Too Close For Comfort (24 page)

‘No.’

Her sly smile was back. ‘Lysette was the one who knew her best, of course’. She paused, cocked her head. ‘I think she probably just needs some space.’

‘I beg to differ,’ I said, aware of the pomposity that was overtaking me again. I couldn’t let her see how much it hurt. ‘I think she needs holding and support. Otherwise
all the questions about Sarah’s death will drive her even more mad.’

‘Do you think she’s mad?’ asked Kimberley, voice gossamer-light.

‘No, not at all,’ I said hastily. The thing was, she did seem in a state akin to madness, but Jim’s description of her hoovering up drugs on a teatime playdate made me
frightened that it was a madness born out of more than grief.

‘The questions seem to be getting cleared up. Peter was in a dangerous state. Sarah got too close.’ She rattled out the explanation like a shopping list. ‘And as for Lysette . . . you seeing Max – perhaps that was a bridge too far, with Sarah being so precious to her.’

She was tracing an invisible triangle in the space between us: I tried not to let the three sharp points skewer me.

I was stiff. ‘I know how close they were.’

‘But you haven’t been here so much, have you? I mean, I can’t believe we’ve never met before now, considering how long you girls have known each other.’ She smiled,
as if it must be some kind of collective fantasy we were peddling. ‘It’s hard to describe it. They felt more like sisters – no – like twins, than they did friends. None of
us got a look-in either.’

I felt it this time, a deep stab in the solar plexus. ‘I’m glad they had that,’ I said. ‘And yes, considering Lysette and I grew up together – it
is
weird we didn’t meet sooner.’

Kimberley bit her smile back. My pathetic defence of our friendship had done nothing but confirm for her that her attack had hit the target.

‘Just, as your friend, I’d say that if you take a step back, she’ll take a step forward. I’ve got an instinct for these things.’ She giggled. ‘Sometimes I
think I’d make a good therapist myself.’ People tell me what a great therapist they’d make with tiresome regularity, as if it’s a child’s game of doctors and nurses
and it’s just a question of taking your turn with the plastic stethoscope.

‘I should get going,’ I said. I paused, blood pounding in my temples. ‘For the record, I think Max benefited from us having a session together. It seems to me that he’s
carrying a lot.’

Perhaps she’d pass that on to Lisa, encourage the idea. Kimberley gave a half-laugh.

‘Oh, I’m sure! Max has always been such a creative little boy. He’ll have loved the attention. Did he tell you stories?’

‘Well, we talked about
The Gruffalo
.’

Kimberley nodded, almost as if she already knew, had been humouring me.

‘Stories – stories and storytelling are a bit of a speciality with him.’ She glanced away, voice softer. ‘Sarah too.’

‘He’s a lovely child,’ I said. The fight stirred back up in me. ‘Your two seem lovely too.’

‘Oh they are!’ she said, puffing up with pride. ‘Little terrors.’

I picked my words carefully. ‘How’s your au pair getting on with them? I gather she’s new.’

Her jaw clenched, almost imperceptibly. ‘Did
she
tell you that?’

I kept it throwaway. ‘Ooh, I can’t remember who said it.’

There it was: a split second flash of the molten rage she’d had when she talked about Peter at the quiz night. She damped it down, picked her words. ‘It’s a wonderful
opportunity for the girls, but it’s hard work! We do rather get through them.’

It was almost like she was talking about hoover bags or mop heads, not actual people.

‘She seems great. She had it all under control the other night.’

‘She is,’ she said, hand shooting down to the floor to grab her bag. ‘You know, I really must go and snatch an hour with the boys.’ She motioned to her sculpted hair.
‘We’ve got a do in London tonight, and time with them is so precious to me.’

‘OK then.’

‘You’re seeing Ian later, aren’t you?’

I was starting to feel like she’d embedded a camera between the pages of my diary.

‘I am,’ I said.

She reached a sudden hand across the coffee table, placed it on top of my free one. I fought the urge to throw it off.

‘Lucky him. I’m so glad we got to squeeze this in. It’s really helped.’ She gave a little shake of her upper body. ‘Helped get some of the trauma of the last few
months off my shoulders. Hopefully we’ll all be able to start putting it behind us now.’

