Am I Guilty? Page 4

  ‘Over there. Behind Sci-Fi,’ he said. ‘It’s fine, don’t worry – Mark just popped it out of sight for a minute, don’t want it in the shots. It’s sound asleep, for now … hope it stays that way, eh?’

  ‘Hope so!’

  Mark was the videographer I’d hired for the evening, to get footage for the TV chat show at Isla Laird’s request. Thankfully, I hadn’t needed to speak to her to sort it out – her instructions to Annabelle about what she needed and how to get the footage to her afterwards had been pretty clear, which had been a relief, so all I’d had to do was drop her an email to confirm that all was fine. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Isla or anything – actually, I liked her quite a lot. She was a good laugh, interesting to talk to, and had always been a great friend to Thea, and after a bit of a shaky start, we’d ended up getting on really well. It was just that, at the moment certainly, I really couldn’t face talking to her, or to anyone who reminded me of last year. It was just too recent, too raw …

  ‘Oh God! Oh God!’

  As I peered round the science-fiction bookshelf I gasped, my heart suddenly pounding, my legs wobbly. I grabbed onto a shelf for support and stared at the pram for a moment, then looked away and took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. For goodness’ sake, Flora, get a grip. It was only a pram. And, now that I’d seen it properly, I could see that it wasn’t even the same pram. It looked a bit like Thea’s though. Same make, Silver Cross. It had the same chrome chassis and herringbone fabric, but this one was in a deep berry shade, and Zander’s had been grey. Zander. I leaned forward and peered into the pram, gently pulling the soft fleece blanket back to get a better view. The baby, clearly a little girl in a pink dress with a polka dot collar, was indeed sound asleep, making a tiny snuffling noise with each breath. I tucked the blanket back into place and edged away slowly, back into the brightly lit central area of the bookshop, but suddenly in my head I was back at Thea’s, in her lovely Regency townhouse on Montpellier Terrace.

  She’d started taking the empty pram out about two weeks after Zander died, back in September. I’d been on the phone in the dining room, where we often sat and worked, a gorgeous space with huge windows, Montpellier Gardens just across the road, the sound of children’s shrieks and laughter drifting in through the open window from the park’s play area. I’d just finished checking that a big delivery had been sent out, when I suddenly saw her, wheeling the pram past the door and down the hallway, leaning over it as she walked, talking quietly. I’d dropped the phone, run out into the hall and grabbed her arm.

  ‘Thea! Thea, what are you doing? Where are you going?’

  She’d straightened up and looked at me for a moment, a peculiar expression on her face, the face that was still so beautiful, but so pale today, dark circles like painful bruises under her eyes. Then she dropped her gaze again, back down to the empty pram.

  ‘I’m just going for a walk. To the park. I need some fresh air. I’ve been in this house almost twenty-four hours a day for the past two weeks, Flora, and it’s driving me mad.’

  Her voice was flat and expressionless, her soft Somerset accent barely discernible. She’d begun to move away but I grabbed her again, my hand moving down her arm to cover her hand as it gripped the pram handle.

  ‘I get that but … but why are you taking the pram, Thea? He’s … he’s gone. Zander’s gone, you know that, don’t you? Why … why are you pushing an empty pram?’

  She took a little gasping breath, her eyes fixed on the vacant space under the pram cover.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know, Flora. I know it looks a bit mental but … I just … I just need to feel close to him, and … well … it sort of brings me comfort, I don’t know why. I did it yesterday too, when you were off? Just for a few minutes, down the road and back. It’s something to hold onto, and when I’m walking with the pram I don’t feel … I don’t feel so alone, I suppose.’

  Tears had started to roll down her cheeks. She’d been drinking, I suddenly realized, a whiff of alcohol on her breath, even though it was barely midday. I stared at her for a moment, my heart twisting, unsure what to do, then I reached into my pocket and pulled out a tissue, pushing it into her hand.

  ‘OK. I’m sorry, Thea, I understand. If that’s what you need to do …’

  She nodded, dabbed at her cheeks with the tissue and smiled a small, wobbly smile.

