Am I Guilty Read online

  ‘You’ve got a good eye, you know.’ I turned to Flora and she looked at me and grinned.

  ‘Thanks, Annabelle! I’m not much of a photographer myself, but it does look like a garden from a wedding magazine, doesn’t it? I can just picture Elaine out there, all slinky in her dress, the sun shining, the roses in bloom … it’s going to be fabulous, isn’t it?’

  Her green eyes shone, and her enthusiasm was infectious. My first thoughts when planning an event like this, which would rely so heavily on good weather, were anxious ones about rain and wind, flyaway marquees and soggy food. But Flora was definitely better at looking on the bright side, and although I still needed to have a wet weather contingency plan, I suddenly felt inspired.

  ‘It is,’ I said. ‘Maybe we could drape that archway halfway down the garden with some little fairy lights, and do a few more photos out there later on, when it gets dark? And … random thing to say, and tell me if you think I’m bonkers … what do you think about trying to use that horse? The one we saw as we drove in?’

  ‘Oooh yes!’ Flora squealed, clapping her hands, and I could see that she’d immediately understood my idea. ‘We could make a flower garland for its neck. It would look wonderful! I wonder if it’s tame enough though?’ She wrinkled up her small nose, pondering.

  ‘Hmm, yes, maybe we should check that out before we suggest it to Elaine – could go horribly wrong otherwise!’

  We both laughed. We’d spotted a white horse in the field adjoining Elaine’s garden as we drove in, the animal almost fairy tale in appearance with a long flowing mane and graceful swishing tail, and a haughty, regal stare. I wasn’t sure who owned it, but if they were willing, and the horse was a well-behaved one …

  ‘Oh, Flora, I almost forgot.’ I turned from the window as something else from my never-ending to-do list suddenly came to mind. She turned too, grabbing her own notepad and pen from the windowsill.

  ‘Yes? Shoot.’

  I flicked through my notes.

  ‘Here it is. Isla Laird’s been in touch. You know her, don’t you? Oh, of course you do, she’s a friend of Thea’s, isn’t she? She’s a producer on that late-night chat show, Yak Yak Yak? Anyway, Ailsa Levi is appearing on the show in a couple of weeks’ time, and as we’re doing her book launch on Friday Isla was wondering if we could get a bit of footage for her to use on the show – you know, Ailsa signing books and that sort of stuff? She said the show will pay for it – we just need to sort someone who can shoot broadcast-quality video as well as the stills photographer we’ve already booked. Can you organize that?’

  ‘Sure, no problem.’

  Flora nodded, scribbling away in her book. I watched her for a moment. Was it my imagination, or had she suddenly turned a little pale?

  ‘Are you OK, Flora?’ I asked hesitantly.

  She looked up, a slightly haunted expression in her eyes, then smiled.

  ‘Fine! I’ll get onto that this afternoon. Oh look, it’s stopped raining. Do you want to make a run for it now, zoom down and have a peek at the secret garden while the going’s good?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Great idea. We can roughly measure the lawn too, see how big we can go with the marquee. She wants a dancefloor as well as dining space. Should be fine, but let’s just check.’

  As I followed Flora out through the hallway and down into the kitchen to the back door, I mentally kicked myself. I should have dealt with Isla Laird myself, damn and blast it. Why had I passed the job on to Flora? She’d definitely looked a little shaken there for a moment. I should have thought, should have realized that as one of Thea’s best friends, Isla was very much a part of what had happened, and that being forced to deal with her now was bound to be very difficult for poor Flora. That had been thoughtless of me.

  I knew Isla myself a bit, too, of course – as a showbiz type, who flitted between London and Gloucestershire, she often attended events I’d organized, launches and celebrations and parties thrown by writers, actors, local celebrities. She’d even been to a do at my own house once, a couple of years back, I remembered now – probably the garden party I’d held to mark three years of Big Day Event Planning.

