When we break apart she indicates the chair next to her bed. ‘Please, sit down.’ I take a seat, and pull my skirt over my patterned tights primly, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I should have brought her some flowers, or grapes, or a magazine, or something. I bet she wouldhave if I was the one in the hospital bed. Heather was always thoughtful like that.
Margot clears her throat. ‘I’ll go and get us some coffee,’ she says, retreating from the room so that Heather and I are alone.
‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ says Heather, her eyes bright. ‘You’ve hardly changed.’
‘It’s so lovely to see you too,’ I gush, surprised at myself. I never gush. I’m acting like a teenager, not my usual professional self. I have to remember who she is. Why I’m here. Not just as an old friend, but as a reporter. ‘You’ve not changed a bit. But now you’re married. And a mum!’And a murderer.
She smiles shyly and takes the photo frame from her bedside cabinet and presses it into my hands. ‘That’s my little boy, Ethan.’ She points to the man cuddling him. ‘And that’s my husband, Adam.’
For some reason, I don’t tell her I’ve already met them in my capacity as a journalist. Instead I say how beautiful her little boy is.
‘What about you?’ she asks. ‘Married? Children?’
‘I live with my boyfriend, Rory. We were in London but moved to Bristol last year.’
‘And how’s your mum?’
I grimace. ‘She’s still the same, but since she got married and moved to Spain I hardly see her.’ My voice is imbued with a bitterness I always try to hide.
Heather doesn’t say anything but reaches over and squeezes my hand. I realize that this is what it’s like to have an old friend, someone who knew you in childhood, someone who remembers all the hurt, the pain and theanguish you went through as well as the good times. Someone who knew you before you had the chance to put up the barriers and become a different, more cynical person. Heather is the closest thing I ever had to a sister.
‘I’m so sorry we fell out,’ she says now, her eyes dropping to her lap.
‘Me too. It’s one of my biggest regrets,’ I admit.
‘Same. It was so silly. I was angry about Flora. It was such a horrible time. I’ve missed you.’
And there it is, the phantom in the room, floating between us. Flora.
I avert my eyes, looking instead at a board on the wall with photos of Heather and her family pinned to it. ‘I pushed you away because I felt guilty,’ I explain. ‘I saw Flora the morning she disappeared. She was off to meet Dylan. They were going on a day trip to London. I never told anyone.’
She squeezes my hand again. ‘I know. I heard you talking that morning. I pretended to be asleep.’
I stare at her. ‘You knew?’
‘I was jealous, I think, that she was telling you and not me. She was angry with me because of what I did to Dylan.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve only just found out the extent of what you did to Dylan.’
She laughs, too, but looks shamefaced. ‘It was wrong of me to attack him.’
‘No doubt he deserved it.’
‘He was a dick, wasn’t he? I never understood what Flora saw in him. Do you remember how she would play “Martha’s Harbour” over and over again because itreminded her of him? It used to drive us crazy. She was so in love.’ Her smile flickers and dies. ‘I can’t listen to that song now.’
I’d forgotten how much Flora had loved All About Eve. ‘I saw Dylan yesterday. For the first time since … well, since ’ninety-four. He was at Clive Wilson’s house when they thought … they thought …’ I tail off, not knowing what to say. How much has Margot told her?
‘When they thought they’d found Flora’s body?’ she finishes for me.
I nod. ‘But it’s not her.’
She doesn’t say anything in response and I wonder what she’s thinking. Was part of her hoping it was Flora, so that she could finally lay the ghosts of the past to rest? Or is she relieved because it means there is still hope, even after all these years?
‘Did Mum tell you that the police think I killed two people?’ She looks down at her hands. She’s fiddling with her rings.
Part of me wants to laugh because it sounds so absurd. Of all the conversations we’ve ever had, I never thought we’d be having this one at our reunion. ‘Yes. She did.’
She still doesn’t look at me. ‘Mum said you’re a journalist. Are you here for a story?’
