by B P Walter
I left her looking perplexed and jogged to catch up with my husband, now walking around the little pool huts that were dotted around the swimming pool and towards the edge of the main garden where it merged into a field. When the stables came into sight, Matthew stopped dead so suddenly I crashed into him.
‘What now?’ I asked, feeling seriously annoyed.
He tilted his head, evidently listening. That was when I heard it too. Heavy breathing and gasps. Then a little laugh.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he muttered, then continued to stride towards the first of the stables, walking around the back wall. I followed him round, resulting in us both being confronted by the same sight at the same time.
Titus and Rupert’s niece, Pippa. The latter leaning up against the wall, the former leaning into her.
Pippa noticed us first and shrieked. ‘Oh my gosh!’ She started to bat at Titus’s shoulder as he continued to thrust. Matthew didn’t wait for him to realise; he moved forward and grabbed Titus, extricating the two of them.
‘What the FUCK?’ Titus shouted.
‘What are you doing?’ Matthew raged at him.
Titus was hurriedly trying to pull up his boxers, Pippa flattening down her dress and pulling on her shoes.
‘What does it look like?’ Titus yelled back.
‘You are FIFTEEN!’ Matthew snarled at him, looking angrier than I’d seen him in years. ‘I can’t deal with all this now. Is this what you’ve become? Shagging people behind the stables at wedding anniversaries? You are a CHILD.’
Titus’s face was full of outrage and defiance. ‘I’m tired of always being told what I can and can’t do. I’ve done it your way my whole life and the one time I want to have a bit of fun you just—’
‘FUN?’ Matthew said, grabbing him by his lapels. ‘This isn’t fun; this is beneath you. This is reckless behaviour, the sort of thing your vile, drug-addled, nymphomaniac father would have done.’ He shoved Titus away from him, and I saw the boy’s face change from anger to upset. For a second, Matthew’s reference to Titus’s father confused me; I worried for a moment that he was talking about me. After all, I was no stranger to a liaison behind the stables myself back in my youth. But then it hit home. He was talking about Johnny Holden.
‘Just leave me alone,’ Titus said now, a sob rising in his voice. He turned to walk away from us, towards Pippa who was hovering on the edge of this strange scene, clearly unsure if she should wait to find out how it developed or seek shelter away from all the rage.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ Matthew said. He grabbed Titus again, his arms firmly steering the boy around. ‘We’re going.’
To my surprise, Titus didn’t put up much of a fight. Trying hard not to let his tears spill over, he rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and allowed himself to be led away. I opened my mouth to say something to Pippa, who was still staring at us, but couldn’t think of anything to say. I just gave her a weak smile, then followed Matthew and Titus across the grass back towards the house.
We managed to get to the entrance hall before anyone stopped us.
‘Charles? Matthew? Where are you going?’
I looked round to see my mother walking quickly to catch us before we left through the front door.
‘I think … I’m afraid we’re leaving. Matthew’s not very well.’ I gestured to him, but he was already down the steps to the driveway, ordering one of the young men at the entrance to bring the car round.
My mother peered at me, her eyes searching my face, trying to work out what was wrong. ‘You look … stressed. Has something happened?’
I looked back out to the steps and driveway outside. Titus and Matthew were now standing separate from each other, waiting for the car, Titus kicking moodily at the gravel.
My mother had seen them too. ‘What’s going on? Is Titus all right? He looks upset.’
I shook my head. ‘He’s fine. He’s … it’s just all been a bit of a tense afternoon.’
She looked understandably confused by this. A crunching outside announced the arrival of our car on the driveway, followed by the doors opening.
‘Charlie! Now!’ Matthew called out.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,’ I said to my mother. ‘It’s just Matthew. He has a headache or something.’ I turned away from her and began to walk down the steps.
‘Should he be driving if he’s feeling so ill?’
