Too Close For Comfort (37 page)

Roger shot out a firm hand.

‘You can rely on our professional discretion,’ he said.

We were well and truly dismissed.

This wasn’t the final night I’d pictured. I’d imagined Lysette and me coming full circle: me reading an adoring Saffron a bedtime story, then sharing a bottle
of wine on the tatty, comfy green sofa where we’d huddled up when I first arrived. We’d acknowledge the hard edges we’d hit these last few weeks, but know instinctively it was
already healing. Instead I was perched on the lip of Rita’s wafer-thin mattress, fiddling obsessively with the tassels on the scratchy beige bedspread. Dusk was gathering through the porthole
of a window, the crescent moon a curved slash of light. My time here was so nearly over – I wanted to snatch it back, force it to afford me a second chance.

‘She really can’t speak?’

It was Ged I was calling now. I’d given up leaving messages for Lysette, my calls cutting out in that hurtfully abrupt way after a tell-tale couple of rings. It was her who’d been
trying to call me only a few hours ago – what had happened in the interim?

‘She’s . . .’ Ged paused, the silence full to bursting. ‘She’s not herself, you know that. She’s having a down day.’ Otherwise known as a
comedown – I didn’t say it. How much did Ged actually know? ‘I’m sure she’ll be in touch tomorrow.’

‘But I’m leaving tomorrow,’ I said, my voice full of wheedling desperation.

His voice was infused with the warmth that came so easily to him, instantly soothing the sting. ‘Course you are!’ he said. ‘Come round on your way to the station.
Saffron’ll never forgive me if she misses the chance to show you her new shoes.’

‘Bows?’ I asked.

Obviously.’

Another pregnant pause, both of us craving the chance to confide, both of us holding ourselves back. I broke first.

‘Ged, is there anything I can do? Anything at all? I know I haven’t exactly been friend of the year while I’ve been here . . .’

He sounded so weary. ‘You tried.’

‘I did, and I fucked up, but I wouldn’t forgive myself if . . .’ The
if
seemed to splinter and multiply, each version more frightening
than the last. Lawrence Krall’s face, filled with grim purpose. Lysette’s broken terror. What destination was all of this hurtling towards?

Ged’s voice cracked. ‘I know, Mia. I know.’

Was he crying?

‘Ged?’

‘I’m not sure we’re gonna make it.’ This sob was audible. He turned it into a throat-clear, shook it off. ‘I shouldn’t be saying anything.’

‘You two are great,’ I said, uselessly. ‘Y
ou’re
great.’ He was – even though he was yet another man I’d underestimated.
I’d wished for someone for her who was more of a provider, unable to see, for many years, that what he did provide was solid gold.

‘It’s hard though, isn’t it?’

It was difficult to argue with that.

‘Ged, this isn’t just me and Lysette winding each other up. I need . . .’ I stopped abruptly: my promise to Lawrence of confidentiality was legally binding.
‘She needs to be very careful. Please tell her that from me.’

*

Sleep was a long time coming. When it finally descended it was more like a coma. My phone cut through it, shrieking like a shrill banshee, my hand wheeling around in the
half-light in search of it. Lysette. I missed it by a nanosecond, but as soon as it had stopped, it started its relentless pealing all over again.

‘Lys?’

Her voice was shaking. ‘You’ve gone too far now, Mia. You’ve gone too fucking far.’

Had Lawrence Krall already pulled her in? Nausea rose up in me like a sick wave.

‘Lys, hang on. They said I couldn’t speak to you. I did try to call . . .’

‘What, you care more what a fucking tabloid feels than what I feel? Did you get paid for it, then?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Oh, come on. Are you on a roll? Are you lying to everyone now, not just Patrick?’

I hadn’t yet been awake long enough to remember the painful state of affairs between Patrick and me. My voice was like ice when I replied. ‘Like I said, I don’t know what
you’re talking about.’

‘Have a look at your friend April’s front page exclusive. Everyone else will be once they wake up.’

‘She’s not my friend . . .’

But before I’d got the chance to ask any more, I’d been abandoned to an angry dial tone.