  She was quite loud, the sort of person who some would describe as ‘fun’, I suppose. A bit over the top for me, and I’d sensed that Rupert – he and Thea had been at the same party – found her slightly irritating too. But, by all accounts, she’d stuck by Thea, after what had happened, and that had to be admired, I supposed. I was pretty sure I couldn’t have done it. My chest tightened slightly, as it always did when I thought about Thea, and what she’d done, but I swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts away, pulled on my wellies and followed Flora out into the damp garden.

  6

  THEA

  ‘What time is Daddy coming, Mummy?’

  I looked up from my laptop – I’d just been ordering some stunning little brocade jackets from a designer in Iran, which I intended to team on the website with a recently arrived selection of embroidered dresses from Moscow, a modern twist on the traditional sarafan style – and glanced at my watch.

  ‘He said he’d be here about five thirty, darling. So any minute now.’

  It was Wednesday, one of Rupert’s nights to have Nell. The days varied every week, depending on his work schedule – Rupert worked in field support for an IT company, and often had to travel to repair or install systems – but we aimed for Wednesdays if we could, hoping a regular routine would be better for our daughter. He had her every weekend too, picking her up from school each Friday and returning her on Monday evening, so he had four nights a week with her and I got three. It didn’t sound like a lot, but it was more than I deserved, way more, and I was deeply grateful for it.

  ‘Have you got everything? Did you remember your PE gear for school tomorrow as well as your other stuff?’

  I got slowly up from the table, trying not to jar my throbbing head. I’d fallen off the wagon again the night before, despite my good intentions for the week, opening a bottle of red, and then another, waking stiff and cold on the sofa at 2 a.m. before dragging myself to bed to toss and turn restlessly until dawn. The nausea had eased now but the headache remained, a dull pounding in my skull. Trying to act normally, I crossed the room to check Nell’s overnight bag, rummaging through it. She had a spare toothbrush, other toiletries, books and toys at Rupert’s place, so it was really only clothes and school things she needed to bring, and she seemed to have everything she needed. Plenty of packing practice by now, I supposed.

  ‘All present and correct by the look of it, well done!’

  I kept my voice bright, but I was already missing her, already dreading the quiet when the front door closed behind her and she was gone from me for another twenty-four hours.

  ‘Of course, what do you expect?’ she replied, with a cheeky grin. She was in a good mood today, and I smiled back and reached out a hand to stroke her dark curls.

  ‘Oi, stop it, mum! I’ve just brushed it!’

  She batted my hand away, then squealed as the doorbell rang.

  ‘Daddy! I’ll get it!’

  She turned and ran out into the hallway. Moments later Rupert was in the doorway of the dining room, tall and broad-shouldered, his head freshly shaven, a hint of dark stubble at his jawline. He was wearing a dark suit with a pale pink shirt, tie loosened at the neck.

  ‘Thea.’ His voice was cool, polite.

  ‘Hi Rupert.’

  He glanced around the room, eyes resting for a few seconds on Zander’s pram, which was sitting next to the window. He shook his head slightly, then looked down at Nell who was bouncing up and down on her heels.

  ‘Ready to go, sweetheart? Thought we could stop for a takeaway pizza on the way home, eat it in front of the telly, that sound OK?’

  ‘Awesome!’ she said.

  ‘Great. Well, say goodbye to your mum and we’ll be off.’

  Nell launched herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist and tilting her head back for a kiss. I dropped
one onto her forehead then held on tightly, making ‘grrrrr’ noises until she yelled at me to get off her and wriggled free.

  ‘Bye, Mummy! See you tomorrow evening!’

  She skipped out into the hall, and I turned to Rupert.

  ‘You’ll pick her up from school tomorrow, as usual? Or arrange to have her picked up, I should say?’ he said.

  The hint of ice was there in his voice, as always, but I had become immune to it.

  ‘Of course. Oh, and don’t let her forget her PE stuff in the morning. It’s in a separate bag and you know what she’s like.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I know. OK, well, see you Friday then.’