The voice wasn’t my mother’s. It was from someone else. I turned back and saw Rachel walking through the front door, glass of champagne in hand. There was something about her that instantly unsettled me. There always was, to some extent, but today it seemed amplified. Her eyes were bright, her face keen and inquisitive and I had a strange sense that she had more of a grasp of the situation than any of us standing here.
Deciding to ignore her, I turned back to my mother and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’ll call you later.’
I turned and walked down the steps and got into the already running car. Matthew didn’t say anything as I closed the door and did up my seatbelt; he just reversed quickly to turn the car round then started driving off at a speed that felt excessive. In the rearview mirror I saw my mother go back inside the house. But a shape remained at the top step for a few moments longer. The outline of Rachel, the red sunset bathing the Ashtons’s manor in an otherworldly glow behind her, watching us as we drove away.
The journey home was fraught and filled with bouts of Matthew and Titus shouting and snapping at each other. It only got into truly difficult territory when Matthew made another reference to Titus’s biological father. Titus, who had maintained that it had been very wrong of Matthew to interrupt him when he was having sex with Pippa, said that he was a ‘hypocrite’ and was sure that both of us had done worse in our time. I saw Matthew’s knuckles grow white as he gripped the steering wheel when he responded.
‘I would just prefer it if you could control yourself when we go out as a family. We were at the Ashtons’s wedding anniversary, not a student house party in some shithole flat.’
Titus scoffed, ‘Now you sound like a snob.’
‘I also noticed you weren’t wearing a condom. How can you be so stupid? You’re supposed to be bright, intelligent, sensible. Do you know the risk you’re taking?’
In the mirror I saw Titus go red. ‘I seriously don’t think Pippa has HIV or—’
‘I’m not talking about fucking STIs, I’m talking about pregnancy. That’s how mistakes happen. Potentially life-ruining mistakes. Young people behaving recklessly, shagging around without protection…’
‘Mistakes like me, you mean?’ Titus was shouting now, and I saw some tears fall from his eyes. ‘You’re saying just because I act like any other boy my age, I’m going to somehow turn into some no-good drug addict like my father? So you think it would have been better if I’d never been born?’
‘For God’s sake, I’m not saying that,’ Matthew said and swerved the car erratically and had to act quickly to keep within his lane.
‘Pull over at the hard shoulder when you’re next able to,’ I said firmly.
‘What?’ he said, glancing over at me as if he’d just remembered I was there.
‘I mean it. You shouldn’t drive when you’re this angry.’
We made the swap a few minutes on, and continued our journey in silence, punctuated by the odd sniff from Titus, who had the pinched look of someone trying not to cry openly.
I’d been concerned how Matthew and I would finally find a time to talk alone, to unpick what exactly had made him so desperate to leave the party before the whole business with Titus had blown up. But the opportunity arrived quicker than I’d expected. As soon as we turned into Carlyle Square and shut the engine off, Titus got out and said he was going to bed and didn’t want to talk. He stomped off up the stairs before we’d even closed the front door.
Matthew turned to look at me, the warm hallway light bathing his smooth, perfect skin. I felt a sudden need to go to him, to hug him, to tell him
whatever was going on would sort itself out. But I didn’t. Something stopped me. Maybe it was because I felt a shifting of everything among us. And now, I felt, I was going to discover something momentous.
‘Let’s go to the lounge,’ he said quietly.
I followed and he turned on the table lamp as we went in. He went straight over to where we kept the drinks and poured himself a large whisky, knocked it back, then poured another. He didn’t offer me one. He had started to pace, swaying almost, as if already drunk, apparently trying to muster something within him, some inner strength, tame some inner turmoil enough to say what he needed to say.
‘Everything’s fucked.’
He kept his eyes on the carpet as he said this, and took another sip of his drink. I sat down on the sofa.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘Just tell me. What’s going on?’
He didn’t reply, just drank some more, and stared into the fireplace as if there were a blaze burning there rather than stone-cold coal.
