Oblivious, Georgie and Jack discuss the intruder.
‘It just means we tighten our security, that’s all,’ says Jack, after Georgie says she’ll find it hard to sleep tonight. ‘Starting with closing doors.’
He gets up from the table and, to my relief, closes and locks the French doors.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ says Georgie, grabbing her glass and taking a long draw of wine. ‘That’s madness, Jack. It’s a summer’s evening and we’re sitting right next to it. These hot flushes have been getting worse and I need the fresh air.’
‘Well, maybe if you didn’t knock back so much plonk the flushes would ease up,’ says Jack, gesturing to the wine.
‘Oh, so now you’re a gynaecologist, are you?’ says Georgie, stumbling over the word. ‘The hot flushes are down to my being perimenopausal and have nothing at all to do with having a glass or two of wine.’
‘And the rest,’ says Jack, though he mutters this under his breath so only I, sitting so close to him, can hear. ‘Anyway, we were talking about tightening our security. Vanessa, may I ask you to close your windows at night and lock the door behind you when you come back to the house?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say, feeling rather unsettled by the serious tone he has taken. ‘I’ll be extra vigilant.’
‘Good girl,’ he says, with a brisk nod.
‘She’s not a girl, Jack,’ says Georgie, her eyes glazing. ‘She’s thirty-two years old.’
‘Apologies, Vanessa,’ says Jack, turning to me with a sheepish look. ‘You know what I meant. It’s funny but you’ll always be a little girl to me.’
‘Little Nessa,’ says Georgie.
She’s reaching the maudlin, nostalgic stage of drunkenness now. It’s making me feel even more on edge.
‘I’ll clear these,’ I say, getting up and taking the empty dishes over to the sink.
‘Thanks, darling, that was lovely,’ says Georgie, draining her glass. ‘See, I always said you could cook.’
I’m about to reply when there’s a loud hammering on the front door.
Georgie’s eyes widen and she jumps to her feet. She looks at Jack.
‘Who can that be?’ she says, her voice catching.
‘It’s okay, I’ll get it,’ says Jack. ‘Don’t look so worried, my dear. Burglars don’t tend to knock.’
He laughs nervously, then heads out into the hallway. We stand in silence, listening as Jack opens the door, closes it with a thud, then clatters back up the Yorkshire stone hallway.
‘It was just a delivery,’ he says as he re-enters the room, his face visibly relieved. ‘Another parcel for you, Vanessa.’
He places the brown paper-wrapped package on the table.
‘Right,’ he says, taking his glass of water from the table. ‘I’ll be in my study if anyone needs me.’
‘Surprise, surprise,’ says Georgie, rolling her eyes. ‘I think I’ll have an early night. You don’t mind, do you, Ness?’
‘Not at all,’ I say, though I’m not really listening to her. I’m too busy staring at the parcel in front of me.
When Georgie and Jack have left the room I pick it up and give it a shake. Something rattles inside.
I hear Georgie’s feet thudding up the stairs and Jack’s study door close, then I take the parcel up to my bedroom. It’s time I faced up to what’s happening.
Placing the parcel on the floor, I slowly slide the other three from under the bed.
The first contains the remains of the dress Connor picked out for me before the US presentation. It arrived a few days after I moved in with Georgie, ripped into tiny little pieces. The second was sent a couple of days later. I remember almost cutting my fingers as I put my hand into the box, where I found the silver-framed photo of me and Connor that used to sit on the mantelpiece in the bedroom, the glass smashed into little shards. The third parcel contains my childhood letters. I can barely remember writing them though I do recall how comforting I’d found the character of Angus. I must have written the letters as a kind of therapy then shoved them into a drawer and forgotten about them. When the parcel arrived I’d thought perhaps Dad had found them amongst the boxed-up stuff in the loft and sent them to me, but now I think Connor must’ve got hold of them somehow. The lack of a note, the neat wrapping, it all smacks of him. Which means, I realize, he isn’t giving up. And, what’s more, he has proof of my obsession with Geoffrey Rivers. What might he do with it? I dread to think.