  He turned and left the room, and moments later I heard the front door slam. He hadn’t mentioned Zander, of course. He never did. It had upset me terribly at first, in the early days after he’d left me. Now, I was used to it – his coldness, his lack of emotion. The revulsion in his eyes when he looked at me. My husband, this man who’d been by my side for over a decade, the man I’d married in a beautiful country church on a glorious spring day in Oxfordshire, and thought I’d love and be loved by forever. The man I’d built a home with, a life with, raised children with.

  Our marriage wasn’t perfect – how many were? – but it had been good, great even, for so many years. And … well, he despised me these days, I knew that. I was even getting used to it, knowing it was only what I deserved. I never got used to Nell being away, though, hated the house without her in it at night, and although I tried to settle back down to some work I couldn’t concentrate.

  Restless, I pushed my laptop to one side, wishing it was Friday when Isla would be here, when the house would be filled with her, her loud voice, her gorgeous if ridiculously high shoes, her expensive perfume. And, more importantly, her friendship, her love, her hugs. The lights seemed brighter, my home actually physically warmer, when Isla was around, especially now, in these dark cold days.

  Rupert had never really understood it, the bond between us – ‘obsessive, you two. It’s a bit weird, Thea,’ he’d said once, in the early days – and he’d been right when he complained too, back then, that Isla resented him, that she’d been reluctant for me to get serious about him. She’d cried, actually cried, when he proposed. She didn’t really have many other friends, not in those days, not now really either, if I thought about it. Work colleagues, people she socialized with, had fun with, but not friend friends, nobody she was as close to as me. I’d never really been able to work out why, but I supposed some people were just like that, weren’t they? After all, how many close friends do you need? And although I’d made other friends over the years, many of whom I’d grown really fond of, it was never like it was with Isla. We were Thea and Isla, Isla and Thea. Thila, we’d joked once, at the height of the Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes ‘Tomcat’ thing. It was just the way it was.

  The nausea was back, and realizing I’d barely eaten today I wandered through to the kitchen and opened the fridge, wondering what to cook for dinner. I had some pasta in the cupboard, but nothing to make a sauce with. Deciding the fresh air would do me good, I manoeuvred the pram out into the hallway, pulled on my coat and walked briskly up to Bath Road, past the bank on the corner and the wine bar with the little front courtyard where, even now, in the dark and the chill of the January evening, people were sitting outside, smoking and nursing pints of beer, huddling under the patio heaters that warmed the space.

  At the little Sainsbury’s I headed straight for the aisle where the ready-made sauces were, suddenly lacking the energy to make my own. Arrabbiata or carbonara? My hand wavered in front of the shelf, then I picked up the jar of carbonara and put it in the basket I’d rested on top of the pram. Maybe I’d get another couple of jars for the weekend, make life easy for myself, I thought.

  As I added a four-cheese sauce and a jar of pesto to the basket, a small girl sidled up alongside me, long red plaits swinging. She peered into the pram, clearly keen, as so many children were, to see the baby within, and my breath quickened. I grabbed the handle and tried to move the pram away, but it was too late. Her eager expression faded, replaced by a frown that crinkled her smooth, pale brow, and she looked up at me quizzically for a moment, then ran down to the end of the aisle to where a petite woman, also with red hair and bundled up in a navy puffer jacket, was leaning on her trolley, scanning a list in her hand.

  ‘Mummy! That lady’s got an empty pram. It hasn’t got a baby in it. Why hasn’t it got a baby in it?’ the child hissed.

  The woman glanced down the aisle to where I stood, frozen, then back at her daughter. She shrugged and started to walk away.

  ‘No idea, love. Come on, help me choose some soup for dinner.’

  The little girl stared back curiously at me for a moment, then followed her mother around the corner.