‘Has this got anything to do with Rachel?’ I asked at last.
That got a reaction. He looked over to me, his eyes shining with tears. ‘It has everything to do with Rachel.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rachel
Less than a week to go
As Matthew went to leave the bathroom, I immediately seized him by the shoulders and pushed him back inside.
‘Er … hey! What the…?’ he protested loudly as I shut the door behind me.
‘Be quiet,’ I said, trying to keep my voice hard and firm.
‘Rachel. What are you doing?’
Matthew made a move to get to the door, but I blocked his path. He smiled then, as if this was a game. I could see what was on his mind.
Without explanation, I walked purposefully over towards the beautiful, large bathtub at the other end of the room. The bathroom was about the same size as the bedroom I had back at Churchill Gardens, and instead of the tacky plastic baths I’ve used in every property I’ve ever lived in, with the exception of Meryl’s, this one is separate from the wall and very deep. I stepped into the empty bath, right foot first, then left, then I sat down, stretching out my legs. They only just about reached the taps at the end.
‘Relaxing things, baths. I don’t have them often enough – always end up having a quick shower. In, out, then you’re done. Baths are for the time-rich, really, aren’t they? The people who can let their lives trail away while they float around in hot water and froth.’
He didn’t say anything, just looked at me, as if he thought I was going insane, the smile now gone.
I took my hands off the edges of the tub and started to feel around the sides. ‘Ah, that’s a shame. No holes for bubbles. Not a jacuzzi, then. No, well, I suppose that would be considered a bit common for Lord and Lady Ashton. Although they’ve probably got a hot tub somewhere outside. Don’t you think?’
I turned my head over to him with these last words. My heart was pounding within me and I could see, from the flush creeping up his face, his probably was too.
‘Do you know, I’ve been feeling tired all day,’ I said. ‘Really exhausted. I could take a nap right here in the bath. It’s lucky there isn’t any water in it, of course,’ I said, slowly and deliberately. ‘I wouldn’t want there to be … an accident.’
The silence that followed was like the kind you got after a bomb blast. Then I heard him stagger across the room. At first I thought he was coming for me, then I heard the toilet seat fling up and the sound of him retching, vomiting, then eventually, gasping as he slumped on the floor. Only then did I turn again to look at him. A shirt button had come undone, he had some sick on his chin, and his face was now a grey-white. He looked horrific. And I was glad of it.
We stared at each other for a while, neither of us speaking. Then he dragged himself to his feet, using the loo seat to steady himself, and slumped over to the sink and let the taps stream. He splashed water onto his face, into his mouth, spat it out, then took some long, desperate gulps.
‘Just one sec,’ I said to him, keeping it as causal as I could. I took out my phone, went to the camera roll and selected the photo I wanted. I then tapped ‘share’ and sent it to him as a WhatsApp. I heard the ping come from the pocket of his chinos, then the rustle of him fishing the phone out.
I waited for some reaction – rage, fear, threats, pleas for me to stay silent. But he didn’t do any of this. Instead, he ran. Ran from the room and let the door slam shut behind him.
I gave it a minute, then got up, smoothed down my dress, and stepped carefully out of the bath. Everything seemed to glow brightly around me as I left the bathroom and re-joined the party. The world had come alive.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Charlie
Three days after the murder
My mother and I go into the library, her clasping the box she’d been holding. She places this onto the coffee table, kneels in front of it, and starts to rifle around. She takes a pile of several photos from inside and starts to lay them out on the polished wooden surface. ‘These are the photographs we used in a display at your and Matthew’s wedding. Lots of snaps of you both from your younger years.’
I go over and kneel down on the other side of the table. ‘Yes, I remember them,’ I say. ‘They were lovely.’ I lightly touched the matte-finish of one of them – a photo of me when I must have been fourteen or fifteen, having just won some rugby game, Archie and me holding our hands in the air. It feels like I’m looking at a different person. A different life.