  ‘I’ll see you later. Thanks, Flora, I don’t know how I’d have got through the last couple of weeks without you.’

  And so it had continued. She’d carried on taking that pram, that unbearably sad, empty pram, out with her, time after time. It was as if she’d lost the ability to walk without it, as if it supported her, as if the day she left it at home she would simply crumble. We were all horrified, mortified for her – me, Isla, Rupert, even Nell – but no matter what anyone said, whether we cajoled or shouted or begged, she would simply nod, tell us quietly that yes, she understood, and she knew it was weird and mad, but that she couldn’t stop, she couldn’t leave it at home, she needed that pram, that comfort. She didn’t even stop when somebody put a picture of her with the damn empty thing on Twitter, sneering at her, calling her all sorts of names, and it got retweeted and retweeted and practically went viral …

  ‘Flora! Everything all right?’

  Annabelle had returned from downstairs, waving at me from across the floor. I waved back.

  ‘Fine! Just checking everything’s shipshape!’

  I took a deep breath. It was, wasn’t it? Everything was shipshape. The past was the past. No looking back, I told myself. Onwards. Let’s get this party started.

  8

  THEA

  I opened my eyes and instantly closed them again, wincing as even that tiny movement, just that miniscule eyelid flutter, caused a fresh wave of pain inside my skull. Why the hell was the room so bright? What time was it? My clock was right there on the bedside table, inches from my face. Could I risk it? Oh, for God’s sake, Thea. I opened just one eye this time, squinting to minimize the damage. Twenty past eleven. Eleven in the morning? It must be, yes, and I clearly hadn’t managed to close the curtains when I’d passed out last night, the sun flooding in as if it were June and not January. I winced again as a passing car honked its horn on the road outside, sending a spasm of pain through my head, then moved my right hand slowly under the duvet, running it cautiously down my body. I was wearing a jumper, jeans … and oh, great. Shoes. Yes, definitely trainers, still on my feet.

  My stomach lurched suddenly, and I knew I was going to be sick. Moaning, I pushed the duvet aside and stumbled to the ensuite, the room swaying and swirling around me, and crashed painfully to my knees beside the toilet, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I pushed the lid up and leaned over the bowl.

  When I’d finished, I slumped to the floor, the tiles cool against my burning forehead, traces of vomit still on my cracked lips. Why did I do this to myself? Why? What was the point? Because I hated myself, that’s why. Because I was constantly filled with shame and self-disgust and pain, and alcohol helped to numb it, to sedate me, just for a while. But I’d clearly gone too far, yet again. Did I really think that drinking myself into oblivion would help? I must have yet again last night, mustn’t I? I didn’t even remember what I’d drunk, or what I’d done … and what about Nell? Oh shit, where was Nell?

  I sat up so suddenly that the room started spinning again, my head throbbing violently, black flashes strobing in front of my eyes. I took a few gasping breaths, trying to calm myself, trying to stop the nausea taking a grip again. Then slowly, I remembered. Isla. Isla had been here last night, hadn’t she? And Nell wasn’t here. Yesterday had been Friday, and she was with her father. With him until Monday, after school. With him for two more days. That was assuming that today was still Saturday, and that I hadn’t been so wasted I’d actually lost a whole day …

  I crawled, like a baby, on hands and knees, off the tiles and back onto the soft bedroom carpet, then collapsed again, my eyes shut tig
htly against the burning sunlight. A few minutes later, thirst and self-loathing taking over, I dragged myself up into a standing position and slowly peeled my clothes off, leaving them on the floor where they fell. I could tidy up later, when I felt more human, I thought, my hand still trembling as I reached for the bottle of water that somehow, miraculously, was sitting on my bedside table. I drank the entire thing down, then staggered back to the bathroom and stood under a hot shower for a long time.

  It was nearly twelve thirty by the time I made it downstairs, wearing a clean pair of navy leggings and an oversized, soft blue sweatshirt, my hair still damp. I suddenly felt ravenous, cramming bread into the toaster and cutting chunks from a block of Cheddar I found in the fridge, ramming it into my mouth, the events of last night slowly coming back to me.