  I stood stock-still, staring into the pram. She was right, of course. It was, as it had been for months, empty. Zander’s blanket was still there, soft and white, still smelling of him, very faintly now, the brightly coloured chain of little teddy bears holding hands still strung across the front of the hood. But yes, the little girl had been absolutely right. I was pushing an empty pram. Pushing an empty pram around like the crazy, sick woman I now was. Because, of course, there was no baby, was there? Not anymore.

  7

  FLORA

  ‘Right. Chairs laid out, wine chilled, glasses polished, food all plated up … what time is it, Flora?’

  Annabelle looked up from the tick-list on her clipboard, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear. I pulled my phone from my pocket and tapped the screen.

  ‘It’s 6.20. Doors will open in ten minutes. We’re fine, Annabelle, don’t worry. I’ve had a peek out the window and there’s already a queue building. Jenny, the manager, is going to nip downstairs in a minute to man the door. Or woman the door, I suppose I should say …’

  I smiled at her and she smiled back, although somewhat distractedly. She was always pretty tense just before an event – probably not the best time for my silly jokes.

  ‘And Ailsa’s just nipped to the loo but then she’s going to stand at the top of the stairs and greet her guests as they come up,’ I continued hurriedly. ‘Then there’ll be forty-five minutes of milling around with wine and nibbles before we start at bang on 7.15. The two waitresses are here and ready to circulate with nibble trays and top up the drinks, and the photographer and cameraman are just over there checking their equipment. All sorted, I think.’

  ‘Brilliant. Thanks, Flora. OK, well I’m going to go and make sure Jenny is all right and just check everything’s looking good downstairs. Back in a mo. Oh – could you just make sure there’s a glass of water for Ailsa on her table? And one for the interviewer?’

  ‘Sure, no problem.’

  She headed for the stairs and vanished, and I crossed the room, manoeuvring between the long rows of chairs, heading for the drinks table. We were on the first floor of Waterstones in Cheltenham, where the stage was now set for Ailsa Levi’s book launch party.

  The glamorous, Gloucestershire-born author had topped the Sunday Times bestseller list with both of her previous gory crime novels, and tonight’s event would launch her third book, a thriller set in 1940’s London.

  We were expecting about a hundred people, and Annabelle had been on edge all week, knowing there’d be extensive coverage of the evening not only in the trade press but also in a number of celebrity magazines – the photographer hired for the evening was providing stills to Hello and Heat, among others. Ailsa, unusually for a crime writer, was also a bit of a party girl and tabloid darling, and the gossip mags loved her.

  I didn’t think Annabelle had anything to worry about though. We’d worked hard on this event, and the place looked fantastic, with piles of Ailsa’s novel artfully arranged on side tables, ready for signing later, and delicious looking canapés and cupcakes decorated with edible, miniature replicas of the new book’s cover ready to be served. Even the two waitresses looked g
reat, dressed in forties-style uniforms of simple black dresses with neat white collars and cuffs, finished with crisp, snowy aprons and little frilly caps.

  There had been a slight blip earlier on – one of the waitresses had called me in a panic at five o’clock, saying that her childcare had let her down and that she would have to pull out of the job unless she could bring her young baby with her. Unwilling to add to Annabelle’s stress by asking her if it would be possible to find somebody else to step in at such short notice, I’d taken a gamble and told the woman to bring the child with her and that we would find a quiet spot to put it in, promising that I’d personally go and check on the baby every ten minutes or so while her mum was working. As I filled two crystal tumblers with mineral water, I wondered where exactly Jenny, the bookshop manager, had hidden the child, whose mum was now poised by the food table, ready to begin serving. I needed to start baby watch, so I put the drinks on the table at the front of the room where Ailsa would soon be interviewed and host a Q and A session for her guests, and did a quick tour of the first floor, peering behind bookcases.

  ‘Seen a baby anywhere, Gerry?’ I grinned at the photographer, who was snapping a few shots of a poster of Ailsa. He was a short, stocky man of about fifty, dressed in a black leather bomber jacket. He nodded and smiled back at me, showing nicotine-stained teeth.