‘Well, I was sorting some things out and discovered these, and ended up having a look through them,’ my mother continued. ‘When I decided to put together the display, I needed to get a good range, and since the both of you have straddled the era of film and digital, it took some organisation to get shots from different points in your life. I asked Edith for a load of photos of Matthew and, well, you know how disorganised she was; she just gave me heaps of old photo albums and a load of SD cards. I think she didn’t want to go through them all, since there’d be photos of Collette in there. She said she didn’t mind pictures of Collette and Matthew being up at the wedding, but I can understand why she didn’t want to go through them herself.’
I watch as she carries on laying out the shots. ‘And you never gave them back before Edith died?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I did,’ my mother says. ‘All the albums and SD cards, but I had the contents of the SD cards printed, so I kept those. I spent ages looking through reams of holiday snaps and family gatherings – shots of the Jones family. Shots I think Collette took, or had taken by others, before she died. And … here.’ She pulls out a photo. It shows a group of young people aged around nineteen or twenty. They’re standing in the snow, surrounded by pine trees. ‘They’re all on holiday, somewhere cold,’ Cassandra says. ‘There’s a hotel sign in one of the other shots. And look there. Right there. It’s her.’ I scan my eye across the people standing, smiling at the camera in the snow. I look along the faces and vaguely recognise some of them; they’re Matthew’s friends, mostly posh left-wingers who lament how terrible things are for the poor and the evils of carbon emissions whilst jetting off for a few weeks on the slopes.
The face in the middle is at first oddly familiar. Then the penny drops.
‘Oh fuck, it’s her,’ I say, dropping back to sit down on the carpet properly. It is indeed her. It is Rachel. Staring back at me from a photo that must have been taken a good decade ago.
‘It is indeed. With Matthew. I think they’ve been skiing.’
And now I know what this is. And where it is. And how it all fits into place. ‘Yes, I see. I see that.’
My mother starts to gather up the rest of the photos as I continue to stare at Rachel’s face. It feels like I’m holding a slice of Matthew’s history. A time I’ve only properly imagined in my head, almost like a bizarre, surreal film.
‘Don’t you think it’s strange?’ my mother says, putting the lid on the box and staring at me. ‘All
this time, Matthew claimed not to know her. You both acted like you didn’t know her.’
There’s a note of suspicion in her voice now. As if she suspects Matthew told me everything before he died.
‘Darling, we both know Rachel didn’t kill Matthew. Your father is right; you’d better tell us what happened so we can deal with it before the police work all this out.’
I close my eyes for a second, that slightly hot, burning feeling of tiredness spreading through my face. Then I hear a noise, someone moving, then seconds later feel my mother’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Come on, tell me,’ she says, ‘sit up on the chair and tell me, properly, who Rachel is.’
A few beats of silence pass between us, then I hear another voice – the resonant, deep voice of my father. ‘Her real name is Rachel Holden.’ I open my eyes, and my mother and I turn to look at the door where my father is standing. ‘She’s Titus’s aunt.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Charlie
Less than a week to go
I suppose, looking back now, there were many times when I could have interrupted and told Matthew that I knew everything he was telling me, that I knew about the whole situation with his sister. Her boyfriend. Titus. How he’d told me everything one cold autumn day in Kensington Gardens when we’d started to become a couple. But of course, he hadn’t told me everything. Just the bare facts, with no real detail of what happened. Of what he did. So, sitting on the sofa in the dim light of the lounge, the evening darkening at the windows and turning into night, I didn’t stop him or press him to get to the heart of the matter. I just listened, and allowed the truth to change our lives for ever. About how Collette had met Johnny Holden when she was at university as a one-night stand who’d turned into a relationship. How he supplied her and her friends with drugs. And how it quickly escalated from cannabis to MDMA and cocaine. Until eventually, Matthew and his mother intervened, sent her to a rehab clinic, and tried to convince her to leave Johnny for good. But, of course, that didn’t quite work.