‘And we’re all good?’
‘Yep.’
He kisses me on the crown. ‘See?’ he says. ‘I told you we would be.’
Shouting coming from the hallway takes him back to the children.
I wish I had Brandon’s naivety. He wouldn’t be so carefree if he knew how close we are to slipping into the red. But I want to spare him the truth. It’s my fault I didn’t take out business interruption insurance. If I had, I could make a claim for my two months of recovery. I’m sure a high-street bank would have required me to take one out as a condition of a loan. But mine was organised through blackmail.
So it’s up to me to dig my way out of this hole. I’m not going to fail my family like my parents did me and my siblings when we were moved from pillar to post for unpaid rent or mortgage defaults. I am keeping this roof over our heads come hell or high water. I will find a way.
I reopen the minimised window on my screen and watch the video one more time. I don’t know what to do with it.
But I know it’s going to be the complete opposite of what I should do.
Chapter 69
Anna
It smells of Christmas in here. Two candles are burning behind me, one bay and rosemary and the other cinnamon and orange. Their scents are so strong, they’re cloying in my throat. But I don’t blow them out.
I’m perched by the kitchen window, staring at Margot’s house. Drew is with me. The media interest following her attempted murder has yet to die down. I’ve been a casualty of it too, finding myself at the centre of much unwanted attention. My name was leaked to the press as the person who discovered Margot was trapped in the bonfire. I’ve been doorstepped by journalists and photographers who took photos of me before I could give them a ‘no comment’ then close the front door. They’ve been persistent and have made many attempts since, calling me or pushing notes through the letterbox. Perhaps Margot being discharged will shift this news cycle in the direction of somewhere else tomorrow. Because I can’t move on until it does.
I’ve yet to speak to her and I don’t know what she’s told the police. I made an official statement at the station, and the fact they haven’t come to the house to question me further in the last fourweeks or to arrest Drew suggests they don’t know what she knows. That my brother tried to murder her in one of the most horrific ways imaginable.
I both want to see her and don’t. She must have so many questions, but then, so do I. I’m still unaware of how or when Drew got Margot into that bonfire, but according to a story in theMail Online, her blood tests revealed the presence of a powerful sedative in her system. In fact, the measure was so high that it was a miracle she hadn’t died from an overdose, let alone the fire.
I stop looking at her house and scroll through the news on my iPad. Margot’s life continues to be picked apart, feasted upon, the past rehashed and the future speculated about. The haters are still as vocal as ever, posting bonfire memes with an effigy of Margot superimposed on top like Guy Fawkes. But they’re diminishing. After so many years as an outcast, the court of public sympathy finally appears to be welcoming Margot back with open arms.
Outside, a car catches the corner of my eye.
‘It’s Nicu,’ Drew says before there’s a rush of movement and photographers run down the street, trying to be the first to grab sellable images of Margot. My heart moves up a gear as Nicu opens the rear door like he is her chauffeur. I can just about make her out through the crowd as she exits. She is wearing sunglasses and a headscarf like an old Hollywood idol. I switch my iPad to camera mode, zooming in for a closer look. She pauses and grasps the door as if weak and in need of an object to steady herself.
‘Once again, we’re in the audience ofThe Margot Show,’ says Drew dryly.
Nicu leads her slowly into the house, but before entering, she turns to wave. Then she slips her sunglasses down ever so slightly until her green eyes can be seen, and even though I’m sure I’m imagining it, I feel the weight of her stare. It’s as if she knows I amhiding in here, watching and waiting for her return. I shrink into myself. She turns one last time and the door closes behind her.
‘In a twisted way, she should be thanking me,’ adds Drew. ‘I’ve given her everything she wanted. A second stab at fame and public forgiveness.’
I don’t respond. Even if, for once, I agree with him.
Chapter 70
Margot
I spit another mouthful of dark brown mucus into a paper tissue. It’s disgusting. I’m like a miner with black lung and a sixty-a-day cigarette habit. My specialist told me I should be grateful the majority of debris used for the fire was wood-based. Had there been more plastics or chemicals, it would’ve poisoned me much worse than the smoke did.
A month has passed since I woke up to find myself a modern-day Joan of Arc, and a further three days since I was allowed home. Every couple of hours during the day I’m required to breathe into a spirometer, an ugly plastic tube attached to a cylinder that I put to my mouth. It measures my current lung capacity to see if it’s improving. Next to it on my bedside table are two packets of blackcurrant-flavoured cough sweets. They’re not to tame the constant hacking, but to lubricate my throat. I’ve also been warned to steer clear of anything that might irritate me, such as cold air, so I’ve yet to venture outside into the December chill.
The specialist, a stout woman with a mouth so wide she resembled a sock puppet, also advised one of the quickest routes to recovery was plenty of rest and sleep. Normally, I have the lattermastered. But nowadays, it’s easier said than done. Sometimes when it’s too quiet, I think I can hear the crackling of the flames and feel their heat burning my skin. I can nod off for an hour, perhaps two if I’m lucky, before I wake myself up coughing. And if the night terrors don’t leave me screaming or kicking the duvet like a Moulin Rouge can-can dancer, then I’m sitting upright with a tight chest.
Nicu has been by my side every day.Strictlyproducers have given him as much time off as he needs, but I’ve told him to rejoin in the run-up to the Christmas finale. We need some normality in our lives, if that’s possible.
We’ve communicated more of late than we have in the last five years. I think despite the hurt I’ve caused him, almost losing me has reminded him that he does still actually love me. I wouldn’t say our marriage is back on track, but at least we’re now working on it instead of burying our heads in the sand. The next few months are going to be tough, as much for Nicu as for me, but I have a strong feeling this isn’t the end for us. I’ve promised to be honest with him about everything, and I have been.
Almost.
Because sometimes, full disclosure is too much of a burden to place on another person’s shoulders. There are things he didn’t know that I’ve been forced to tell him, all thanks to a doctor who made assumptions. And Nicu has handled it surprisingly well.