Now here is another one. Taking a deep breath, I rip open the paper. A chill slithers right through me. The parcel has been wrapped in pages torn from a book, which I immediately recognize as the first few pages of The Spirits of Holly Maze House. I scrabble, panicking, through the pages and find his signature. It’s the signed edition I’d left at the stones. How did he find it?
Inside is another box, plain, white, again sealed tightly with tape. I think of the message, the photo of Geoffrey’s dead body, and I know that I should take this parcel and throw it in the nearest wheelie bin. Yet something compels me to open it.
With trembling hands, I tear off the sellotape from each corner.
What I see makes me want to throw up.
There, covered in dead leaves and soil, is the glass blackbird. I lift it out and hold it in my hands; its blue eyes, dulled with grit and dirt, stare back at me, accusingly. Then, looking down, I see there is something else in the box. A note. I take it out carefully and read, almost dropping the bird as I do.
I know now for certain. Connor is stalking me. And he’s not going to give up until I’m behind bars.
For there in red-inked capital letters are five words that chill my blood.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID
18. Then
I wake drenched in sweat. Beside me, Connor snores gently. I have a vague memory of leaving the burlesque club, the taxi, then falling asleep with my head on Connor’s shoulder, but everything else is a blur.
I take my phone from the bedside table and check the time. It’s 6.30. Still early, but I’m wide awake now. I gently pull the covers back and make my way to the bathroom.
The sight that greets me in the mirror makes me gasp. My hair is knotted and sticking to one side of my face. My eyes are red and yesterday’s make-up is smudged across my face like a painting that’s been left out in the rain. I stand there feeling hollow, hoping that I didn’t spend the entire evening walking around the club looking like this. And then I feel it, a sticky fluid running down my legs. I look and with a sick feeling of dread run my hand along my inner thigh, praying that it’s just sweat. But as I hold it to my nose and recognize the sharp, salty scent, the scent of Connor, I feel my legs buckle.
I grab a towel and quickly wipe it away then hurry back to the bedroom and scour the floor, the table, the end of the bed, for a telltale wrapper. But there’s nothing. This is a nightmare. I have no recollection of having sex, let alone using protection. I run back into the bathroom and turn on the shower. Stepping underneath the hot stream of water, I scrub at my skin and my crotch, almost using up the whole bottle of shower gel. This can’t be happening, I tell myself as I step, red raw and burning hot, on to the cool tiled floor.
I need to think straight. What should I do? My first instinct is to call Lottie but that’s not an option. Okay, what would Lottie tell me to do? Go to Boots and get the morning-after pill. It had happened a couple of times before with other boyfriends when we’d got carried away in the heat of the moment and not used a condom; another time, the condom had slipped off. I’d tried going on the pill in my early twenties but it gave me such terrible migraines I had to come off it. I reasoned that condoms would be enough though I still had some accidents. But on all those occasions, I had a clear memory of having sex. I had … consented.
I’ll go to the chemist, I think as I shakily dry myself off, trying to block out the terrifying word that is rolling around my head. I’ll go to the chemist and ask for the morning-after pill. I’ll slip out before Connor wakes up and then, when I get back,
we can talk about what happened.
I tiptoe back into the bedroom but as I’m pulling out the drawer to retrieve a T-shirt and leggings, I hear Connor stir behind me.
‘Morning, baby,’ he says sleepily. ‘What are you doing? It’s Saturday. Come back to bed.’
‘I was … er,’ I begin, not quite knowing how to put it. ‘Connor, what happened last night? When we got back from the club?’
‘You mean, you don’t remember?’ he says, smiling. ‘You seemed to be enjoying it.’
‘Was I?’
‘What are you talking about, Ness?’ he says. ‘You mean you really don’t remember?’
I shake my head.
‘It was amazing,’ he says, reaching out and stroking my cheek. ‘Hotter than we’ve ever been before. I think it must have been the burlesque. You kept telling me how much it had turned you on.’
All I can recall of the burlesque is a blur of colours and noise.
‘By the time we got home you were … well, I’ve never seen you like that before,’ he says, propping himself up on the pillows.
‘Connor, listen,’ I say, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘Did we … did we use anything?’
‘Ness, this is crazy,’ he says, leaning back in exasperation. ‘Are you having a laugh here?’
