‘I can’t imagine that,’ Margot mumbles. To her shameshe feels her eyes well with tears, thinking of life without Heather. If she gains consciousness she’ll be incarcerated for murder. She’ll lose her either way. No. That’s not true. Because at least in prison they’d see each other weekly, sitting across a table from each other in a sterile visitors’ room. They’d still be able to talk and confide, maybe even laugh. She’d still have her funny, sensitive, beautiful daughter.
Jessica must sense her weakness because she reaches out a hand across the pine kitchen table and touches Margot’s fingers gently. ‘I know Heather wouldn’t have shot those people unless there was a reason,’ she begins. ‘She’s not a cold-blooded killer.’
Margot stiffens. Keith’s angry red face pops into her head, and a ten-year-old Heather, cradling the lamb in her lap knowing she wasn’t allowed to.
Margot blinks and tries to focus on Jessica. She has to clear her mind. ‘Of course she’s not a cold-blooded killer,’ she says instead. ‘I don’t understand what drove her to commit this …this mad act. It’s so out of character. You knew Heather. She’s a gentle soul, kind, loving …’
Jessica bites her lip and nods. But something passes across her face that makes Margot wonder whether she suspects the truth.
8
Jess
I can sense Margot wavering. She’s contemplating confiding in me, I can tell. I don’t want to do or say anything to distract her. I need to lead her carefully now, no wrong moves. I take my hand away and sip my tea. Waiting.
Behind Margot there is a photo on the wall of Heather and Flora, taken around the time I knew them. Their heads are pressed together, their silky dark hair falling over their shoulders and merging so you can’t tell where Heather’s begins and Flora’s ends. They are giving wide, toothy grins. Eyes shining. Young. They are in sharp focus, the background muted greens and browns, but from their short sleeves and tanned arms I can tell it was taken in the summer. My heart contracts and I swallow a lump in my throat as I realize it was taken thatlastsummer. There are others on the mantelpiece behind me that I spotted when I walked in. I long to go over to them, pick them up and examine them. But I can’t.
When I think of Flora, the familiar guilt tugs away at my insides.
I place my cup back on the kitchen table, yellowing and over-varnished but it’s the same table I sat at withHeather. I can tell by the knots and the whorls. There’s one near the edge that looks like a witch’s face. Once, Heather painted eyes on it as a joke. Nothing has changed. Even the roman blinds at the kitchen window are the same, with their green and white tree-print design, faded now in parts. The only difference is there is no longer any dog at our feet. Goldie used to follow us everywhere until she got too old to do much more than sleep. When I first stayed the night I wore a pair of oversized slippers shaped like pigs and Goldie chased me around the kitchen, trying to nip them. She thought they were toys, I suppose. I smile at the memory.
Margot notices. ‘What?’
‘I’m just remembering being here. Before. With Heather. Remember how Goldie used to be obsessed with my slippers. Those pig ones?’
Margot chuckles. The sound lifts me. ‘I’d forgotten that. I miss the dog.’
‘Did you ever get another after she passed away?’
Margot shakes her head. ‘No. Too much had happened by then.’
‘Margot, I –’
I’m interrupted by a tall man striding into the kitchen from the back door, bringing with him fresh air and the faint smell of rain. He’s tall and outdoorsy, with a padded gilet and heavy boots, handsome in a rugged Bear Grylls type of way. In his arms, he has a small boy, who can’t be more than eighteen months old. He has on soft biscuit-coloured corduroy dungarees and is chewing a plastic toy giraffe. By his red cheeks and gnawing I can tell he’s teething. I’ve learned a lot about babies fromRory’s brothers’ kids. He has a mass of dark curls and eyes like Heather’s. I smile at him and he ducks his head behind the man’s shoulder.
Heather’s husband and son.
My heart contracts. They must be going through hell.
Margot stands up. ‘Adam. What are you doing here? I thought you were staying at Gloria’s.’
He scowls. ‘I refuse to let those parasites drive me out of my own home.’ He turns to me, his brow furrowed. ‘Are you one of them?’
I avert my eyes. ‘I … Well, I’m –’
‘She’s a friend of the family,’ interjects Margot, much to my surprise. ‘She was Heather’s best friend at school. This is Jessica Fox. And this is Heather’s husband, Adam.’
‘Heather’s never mentioned you,’ he says, fixing me with his cold, hard stare. It’s like he’s punched me in the stomach. Heather and I were friends for such a short time in the grand scheme of things but our friendship meant something. It was important. Did she not feel the same? Did I hurt her so badly she refused ever to think of me again? She never knew what I did back then. It’s a secret I’ve carried with me all these years. I shake my head to stop my thoughts. What’s happening to me? Being here again, in Margot’s home, in her kitchen with all the memories, is harder than I thought it would be.
Adam turns back to Margot. ‘Ethan wanted his own bed. He’s been crying for his mother.’
Margot looks stricken. She holds out her arms and Ethan wriggles into them. She hugs the little boy to her and he snuggles against her knitted jumper. The change in Margot is immediate. The hard exterior she’s wornwith me dissolves into something soft and maternal as she kisses the top of Ethan’s dark head. It reminds me again of when we were kids. Margot always made time for us, sitting with us around this very table, helping us with our homework, or letting us bake a cake – which usually ended up tasting rank. Once, during a heatwave, she showed us how to make lemonade.
‘The kettle’s just boiled,’ says Margot to Adam, her cheek resting on Ethan’s hair.
Adam goes to the kettle to make himself a coffee. I don’t know what to say so I pick up my cup again, sip my tea and wait. The tension feels too thick and I know it’s down to my presence. What I can’t understand is why. He doesn’t know I’m a journalist yet. Is this what he’s always like? Or is grief making him act this way?
‘Have they all gone?’ Margot asks Adam, as he pulls out a chair next to me. His hands are red and raw as he cups the mug. It’s unusually cold for March, even with all the rain we’ve been having.