  Isla had arrived not long after seven, escaping London for the weekend as she almost always did. She was based there during the week, working as a producer on the Thursday night chat show Yak Yak Yak, the one which interviewed all the most controversial guests – the ex-cons, the kiss and tellers, the unapologetic racists who wanted to close Britain’s doors to immigrants. Isla worked long hours during the week, but once the live show had gone out on Thursday night and the Friday debrief was over, she liked to leave the city for a day or two before the madness started again on Monday. And to see me, of course. We talked on the phone pretty much every day, but it wasn’t the same as being together in the same room.

  We’d met in a backstreet pub in Soho about fifteen years before, not long after I’d left university and moved to London; me, a skinny, quiet country girl from Somerset, trying to make my way in the big city’s fashion industry, her a loud, funny Edinburgh lass, all spiky red hair and dark lipstick, already a runner for a daytime TV show and determined to hustle her way to the top.

  I’d been in the pub with a couple of people from work, and had only started talking to Isla because I’d somehow managed to trip and spill my cider all down her black T-shirt on my way back from the bar. When I, mortified, had offered this now very damp stranger a tissue to clean up the mess, she’d simply laughed, slapped away the hand that was ineffectually dabbing at her, and told me not to worry about it, and just to buy her a drink instead. And then I’d admired her necklace, a chunky gold lizard on a long shimmering chain, and that had been that. We’d ended up chatting for hours, two young women at the beginning of our careers, our London adventure, sharing our hopes and dreams and realizing that despite our very obvious personality differences, we were both so similar, deep down. Not just the lonely only child thing, but our hopes and desires for the future too, both fiercely ambitious, determined to succeed, both wanting many of the same things out of life.

  When Rupert and I had moved to Cheltenham, Isla had come to visit and fallen in love with the place. Three weeks later, she’d rented a cute little bedsit near the hospital, just a few minutes’ walk away from our house.

  ‘My Cotswold retreat!’ she’d announced. And so Isla had remained an important part of my life, to my joy and delight, although Rupert wasn’t quite so keen sometimes. He’d grown to tolerate her, even enjoy her company at times, over the years, despite his initial concerns about our ‘obsessive’ relationship. But … well, Isla was Isla. You either got her, or you didn’t, and Rupert never did, not entirely. For me, though, he put up with her frequent presence, and she in turn gradually thawed towards him too, grudgingly accepting that, for me, my husband was a non-negotiable extra now.

  ‘He’s OK, your Rupert,’ she’d finally admitted, about a year after we got married. Not exactly gushing, but I’d hugged her anyway.

  And so they rubbed along all right, the two of them. Most of the time, anyway. Rupert’s biggest issue with Isla was … well, her perennial singleness, really. She had boyfriends, of course she did, but few of them lasted more than a few dates, many – the frequent married ones – just one-night flings. While I enjoyed living the wild single life vicariously through my friend, Rupert disapproved.

  ‘She’s just so … well, she acts like a twenty-year-old,’ he would say. ‘She leads you astray. She drinks too much, way too much, and so do you, when she’s around. And she hates kids. How can you be friends with someone who hates kids?’

  She didn’t hate kids though, not exactly. She’d been brought up in a tough part of Edinburgh by an abusive, single mother, walked out on by a violent father when she’d been just five years old. And she’d vowed, vowed from a very young age, she’d always told me, that motherhood was not for her. She didn’t have a strong maternal instinct anyway (‘Kids are just so boring, Thea’), but her big fear was, she said, that she might cause another child to be hurt the way she’d been hurt. Not because she herself had any violent tendencies, far from it. But she was scared that she’d pick the wrong man, and that the child would suffer because of that.

  ‘You know me, I always go for the bad boys, Thea. I’d get it wrong, I know I would. It’s not worth the risk. And it’s not for me, anyway, being a mum. I really don’t like them very much, which isn’t exactly ideal. And Christ, I’d be terrible at the whole caring thing. I can barely remember to feed myself most of the time … can you imagine? I can’t even keep a house plant alive.’