‘No,’ I say, my stomach twisting. ‘It’s just … well, I woke up and there was … you know, you on my legs and … I genuinely can’t remember having sex.’
The colour drains from his face and he sits up straight.
‘You said “Don’t stop”,’ he says, his voice shaking. ‘We were both so into it. I asked you if I should get a condom and you said not to. You told me to carry on.’
‘So I was … I was awake?’ I say, my hands trembling now. ‘I was conscious?’
‘What the fuck are you saying, Ness?’ he says, his eyes glaring. ‘Are you accusing me of –?’
‘No,’ I say, my heart thudding. ‘Of course not, I just … well, I’ve had a few accidents in the past and now I never take chances.’
‘Well, you did last night,’ says Connor, his neck reddening.
‘Okay,’ I say, trying to calm things. ‘We need to sort this out. I’ll head up to Boots and get the morning-after pill. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘There’s no need to do that,’ he says, sighing. ‘There’s no risk.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I say incredulously. ‘Of course there is.’
‘Once I realized how drunk you were I stopped,’ he says, turning to me with a wounded expression. ‘Christ, what do you take me for?’
‘But … but what about the … what was that on my legs then?’
‘I have no idea. Sweat? Jesus, Vanessa, this is insane.’
He shakes his head, then, jumping out of the bed, pulls on his dressing gown and storms out of the room.
I find him sitting on the sofa, his legs pulled up to his chest.
‘Connor,’ I say gently, sitting down next to him. ‘Connor, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … it’s just I have no memory of it and –’
‘You’ve got to stop this, Vanessa,’ he says, turning to me, his eyes red and swollen. ‘I love you but I can’t take much more of this.’
‘What?’ I say, panic gripping my chest. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The drinking,’ he says, his voice trembling. ‘Every night I come home from work and you’re half-cut. The recycling bin is a bloody embarrassment. Then there’s the paranoia, checking my phone, the emotional outbursts. But this, this is just the very worst. How can you sit there and accuse me of – God, I can’t even say it …’
I think back to the previous evening: the three glasses of Chianti, glass after glass of champagne at the club.
‘You were so wasted. And what you said to Richard …’
‘What did I say to Richard?’
‘Oh Christ,’ says Connor, his eyes widening. ‘You’re telling me you don’t remember telling my boss he was very attractive for an older man?’
I shake my head, and a horrid feeling of guilt rips through me. I’ve done it again. I’ve fucked up, again.
‘Bloody hell, Vanessa.’
It’s all too much. I feel my bottom lip quiver.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my head throbbing. ‘I don’t remember. I would never usually say something like that. I don’t know what’s happening to me.’
‘Hey,’ says Connor, shuffling closer to me. ‘Baby, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m going to help you.’
‘Connor, listen to me,’ I say, taking his arm. ‘I am so sorry but I swear to you I’m going to sort this. I’ll stop drinking. I know I’ve been knocking it back a lot recently and this is my wake-up call. I promise you.’
‘And the other stuff,’ he says, wiping his eyes with his dressing-gown sleeve. ‘The checking up on me? The outbursts?’
‘All of it,’ I say, putting my hand to his face. ‘I’ll stop. I can’t lose you, Connor. Tell me you won’t leave me.’
It’s my turn to cry then and as I feel him pull me to his chest, feel the warmth of his skin, I tell myself that I will be true to my word. I’ve already lost my mum and Lottie. I can’t lose Connor too.
‘I don’t know what to do, Connor,’ I say. ‘I’ve never blacked out like that before.’
‘We’re going to get through this, Vanessa,’ he says, lifting my face to his. ‘Do you hear me? I’m not giving up on you. I love you.’
‘I don’t deserve you,’ I say. ‘I really don’t.’
‘Everything’s going to be okay,’ he repeats. ‘Trust me.’
He kisses the top of my head, and as I sink into his arms, I feel wretched for ever doubting him.
19. Now
When the first light of morning arrives, filling the bedroom with a pale, silvery glow, I pick up my phone from the floor and check the time. It’s 6.45. I get out of bed and go to the window.
