Too Close For Comfort (14 page)

As we started across the grass, Alex turned to me. ‘This was your idea, wasn’t it?’ she said.

Her mouth smiled, but her eyes did the absolute opposite.

*

Kitchen supper is such a terrible phrase, all faux casual and homey – at least this wasn’t even making the pretence. The table was set with silver, crisp linens by
each plate, small vases of fresh-cut flowers punctuating the length of it. We all ground to a halt: it didn’t invite you to throw yourself into any old place and start chatting. Perhaps that
was the point, a mark of respect. Kimberley stood up a little straighter. She looked out to the garden, momentarily pensive, and then back to all of us.

‘Thank you for coming. I know – we all know – how hard it is right now. But the one thing we need to be able to rely on is each other.’ Her gaze landed momentarily on
Lysette, who looked away, suddenly fascinated by the table setting. ‘You’re not just my friends, you’re my sisters. This is my sisterhood. In answer to your point, Helena,
this
is our safe place. We must never forget it.’ She held her glass aloft. ‘To Sarah.’

I hung back, watched them all step forward, their glasses colliding noisily.

‘To Sarah,’ they said, their voices cracking and splintering with emotion. Something was released by that toast, something I couldn’t quite name. Their tears were real, but
there was something else they were sharing that wasn’t visible to the naked eye.

Kimberley beckoned me forward. ‘Come and join the toast, you knew her too.’

I softly chinked my glass, my eyes meeting Lysette’s: the depth of her pain felt like something you could drown in. I couldn’t help feeling relieved when the circle broke apart.
Helena moved towards a seat, and I started to subtly follow her, but Kimberley gave us an admonishing look.

‘There’s a seating plan, and you,’ she pointed her index finger at me, ‘have got the worst seat in the house, I’m afraid! Right next to me.’

It was so odd – I felt no warmth between us, and yet she was tenacious in her pursuit of me. I gave an unconvincing smile and headed for the seat she’d indicated. Alex was the other
side of me, and Lysette was to Kimberley’s right with Helena next to her.

‘That jumpsuit looks great,’ I told Kimberley, looking for an easy win, and then immediately wondering if it seemed callous. ‘I’d never get away with it, but it’s
fab on you.’

‘Really?’ she said, looking pleased. She was standing up, and she patted a lollipop-stick thigh. ‘I worry it makes me look like I’ve got saddlebags. It’s old now,
Isabel Marant from a few seasons ago.’

Of course – a luxurious French label that looks thrown on but has a per item cost roughly akin to the GDP of a third world country.

‘Not at all,’ I said. Kimberley was as bony as a skeleton, the honeyed sweep of exposed flesh taut and smooth. She knew it too – I’ve got plenty of clients who suffer
from the female disease of refusing to appreciate their own beauty, but I could tell Kimberley revelled in her appeal. She was like a show cat, strutting around the ring on perfect paws.

‘Thanks,’ she said, laying a hand on my shoulder as she shouted across the kitchen to Lori. ‘Lori, top-ups needed, and I just know that salmon en croute is borderline
burnt!’

I subtly wriggled my shoulder, the warmth of her hand an uncomfortable presence, and looked around for Lysette. She was talking to Helena, animated now, her glass drained. I quelled the teeming
thoughts, turned towards Alex.

‘So what’s your specialism?’ I asked. Her glass was almost full, I noticed, a smear of her odd-coloured lipstick around the rim. Her fingers, the nails bitten and ragged,
worried at the plain wooden beads that hung around her neck. They could have almost been a rosary.

‘Molecular biology,’ she said, her voice a full stop. In one way it was a blessing – after all, my molecular biology small talk was seriously limited – but it was already
feeling like a long night, and we hadn’t eaten a morsel yet.

‘It’s so beautiful here,’ I said, directing the comment to the table at large. Kimberley was still snarling about salmon somewhere in the background. ‘I bet
there’ve been some great summer parties.’

Everyone looked at me, but no one responded. The atmosphere churned and curdled.

Alex’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not really. I’m a single mum, most nights it’s either
Bake Off
or a pile of marking. I’m right in thinking you
don’t have any?’

‘Not yet, no,’ I said. I looked across the table at Lysette, wanting some kind of reassurance. I needed her to lead the way, to teach me the rules of engagement that I blatantly
didn’t understand, but her face was as cold as theirs.

Helena jumped in. ‘Mia works with them, though. She caters to every size. The walk we had before the funeral really . . .’ She looked at me, changed tack. ‘She
gave me some great ideas for getting the anxiety under control.’

She made a face, acknowledged the irony. The space between us felt even thicker now.

