wednesday 1 September 1999
The first day back in school after the summer is hard for most students. There’s lots of hugging of parents and long drawn-out farewells as kids don’t want to say goodbye after a summer spent catching up with family. It’s hardest of all on first years. Twelve-year-olds being dropped into a new world of timetables and dorms, and for most of them it’s their first time away from home. There are almost always tears. Usually from the kids. Sometimes from the parents. Occasionally from both. And then there are the kids whose parents just don’t give a crap. The parents who drop you on the steps and you’re not even sure if they’ll come back. You don’t have to look very hard to spot these parents. They’re visible a mile away. The clue isn’t in the way they dress. They’re not always in stilettos or a fancy suit – too busy with some high-flying job to have time for children. Neither are they a picture-perfect Disney villain wearing a fur coat on a warm autumn day. The hint is in their eyes – in their vacant expression. The way they hold their noses high, as if St Peter’s reeks of adolescence and innocence and the smell upsets their stomach. But in spite of their flaws at least they’re here.
There aren’t many of us with no parents at all. Kids whose parents are dead, or might as well be. There’s no first day back in school for us because we never leave. But I like St Peter’s best during summer time – when being invisible feels like a choice and not some too-tight cloak that I can’t shake off.
The dorms feel different when they’re not littered with a swarm of teenage bodies. It’s just like having a huge bedroom all to yourself. It’s probably one of the few times all year when I can really enjoy collaging without feeling beady eyes peering over my shoulder ready to make fun of me.
This morning, I’m standing just outside the main doors. I’ve a headache from not sleeping well last night. The thought of everyone returning today and the dorm once again becoming a hive of activity with gossiping teenage girls makes me sick to my stomach. In spite of my dread, I stand straight and wave encouragingly at parents dropping kids off, just as Principal McEvoy asked me to. And from the bright smile on my face you’d never guess how I’m really feeling inside as another academic year at St Peter’s begins.
Darcy Flynn should be standing next to me. I overheard Mr McEvoy asking her to welcome new students.
‘You remember what it’s like to be the new girl,’ he said. ‘And you’ve settled in so well. I’m sure it would really help uneasy parents and new students to see how happy you are here.’
‘Sure. Of course. Happy to help,’ Darcy said with such enthusiasm it excited me too.
But she’s not here now. I am, as always, alone.
Darcy spent her summer at St Peter’s too. She should have spent warm nights sleeping three beds down from me under a duvet clearly designed for winter. But her covers were barely touched. At first I thought she’d gone home for the summer. But then I saw her a couple of times helping out with sports activities. St Peter’s is open for camps during the holidays. Local kids sign up on a week-by-week basis and enjoy the sports facilities the school has to offer. They’re here only during the day. Office hours, mostly 9–5. Or even shorter for the younger ones.
Mr McEvoy asked if I’d like to help with the arts-and-crafts camp for the under-tens group this year.
‘You like crafting, don’t you?’ he said, and I know rumours of my scrapbook have made it all the way to the principal’s office. ‘Helping pays, of course, not huge bucks but enough for some trips to the cinema or a day out shopping.’
I appreciate the freedom we’re allowed during the summer months with no classes to worry about missing. We can come and go as we please, leaving the grounds completely, if we like. There’s a bus stop at the top of the road and I know some of the girls in the year below go into town regularly. The only rule is we must be back by 7 p.m. for supper. Despite only a skeleton staff working during summer, the cook is here and the can
teen keeps the usual hours, much to the delight of the local kids who enjoy the gourmet food.
The camps are run, mostly, by young straight-out-of-college teachers who obviously need the overtime. And they all seem to enjoy bitching and sympathising with each other about how badly they need a break from this place, and this is not how they want to spend their summer.
‘Are you sure you don’t want the job?’ Principal McEvoy pressed me when I pulled a face at his offer. ‘I could really do with someone reliable. Someone I can trust.’
‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘Not this year.’
‘Okay,’ he said, and I could hear his disappointment. ‘But you’ll be sorry when everyone is off to the cinema with their hard-earned cash and you’re stuck here with me.’ He added a little forced laughter so I knew it was a joke, and I laughed back so he didn’t feel uncomfortable.
He’s right. I was upset when everyone went to town without me. But I know, money or not, I wouldn’t have been going with them.
Days blurred into weeks, with nothing to differentiate one day from the next. Evenings and weekends were punctuated by silence without the noise of excited local kids running around playing football or tennis. Occasionally laughter would carry through the halls after supper. Someone would be back from town and have snuck alcohol into a dorm and everyone would gather to drink it neat. I’d tell myself it was a foolish act of teenage rebellion, pointless and messy. But sometimes the feeling of missing out was overbearing.
I’m drawn back to the here and now by someone crashing into my shoulder. I rub my arm as if they’ve hurt me and look up to find Luke Hogan standing next to me. He doesn’t notice that he’s almost knocked me over as he tucks his shirt into his trousers and adjusts his tie. His usually pristine uniform is sloppy and he looks unsteady on his feet.
‘You okay?’ I find myself saying, almost subconsciously.
Luke finishes adjusting his uniform, and, more composed, he says, ‘Yeah. Yeah. Good, thanks.’
Keep Your Friends Close Page 14