The pressure of her hand was spreading a sickly warmth through my body.

‘I don’t think I really did anything.’

‘No,’ she said, withdrawing her hand so slowly that it bordered on a caress, the pads of her fingers trawling the back of mine. ‘You’re so easy to connect to. I
understand why Lysette adores you so much. And she
does
adore you. Once you’re safely back in London I’m sure it’ll all blow over.’

Her eyes met mine for a final time, something like a challenge or a warning contained in them. I kept my face neutral.

‘Well, if I did help, I’m glad.’

‘I
was
frightened of him,’ she said, uncoiling her lithe body in one swift movement so she was suddenly standing over me. She pulled on her coat, made for
the door, her words thrown over her shoulder. ‘Unlike certain other things, there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind about that.’

Him being away for all those days in a row – it’s dangerous when I have too much time to stew. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t
have come out and asked him about her. It was like some kind of disgusting illness – I couldn’t help it pouring out of me. That’s what he thought, I knew it was. That I was
disgusting.

He was very quiet. Cold and silent like an iceberg you might just sail right into and drown. He told me not to be so stupid. Stupid’s a funny old word – it can
sound like a term of endearment or a punch in the face. He knew full well it was a right hook – he’s many things, but he’s definitely not stupid. I burst into tears, ran out of
the room. ‘I can’t help the fact you’re so highly strung,’ he shouted, like his words coming after me were enough to mean he was a nice person. I lay there and sobbed. I
called Lysette before I was thinking straight, but of course I couldn’t tell her about him. Made something up on the fly, an attack of my famous PMT, and stuffed myself with chocolate like it
was true. It did make me feel better, in a sick kind of a way. Most things that make me feel better seem to come with that kind of kicker.

I bet he doesn’t talk to her like that. He wouldn’t dare. She walks around this village like she owns it, like I’m some kind of fucking peasant. Now
I’ve got a bit more cash I’ve been upping my game – I clocked her looking at my arse at pick-up on Thursday when she thought I couldn’t see her. If I didn’t know
better, I’d have thought she had a lezzie crush, but all she was doing was calculating how much my silky red maxi dress – dry clean only, naturally – had cost me. It’s got
that fake boho thing going on where it looks casual and costs a fucking fortune – it’s the kind of shopping you learn from living in a perfect shithole like this one. Thank God for
Lysette, she gets it. I burnt the tags, couldn’t risk the bin, another lecture on my irresponsibility. He’s clever, we know that, he finds things. I used to think it was because he
cared, but now I wonder if it’s the polar fucking opposite.

Later, when he tried to tell me he loved me again, I didn’t pour cold water on it. I let it burn even though I knew I shouldn’t. I know how he feels –
it’s the kind of fire that could be fatal – but it’s so long since I’ve felt warm to my bones.

I held the tiny screen high above my head. It seemed like the left-hand corner, near the sink, was where the signal was strongest. Although strongest was relative – Roger
had frozen again, his blue eyes bulging, his mouth wide. The screen went blank, and then started to ring.

‘What I was trying to say,’ said Roger, without pausing for breath, ‘is that you may simply be picking up on the generalised anxiety in the community.’ God, the man was
like a talking textbook. ‘Your feeling of anxiety doesn’t automatically mean that there are flaws in your work.’

I leaned back against the thin MDF wardrobe door. My wheelie case was splayed open on the other side of the room: clothes erupted out of it like entrails, a wild animal shot dead on the
savannah. I really needed to unpack.

‘It’s just so hard for me to keep my boundaries. I’m trying to remember I’m just here for support, but because of . . .’ Even the prospect of saying her name made
me choke up. ‘Of my friend being here, I know more than I should. And I can’t help joining the dots – trying to anyway.’

I was feeling guilty about my verbal jousting with Kimberley earlier that day. I knew I’d overstepped the mark. Roger was in his office, cocooned in the soft, expensive grey armchair
he’d had winched up through his office window when he joined the practice. He leaned forward.

‘And now she’s asked you to leave. It does sound like a very extreme reaction, when it was she who invited you there.’

‘I know,’ I said, swallowing down the lump in my throat. I looked away from the screen, discreetly wiped my eyes.