The common is already dotted with people, despite the early hour. I see the landlady from the Crooked Billet pub putting out deckchairs for the sun-seeking drinkers who will descend on the pub at lunchtime. A group of men and women, clad in workout gear, are practising yoga up by the copse. A big collie dog bounds in between them, almost knocking one of the women, an impossibly svelte redhead, off her feet.
As I stand there I scan the figures, the faces, the hidden corners, the shadows, searching for Connor. He could be out there now, waiting to make his next move.
I think of his words – ‘I know what you did’ – and I shiver.
Then, like a photograph that hasn’t fully developed, the outline of Geoffrey’s body flashes in front of my eyes again. I’m standing in the hallway of Holly Maze House and he’s lying at my feet, blood pooling beneath his head.
Stop it, I tell myself. Stop torturing yourself.
My legs feel weak as I leave the bedroom and walk down the stairs. I take deep breaths, recalling the advice from Anne’s mindfulness class. Be in the present. Keep calm.
If I just focus on the next hour or so, then I can keep the panic at bay, clear my head, and then, afterwards, try to work out what to do.
But as I walk into the kitchen, still focusing on my breathing, my legs almost give way. For there, in front of me, as large as life, is Geoffrey Rivers.
NEW LEAD IN CHILDREN’S AUTHOR MURDER CASE
The headline appears across the TV screen, temporarily obscuring Geoffrey’s photo. Georgie and Jack’s large flat-screen TV that hangs on the wall in the snug off the kitchen is a hangover from the days when Imogen and Harry would huddle up in here to watch movies with their friends. Nowadays, it’s rarely used, yet today someone has turned on the news channel and set the volume to loud. I hunt around for the remote control amongst the cushions and as I do so the sharp voice of the female newsreader drills into my skull:
‘Police investigating the murder of Mr Rivers who, in his day, sold over sixty million books worldwide, are now exploring a link between his death and the s
ale of his lavish Hampstead home. It is thought that Mr Rivers had opted to show potential buyers round the property himself rather than handing over the task to the estate agent. We spoke to Viv Shackleton from the National Association of Estate Agents who said that, after the Suzy Lamplugh case, tighter rules were brought in to ensure the safety of estate agents and vendors. However …’
I grab the remote control and switch off the TV. My body feels like ice as I sit down at the table, my back to the French doors, and try to make sense of what I have just heard. I’m the new lead, that’s what that report was saying. Though I may have gone to the police station voluntarily, the police have not given up. They’re closing in on me. And, even worse, Connor has photographic evidence of me returning to the scene and placing the stolen items next to the gravestones.
He was never going to let me go without a fight. But how could he have known I would be at those stones then? Has he been following me? Was he with me every step of that journey? And how would he know how much I loved those books? I don’t think I ever spoke about them to him. As far as I was concerned, I had left Geoffrey and Angus and the little spirits back in the nineties along with my mother’s death. Yet Connor had a way of finding things out about me without me realizing.
I’m lost in my thoughts when the French windows suddenly burst open and Jack walks in. I jump from the table in fright and the phone I’ve been clutching in my hands clatters to the floor.
‘Jesus!’ I cry, my heart in my mouth.
‘Oh gosh, Vanessa. I didn’t mean to scare you,’ says Jack, closing the doors behind him.
‘Jack,’ I say, slowly regaining my composure. ‘What are you doing out there at this time of the morning?’
‘I’ve been for a jog,’ he says, helping himself to a bottle of water from the fridge and taking a long glug. ‘I’ve decided to get healthy. More exercise, less booze.’
I look at him as he leans against the sink, clutching the water bottle. He’s not exactly dressed for jogging, in his jeans and loose, linen shirt, but I decide not to ask questions. Not after the frosty atmosphere between him and Georgie last night. Still, he doesn’t look okay. He seems jumpy and agitated. His hands shake as he lifts the bottle to take another sip. I think back to my sister’s behaviour, the multiple glasses of wine with dinner, the sharp way she had spoken to Jack. They’ve had an argument, I reason. Jack slept in the guest room then got up early and went for a walk to clear his head. The ‘jog’ lie would be to spare having to worry me. That will be it.
The Perfect Life Page 14