‘My advice, Mia, is to enjoy the freedom while it lasts!’ said Kimberley, sailing back to the table. Lori was following her, plates piled high with steaming mounds of salmon and
asparagus, the distraction perfectly timed. Was it my fault, this latest awkwardness? Had I been unconsciously poking a hornets’ nest that Jim had shoved me towards, then complaining when I
got stung? Even if they had been partying, there was no reason to assume Sarah’s death had anything to do with it. I caught Lysette’s eye, managed finally to exchange a smile that felt
real. Did she want to be here, or was it the very last place she’d have chosen? The fact I had no idea made me feel a rush of loneliness, even here, in the crush of women.

‘
Bon appétit
,’ said Helena, their eyes meeting in shared sadness. There were murmurs about the deliciousness of the food, heavy cutlery scraping
against bone china plates.

‘Are you wanting some wine?’ said Lori, appearing at my elbow.

‘I am, yes,’ I said, giving her a grateful smile, knowing as I did that the last thing I needed was to get drunk.

‘Let’s put some music on,’ said Lysette, that dangerous firework quality back in full force. ‘Not Fleetwood Mac!’

‘God, no,’ said Helena, shuddering. She gave Lysette a sad smile. ‘You did so well to get through it.’

Kimberley waved an imperious hand at Lori.

‘If you fetch me the remote control, and then you can get the boys upstairs. It’s well past their bedtime.’ It wasn’t quite clear from her tone whose fault that was.
‘Tell them I’ll be up to kiss them goodnight.’

It was gone 8.30 by now: I looked at the dark smudges under Lori’s eyes, tried to imagine how she got any kind of break beyond a few snatched hours of sleep. I let the conversation eddy
and drift around me, grateful that the odd number of guests created a discreet way to hang back.

When Lori reappeared, bottle in hand, Helena made sure her glass was filled to the brim. ‘I shouldn’t, I know, but I’m just so glad I got the police interview out of the way
today.’

‘Mia was there for hours today,’ said Lysette, that edginess apparent again.

Alex looked to me, as if I should elaborate. Kimberley gave a tinkly laugh.

‘I think old Inspector Krall is a bit of looker,’ she said, then noticed Lysette’s expression. ‘I was being silly,’ she said. ‘I’m just grateful they
seem confident about solving it. For Sarah’s sake.’

‘They don’t know,’ spat back Lysette.

Helena looked between them. ‘Can we please – let’s try and have a nice time. Be together.’ Her eyes grazed me, as if she was embarrassed I was witnessing all of this, and
I gave her what I intended to be a reassuring smile. It was hard to force my features into such a shape.

‘Of course. That’s the whole point of tonight,’ said an icy Kimberley. ‘To try and support each other. And you’re right, we don’t know. But what I do know
– from personal experience – is that he was complicated.’

‘OK!’ said Lysette. She stood up, her chair scraping angrily across the floor. She crossed to the speaker dock, which was pumping out some kind of French jazz. ‘Let’s put
on something stupid we could sing along to if this was . . .’ Tears sprang to her eyes, and I automatically crossed the room towards her. ‘If this was different,’
she said, her voice low. She briefly accepted my touch, then bent over her iPhone like she was engaged in important matters of national security, eventually choosing a summery playlist that you
couldn’t help but shake your shoulders to.

‘Good choice,’ I told Lysette across Kimberley, then turned my attention to her. ‘This is delicious,’ I told her, shovelling in a large mouthful to prove the veracity of
the statement. Kimberley’s fork trailed her plate, never quite making contact with the pile of food that was slowly congealing – no one was that thin without hard work. ‘Did you
cook it yourself? If we ever have people round, all my boyfriend wants to do is order pizza.’

Kimberley ignored the question. Of course she hadn’t cooked it – she hadn’t even deigned to carry a plate, so far. ‘I thought you were engaged?’

‘Yeah, no, I always think fiancé sounds a bit pretentious.’ I fiddled with my engagement ring as I said it, aware how tiny it looked next to her ostentatious square slab of a
diamond. ‘
My fiancé –
you’re right, I should say it.’ She stayed silent. ‘It must be hard for you, Nigel travelling so
much.’

‘We’ve got very good at waving him goodbye,’ she said. ‘That’s partly why Lucas liked having Mr Grieve so much last year.’

‘He had him as his teacher? I didn’t know that. I’m so sorry.’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Kimberley. ‘He got very involved.’ It was unclear what he was involved in – it could have been as benign as Lucas’s spelling, but somehow it
didn’t sound that way. ‘So when are you getting married?’

‘Probably in the spring. Work’s been crazy for both of us . . .’ I didn’t want her to think I was being grand about my career. ‘You know what
it’s like, juggling . . .’