*

The cobbled streets were half empty, Little Copping still rubbing sleep from its eyes. I half walked, half ran to the newsagent, my heart thumping harder and harder in my chest.
I slowed as I approached, the urgency draining out of me. Now my feet were like lead weights.

There it was. Thick black capitals that looked a mile high.
Sarah Death: Sex Shame In Paradise
. There below in smaller letters:
Exclusive from April
Greening
. There was a close-up of a laughing Sarah, a shot of Peter just below it. The other half of the cover was given over to a picture of the school. At that moment I longed acutely for
the grimy anonymity of the Holloway Road. Gareth, the newsagent, was standing sentry behind the counter, arms folded over the top of his mountainous belly, barely encased in his tight brown polo
shirt. I’d bought a fair few bottles of water and less lurid papers from him and his wife by now, had never got away with less than five minutes of chat.

‘Hi. Can I grab . . .’ The words tailed off. Gareth’s slack, grey face was like stone. He gave a curt nod, thrust the paper at me like he was parrying a blow. Of
course I only had a note. He snatched it from my hand, loudly rootling in the till for change.

‘There you go,’ he said, dropping it into my hand.

I often encourage my clients to check out their more distressing interpretations of the world, not stay locked up in the torture chamber of internal paranoia.

‘I’m heading back to London today,’ I said, deliberately cheerful.

He had the grace to mutter, but he made sure it was loud enough for me to hear.

‘Good riddance.’

I stumbled past the rack of sweets, the bags of crisps, back out into the quaint beauty of the village. Right then it felt as ugly as sin.

*

I managed to slip upstairs without encountering either Rita or any of my fellow guests. At least I could be fairly confident that April would’ve scuttled back to London
like a sewer rat, a far safer place to bask in her mucky triumph. I spread the newspaper out on my unmade bed, hands shaking. As I did so, I caught a glimpse of a grainy photo inside. It
couldn’t be. It was from the function – a snatched picture of me, over-made up, my mouth open – with Lysette visibly dodging the camera. ‘Best friends,’ it said
underneath. Next to it was a picture of Kimberley and Nigel, freshly out of the car, loving smiles plastered on.

I could barely focus: the black print swirled in front of my eyes like a busy tribe of worker ants. I forced myself to track it.

I was hot with rage. She’d stitched my words together like a patchwork quilt, made it sound like a formal interview. How could I have been stupid enough to utter a single
syllable? I turned the page, praying it wouldn’t get worse. Of course it did. We can also exclusively reveal a nest of scandals and secrets which have rocked the picture-perfect village
before and after Sarah’s death plunge.

The school quiz night that descended into mayhem after it was revealed that Peter Grieve had been STALKING glam political wife Kimberley Farthing. A source said she was ‘shaken and
distressed’ by the shocking confrontation.

Hubby Joshua Bryant is leaning heavily on ex-wife Lisa, the mother of his first two children, who he abandoned for waitress Sarah – almost twenty years his junior – after their
sex-fuelled affair. ‘It’s the bravest thing he can do,’ was Cosgrove’s bizarre claim.

Partying mum of three Lysette Allen – close friend of the Cracker style expert as well as the victim – fired off a drunken rant at Sarah’s devastated parents after the funeral.
‘She knows way more than she’s telling the police,’ speculated a source. The shrink was forced to move out of her best friend’s home after a devastating row. She was later
seen having an intimate meal in the village pub with her pal’s married brother, desperately seeking clues for what’s triggering Allen’s out of control behaviour.

This week the tight-knit community turned out in force for a lavish charity ball hosted by Nigel Farthing, who refused to comment on recent developments. Police are expected to announce within
days that they are no longer looking for any further suspects in connection to the murder, with an inquest pencilled for the New Year. It was horrific. I collapsed backwards onto the unyielding
mattress, the room spinning like I was drunk. I wished I could cry – purge the distress from my body – but my anger was too rigid and hard to juice out any tears. I sat up, trying
Patrick first. I was growing to hate the breezy professionalism of his voicemail.

