‘So Marianne wasn’t trying to persuade you to dump Mayo and throw in your lot with Paddy Stelling at that point?’
‘Paddy hadn’t yet declared himself willing. He was still believing he was too young for a committed relationship, so there was no Ollie/Paddy choice to make until late May 2006. Christmas 2005 we were still in the Golden Age of Marianne letting me choose who I wanted to be with. God knows what changed between then and her weeping hysterically a few yearslater, as if the world would end if Paddy and I got divorced, but something definitely did.’
‘Were you surprised when that happened? The hysterics?’ Simon asked.
‘That’s an understatement. I literally wouldn’t have believed it if it hadn’t been happening in front of my eyes.’
‘Why not?’
‘Disapproval because I’d had a one-night stand? Sure,’ I say. ‘A smug lecture – that’s what I’d have expected, and maybe a “Look, you really need to tell Paddy the truth.” Instead, what I saw was … proper anguish and heartbreak. That’s what it looked like, anyway. Made no sense to me – still doesn’t. Why would Marianne care so much? It was my marriage, not hers. But she cared all right – enough to fund nearly a year of date nights for me and Paddy in a posh London hotel, while she babysat Lottie.’
‘Right. Right.’ Simon sounds as if everything I’m saying is confirmation of what he’s worked out. I’m about to demand to know what that is when he says, ‘Back to alcohol. Do you drink?’
I make a rude face at my phone. ‘I wish you’d tell me what booze has got to do with any of this. Yes, I like getting tipsy now and again, and I like a glass of wine or two with dinner. I definitely put away more units than my GP would recommend. In fact … I lied to her recently when she asked me what my weekly alcohol intake was.’
‘Ha!’
‘What the hell are you sounding so excited about?’ I ask irritably.
‘When was the first time you did that, do you remember? Or … Sorry, scratch that. This recent time, when your doctor was asking you about your drinking – did she ask you any other questions as well? How did alcohol come up?’
‘It was just a routine questionnaire, and no, she didn’t. Simon, what’s going on?’
‘Never mind. I can’t talk now – have to get home, unless I want to spend the night on the M4. Just one more thing: do you like cocktails—’
‘What?’
‘—and if so, do you have a favourite one?’
30
Friday 3 November 2023, 2 a.m.
CHARLIE
Charlie looked up from her book as Simon walked into the lounge. There was a green folder tucked under his arm. He dropped it on the sofa next to her, then snatched the novel she’d been reading from her hand. Noticing her offended expression, he said, ‘You wouldn’t have been up reading in the first place if you hadn’t been waiting for me.’
‘This had better be worth it.’ Charlie opened the file and tipped out its contents into her lap.
‘Read what’s in there. Carefully. I’ll be back in about half an hour.’
‘You’re going out again? Where?’
‘I need some fresh air, get my head straight.’
‘It’s 2 a.m.!’
‘You want me to restrict my actions based on the position of the sun in the sky?’ he said. ‘I’ll walk to the corner of Offin Street, sit on that bench under the tree for a bit.’
‘Didn’t that kind of thing lead to the invention of Buddhism once?’ Charlie muttered as Simon headed back out, and she began to go through the bundle of papers. Mainly, they were diary entries: Jemma Stelling’s. Handwritten ones from 2006and typed, printed ones from between July 7 this year and two weeks ago.Blimey. Here was the murder plan in all its cold, meticulous detail. It made Charlie shiver. And here, a few weeks later, was the new plan to go to the police and lay it all out: the full confession of intent, in a desperate bid to avoid becoming a murderer ‘on my CV as well as in my heart’ was how Jemma had put it.
It wasn’t long before Charlie saw something she knew was wrong. The last in a series of emails between Marianne Upton and Tom Tulloch contained an accusation that Marianne had written the diary file on Jemma Stelling’s laptop. Charlie knew that wasn’t true; Jemma had told her all about the diary she kept on her computer.Unless Marianne had deleted it and written a new one …
She had a question ready for Simon when he returned an hour later: ‘Why would Tulloch leap to the conclusion that Marianne wrote the laptop diary? I mean, yes, the style’s a bit different, but the 2006 one was written seventeen years ago. I hope my writing style’s improved in the past nearly two decades.’
‘Different spelling of Ollie, dates written differently,’ said Simon. ‘Different tense, too. The one from the laptop’s written in that pretentious present tense I can’t stand. Everyone does it these days. It annoys me.’
‘What’s wrong with the present tense?’ said Charlie. ‘It’s where and how we live our lives, so why not write that way?’