I could see Lori out of the corner of my eye, painstakingly rinsing the plates before she loaded them into the top of the range dishwasher.

‘I do,’ she said, pointedly, watching where my eyes went. ‘I’ve got a PR business. The office is in Cambridge. It’s mainly for local businesses, but it’s
doing pretty well.’

‘That’s great.’

‘I get some good discounts too. If you’re getting married, you’ll be wanting to think about those photos!’

‘What do you mean?’

Kimberley leaned towards me, animated.

‘There’s a fantastic clinic we look after. They do peels and facials, but they also push the hard stuff.’ My brain was struggling to compute, Jim’s words still ringing in
my ears. ‘Come on, Mia, by our age we all start needing a bit of help to keep looking our best.’

‘Oh, Botox and things.’ Patrick always teases me for the way I say it, like ‘buttocks’, forgetting to emphasise the BO. I looked at Kimberley’s smooth face, tried
not to envy the lack of crow’s feet. I knew my own eyes had started to tell a story I wanted to keep to myself.

‘It’s all moved on a lot. Fillers can be very subtle now. No harm in giving mother nature a helping hand.’

‘Sure,’ I said, non-committal.

‘You don’t approve? Not holistic enough for you?’ she said, arching her perfect eyebrows as she hovered the wine bottle over my glass. I signalled for a tiny bit, aware how
muddy my thinking was becoming.

‘I just think once you start, where do you stop?’

Some of my patients seem to do it in a healthy way – a way that’s not shot through with a dose of self-hatred – but some of them look like swaying, swollen poppies, faces
pumped up and bodies starved down to nothing.

‘It must be so hard, doing your job,’ said Kimberley.

‘What do you mean?’ I could tell already I wasn’t going to like the answer.

‘It must be so hard not to analyse every choice you make to death. I’d find it exhausting.’ I’d find it exhausting to try and write press releases about injecting
elephant placenta into forehead creases, I thought, but I didn’t say it.

‘It’s horses for courses, isn’t it?’ I said, straining forward to try and pull Lysette into the conversation. She was talking intensely to Helena, her hands flying about,
her mascara now a mass of black around her wild eyes.

‘I’d love to understand what it is you actually do,’ said Kimberley, her tone implying that it was something so exotic and unlikely that it might turn out to be a fantasy.
‘Can we book some time for a one to one before you go?’ She paused, angled her face, elegant fingers stroking the stem of her crystal wine glass. ‘When is it you’re
going?’

It felt like every single sentence she uttered spun on a contradiction.

‘Don’t say it!’ said Lysette, jerking her body round. ‘She’s never going. She’s going to live here for ever and ever.’

She was drunk, obviously so now, but I still felt childishly gratified by how heartfelt she was. That protectiveness surged back through me, that deep longing to make sure she was alright. I
needed to be sure she was safe before I could leave.

‘Not for ever and ever,’ I said. ‘But at least a couple more weeks.’

‘Not long at all, then,’ said Alex, with a hint of satisfaction.

It felt as though everyone’s eyes were on me again.

‘I need a pee. Too much wine,’ I said, standing up abruptly.

I gripped the back of my chair, suddenly acutely aware of how many times my glass had been topped up. I needed to get away. Even if it was only for a few snatched minutes, I
needed time to think.

Kimberley had directed me to a little door off the main corridor, but when I tried the handle, it held fast. I waited for what felt like an age, before looking up at the
sweeping wooden staircase. There must be millions of bathrooms in a house like this, and it wasn’t as if I’d be prying – a woman like Kimberley would definitely do her business in
a luxury en suite.

I crested the stairs, arrived on the top landing, and then stared open-mouthed at the huge wall that met me. It was covered, absolutely covered, in family photographs, all jigsawed together in
beautiful frames. There were old pictures – glamorous weddings from long ago, a childhood picture of Kimberley, snub-nosed and holding a rabbit – as well as newer shots. Nigel in
Washington, Nigel and Kimberley at Buckingham Palace, Nigel and Kimberley with their photogenic progeny. Naturally these ones were professional: grainy black-and-white images from their garden,
posed as if the lucky photographer had chanced upon a beautiful family in their pastoral idyll and caught them unawares. Kimberley leant over her boys, her blonde tresses framing them, eyes staring
outwards dreamily as her husband loomed behind them protectively. I sneered internally, then wondered if it was nothing more than jealousy. Even if we had two perfect, healthy children, I
couldn’t imagine Patrick ever agreeing to come home from work early to pose soulfully with a hay bale. I sensed that that was the point: there was no way you could look at that carefully
curated collection of images and not feel as if you were somehow falling short.