‘Patrick it’s me. Obviously it’s me. I don’t know if you’ve seen the awful story that April’s written, but please ignore it. I did have lunch with
him . . .’ I paused, aware how awful this could sound. ‘But it was just lunch. I wanted to find out about Lysette. That bit’s true, even if the rest of it is total
bollocks. Nothing I can say sounds good, and I know it’s about to cut out, but I love you. Please know that. I love you. Marrying you is the thing I want most in the world.’

The truth of that statement stopped me in my tracks; none of this, not Sarah, not Lysette, not even whether or not we had children mattered in the face of it. As I tried to formulate the next
sentence the beep bossily informed it was too late. I fell backwards again, tears streaming down my face. After what felt like a snotty, damp age I gathered myself to call Lysette. I think part of
me hoped she wouldn’t pick up, but she answered after a single ring.

‘Are you proud of yourself, Miss Cracker style expert?’

I could almost see her angry quotation marks.

‘I barely spoke to her. She’s taken a couple of innocuous remarks I made about not jumping to conclusions and puffed them up into a story. Don’t fall for it, Lys, please! We
need to be on the same side right now.’

My phone gave a beep, as I was talking and I ripped it from my ear, hoping it was Patrick. No – it was a text from Joshua.

The hard simplicity of it smashed into me like a body blow. Max was right there for me in that moment, his face a living haunting. I hoped this wouldn’t spell the end of him getting the
help he needed.

‘No!’ shouted Lysette. ‘I’m not falling for this, any more. It’s not just those awful quotes. You told her about the funeral . . .’

‘Of course I didn’t . . .’

‘You went and bitched to her about . . . about you moving out and then you went running off to cosy up to Jim. Who is married by the way – at least that’s
something she got right.’

You sanctimonious bitch. I had the self-preservation not to say it.

‘We were both worried about you,’ I said. ‘And she only knew you’d thrown me out because of something she heard me say to Joshua.’

Lysette kept getting angrier. ‘I didn’t throw you out. And I can’t believe you went round broadcasting that I did.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘You must’ve told her about the quiz night . . .’

‘Hang on, why
must
I have told her about the quiz night? Of course I didn’t. Plenty of people know far more about that than me. April’s been here for
days, making nice with everyone she can find.’

‘Yeah, and people who are actually from here have had the good sense to ignore her.’ She had a point. ‘Kimberley’s furious about it. That bit about her being shaken and
distressed – it’s so humiliating for her.’

I heard it then, the puppeteer accidentally clearing his throat from behind the scenes.
Shaken and distressed
– that phrase was pure Kimberley. A perfect snapshot
of her version of events, all of which added weight to the case against Peter.

The words spewed before I had the calm to yank them back in. ‘What if Kimberley talked to her?’

Lysette gave an angry snort. ‘You’re fucking unbelievable. Why have you got this weird vendetta against her? That’s completely ridiculous.’

It wasn’t, it really wasn’t. Suddenly it was starting to come together in my mind: her endless sly remarks about Sarah, the rage she couldn’t quite suppress. Could she even
have killed her? No – murder was a step too far, surely?

‘You said yourself you didn’t believe what she’d said about Peter after the quiz night. When Sarah died, you were adamant he hadn’t done it.’ She paused a second,
caught by what I’d said, but she’d gone too far to turn back. I thought about how it must have felt reading that damning clutch of words –
partying mum of
three
. ‘Lys, this is us. You know I’d never do anything to hurt you.’

The calm that she affected made me crumble to dust. ‘I don’t know how you can say that on a day like today. I wish you’d never come here. Stop talking to people, go back to
London and leave me alone. I mean it, Mia, I don’t want to hear from you again.’

‘Lysette, please!’ It was more a sob than a coherent utterance. ‘I promise you I barely spoke to her. You’re my best friend, you know that.’ I couldn’t help
but look at her: the laughing picture of Sarah plastered across the front of the paper. I said it again. ‘You’re my best friend.’ My phone had been consistently beeping with
competing calls, and now, as I waited in hope for her response, I could see how many there were from Lawrence Krall. ‘We need to keep looking out for each other.’