‘Wow,’ Sergeant Zailer says quietly.
‘Yeah. They’d all promised to report back to her, once I got in touch, which Pelphrey and probably others dutifully did.’
‘Jemma, did you try to kill Marianne in 2012?’
‘What?’ Where the hell did that come from? ‘No. Of course not.’
‘Who do you think did? And who do you think did it this time, if it really wasn’t orchestrated by you?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘I find that quite hard to believe,’ says Sergeant Zailer.
Me too.
‘Until July, when I went to see him in Cambridge – two days after Marianne’s big empty study reveal – I thought it had to be Ollie,’ I say. ‘Despite his alibi, which the police told us at the time was watertight. “The Ollibi” – that’s what Suzanne called it. But … now I don’t think it was him.’
‘How come?’ asks Sergeant Zailer. ‘Did he tell you something that changed your mind?’
I nod. ‘He told me a lot. Trouble was, every single thing he said was cancelled out by something more important that he didn’t say.’
JULY 9, 2023
Well, I’ve spent the two days wondering if I’m brave enough, and it turns out I am. I’ve just given my fake name to Olly’s receptionist, and now I’m sitting in his waiting room in Cambridge, impersonating his newest patient, Jenny Judge. I liked the alliteration when I thought of the alias, and liked even more that the surname doubled as a declaration of intent. I’m here to judge Olly. That’s stage two, though. Stage one is persuading him to tell me the truth.
He works from a tall, rectangular house (I assume it was once a family home) called the Cedarwood Centre – yellow bricks, glossy black-painted door and windows – which sits set back from a busy A-road south of Cambridge city centre, behind a wall that looks much too small for the building that’s behind it.
Olly shares the centre with several other therapists, three of whose doors are visible from where I’m sitting, names and specialisms proudly displayed on brass plaques. There’s an acupuncturist, a homeopath and a cranial osteopath. Olly’s room must be on one of the higher floors. Three little trees in pots stand beside the staircase’s glass banister, as if guarding it. The whole reception area is full of greenery – large ferns, grey-green rubbery stalks, flat leaves likeoversized hands with holes in them – and there’s a sharp gingery-orange smell coming from a reed diffuser on the reception desk.
I wonder if Olly comes down here to greet his clients or if I’ll be sent up to knock on his door when the time comes. If I were a psychotherapist, I’d make the effort for a brand-new patient and come and collect them, escort them upstairs. My guess is that’s what Olly will do too – he was always charming and polite – which means we’ll end up having the ‘Yes, it’s me, I lied about my name’ conversation in front of the receptionist. Shortly after that, I imagine I’ll be asked to leave. There’s a chance I won’t get to see Olly’s therapy room at all.
No. He’d never throw you out, whatever you’d done. He loves you.
I’ve no idea why I’m so sure Olly’s feelings for me haven’t changed after more than a decade of no contact, but I am – and nearly as strong as my certainty is the fear that I’m about to find out I’m wrong.
I’ll love you for as long as I’m alive, Jemm. You know that, don’t you? I’ll never settle for anyone else. I’d rather be alone forever.That’s what he said the last time I saw him, immediately after I made him promise never to contact me again.
I used a fake name today not because I had to but because I wanted to, and my dishonesty doesn’t even begin to settle the score. For more than ten years, Olly has known how completely in the dark I am, and he’s left me there.
I hear footsteps on the stairs and a man appears: jowly, gangly and round-shouldered, eyes red and puffy. There’s a good chance that Olly has spent the last hour making him cry.
Eventually, I’m told to go up. ‘Mr Mayo’s name is on the door – he’s on the second landing.’
I expect my legs to feel wobbly and hollow once I’m on my feet, but instead a surge of energy launches me forward, and I have to stop myself from running, leaping up the steps two at a time.
What if …?
It won’t happen. For a second, I had a vision of Olly and me falling into each other’s arms.
Like I said: won’t happen. I hereby forbid myself to fall into his arms, even if they happen to be outstretched in my direction.
His door is open a little. I knock twice, then push it and walk in. He’s writing something, leaning forward over his desk. Everything feels suddenly magnified, louder, brighter. Oh, my God, he’s still gorgeous: flawless skin, big brown eyes, beautiful glossy dark hair, cheekbones sharp as knife blades. My stomach somersaults. He could easily pass for five years younger than he is, which I’m not sure is true of me and certainly isn’t true of Paddy.
Olly is dressed immaculately too: smart shirt, brilliant best-possible-summer blue, and grey trousers. I want to scream and run at him and hit him and … and …
I’m not going to do any of those things. I might still be in love with him, but I’m also angry and I want answers. And it’s probably not technically possible to be still in love with someone you haven’t seen or spoken to for so long. It’s not that far removed from being in love with someone who doesn’t exist.
Without lifting his eyes from his paperwork, Olly welcomes me and tells me to take a seat.