‘And I notice that you keep alluding to what you’re unearthing, in a number of different ways. Do you think you’re approaching things that are relevant to the police
investigation?’ His eyes were bright with curiosity. ‘Because if you are, it’s of vital importance that you share them.’

So much easier said than done. And why was I such a Pollyanna anyway? Drugs weren’t my thing, but perhaps a few lines of coke on a night out – or even on a playdate – was
nothing to write home about. The words didn’t ring true, even internally. I should have pushed it more with Lysette whilst I was still in her orbit.

‘Of course,’ I said, calculating silently that we only had eleven minutes left.

‘Let’s get more specific,’ said Roger firmly, who’d clearly made the same calculation. ‘What are these dots that you’re joining?’

I chided myself. I should try and do this properly. There was a point to supervision. I needed to find that professionalism I so smugly prided myself on.

‘It’s the way people talk about Sarah – it’s like they don’t finish their sentences. They talk in riddles, like she was up to all sorts but they can’t talk
about it.’

‘Well, even before that CCTV footage emerged, it looked pretty likely they’d been having an affair.’

I’d noticed this already on our call: Roger was following every fact emerging in the press with the obsessive zeal of a teenage Justin Bieber fan with a Google alert.

‘It’s weird, though – if they were, none of her friends seemed to know about it. Not even Lysette. And Peter – he seemed so gentle to me. So broken.’

‘But he did have a track record, didn’t he?’ pointed out Roger.

‘Yes, I know,’ I said, trying, and failing, not be irritated by him. It wasn’t his fault – all I had was a sense of unease and a footnote that I couldn’t tell him
about. Or could I? I didn’t have to mention Lysette. ‘I think she was a bit of a party girl, if you know what I mean.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Maybe she took drugs?’ I regretted it as soon as the words were out of my mouth. ‘And when I saw her little boy today, he seemed like he was holding on to a lot of unspoken
anxieties. He kept talking about fibbing. It may just be a mechanism for dealing with the grief . . .’

‘Talk me through it.’

I grabbed my notes, but the bare facts didn’t give me much to hang my feeling of unease on. All I seemed to be doing was recounting the plot of
The Gruffalo
,
without the funny voices to pep it up.

‘Hmm,’ said Roger. ‘Well, I’d certainly check with his father about his medical records. But the fibbing – didn’t you say that Nigel Farthing’s wife
mentioned he was prone to making things up?’

‘Yes, but . . . I trust Max more than I trust her,’ I said. Roger was grainy on the tiny screen, studying my flushed face. I just had to hope it wouldn’t freeze on my flared
nostrils. I cooled myself. ‘She’s very much a politician’s wife. My sense is she knows how to spin.’

‘And the idea that Sarah was taking drugs, did that come from her?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘So where did you get that from?’

‘My best friend’s brother who, full disclosure, I had a relationship with twenty years ago.’ My skin felt prickly with humiliation. ‘This is what I mean, Roger. I’m
too close. It’s definitely time for me to come home.’

Roger steepled his long fingers under his chin, exactly as he had when we’d met in his office. He ruminated.

‘To the contrary, it sounds like you’re doing excellent work. And your experience from a couple of years ago gives you a unique insight into the stress that ordinary folk are under
when they find themselves in the heart of a police investigation.’

Ordinary folk?

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to need to cut this short – I’m actually giving a lecture this evening – but it wouldn’t be appropriate for us to leave it
here.’ He stood up. I could see him crossing to his walnut desk, opening a leather-bound diary. ‘Ha, success!’ he said, jerking his hypothetically handsome face upwards to look at
the screen. ‘With some manageable juggling, I should be able to make it down to see you on Friday morning.’

Oh no.

‘That’s so kind, but there’s really no need. I’m very happy to work on Skype.’

‘No, no,’ he said, steel in his tone. ‘I’m here to support you. And as you know, I’ve got extensive experience with PTSD. I think the combination of our skills and
experience could prove to be quite unique. I said the very same thing to Lawrence Krall, who, I should add, was extremely complimentary about you.’

No wonder he’d been trying so hard to get hold of me these last few days. It would have been nice for him to mention the fact he was having a sidebar with the Chief Inspector at the top of
the call, rather than in its dying minutes. All I could do was thank him, and promise to meet him off the train.