  And so her decision had been made. As a result, she wished that, like her, I’d chosen to stay child-free, as she put it, too – she didn’t like how they ‘cramped my style’. The children took up so much of my time, time that I would have normally spent with her, and she definitely hated that, hated that I was often tired and distracted, hated my lack of energy when I was pregnant, and my inability to be spontaneous once I became a mother. She couldn’t just whisk me off for an impromptu drunken night on the town anymore, not after Nell arrived, and she’d been pretty horrified when I’d told her I was pregnant again with Zander.

  ‘Christ, Thea, two? Wasn’t one enough? Are you seriously going to have it?’ she’d said, clearly exasperated. It sounded horribly selfish, when I thought back to it now, the way she behaved, the things she said – it sounded like it was all about her, that my wants and needs and feelings didn’t enter into it at all. But I knew she wasn’t selfish, not really. She was, on the contrary, one of the most generous women I knew, always turning up with gifts for Nell and, later, Zander, even though she didn’t have much interest in them, not really; always there on the end of the phone when I’d had a bad day and needed to talk, always ready to drop everything for me.

  So no, not selfish. She was just … insecure, I supposed. Desperately insecure, despite her brash, confident exterior, and terrified that she was going to lose me, her best friend, her surrogate sister, to these tiny, new, needy humans, despite my constant reassurances that that would never happen.

  And it didn’t. I made sure of that, made sure that, despite Isla’s fears, my children didn’t really affect our friendship at all. We were too strong for that by then anyway, had too much shared history. When she arrived in Cheltenham after her week in London we’d stay in instead of going out, downing bottles of wine and Prosecco or, on sunny Saturdays, taking Nell and later Zander, too, out with us for long boozy lunches in beer gardens and bistros with pretty outdoor seating areas.

  It wasn’t perfect – Isla was sometimes irritated on those days, the days I needed to bring the children with me and, if I was really honest, she basically ignored them most of the time, although I thought she’d warmed to Nell in recent months, just a little, as my daughter had grown and developed into the feisty, intelligent little girl she now was.

  But in general, I supposed that Rupert was right about her attitude to kids, even mine. They just weren’t her thing. It was always OK though, once she’d had a few drinks. A glass of bubbly fixed everything, she always said. Rupert was right about that too, although I hated to admit it – Isla did lead me astray, certainly when it came to alcohol. I didn’t drink much at all when she wasn’t around – not in recent years, not since becoming a mum (although that has rather obviously changed somewhat drastically re
cently) – but when she was, all bets were off. She’d always denied having a drink problem, as such, although I was fairly sure she’d struggle to give it up for any length of time. But if I ever asked her about it, she’d dismiss my concerns with an airy wave.

  ‘I’m Scottish, Thea. Drinking’s in our blood. And when have you ever seen me with a hangover? It’s stress relief, that’s all. Hush. Here, pass me your glass.’

  Oh yes, that girl could drink, and for some reason when she did, I always joined in. The problem was, as she liked to point out, she could down it by the gallon with, seemingly, no major repercussions, whereas I …

  I rubbed my eyes, waiting for the toast to pop up, my head beginning to throb again, and hoped the paracetamol I’d just washed down with half a carton of orange juice would kick in quickly. I’d been able to handle the booze when I was younger, no problem at all, but since having the kids … serious lightweight. I’d often offer to be designated driver or, if Rupert and I were walking to one of our numerous haunts nearby, stick to two or three small glasses of wine.

  Things had changed, though, over the past few months. Everything had changed. I didn’t need Isla to make me drink too much these days. I was quite capable of doing that all by myself.

  The toaster finally spat out its browned offerings, making me jump. I slathered on some butter and layered on the cheese, then turned the grill on, put the toast on a tray underneath it and waited again, listlessly wiping surfaces and stacking empty bottles in the recycling box, my stomach growling. As I put the bottle opener back in its drawer I smiled suddenly as I remembered the conversation Isla and I had had last night as I’d wrangled a stubborn cork out of a crisp Sauvignon Blanc.

  ‘So, next week we’re interviewing the guy who owns that kids’ play park – you know, the one in Leicester where three kids were seriously injured because the equipment was faulty? And he’s blaming the parents for not keeping an eye on their offspring, and it’s sparked a big debate? Thea?’