Rufus jumps up to show him out and I immediately go back to my laptop. Maybe I should try searching Marielle again. I’m not convinced I’ll turn up anything as I couldn’t find any social-media accounts for her when I looked before, but it’s worth another try and I don’t have anything better to do right now.
I type in ‘Marielle Morgan’ and ‘university lecturer London’ and nothing comes up. There are a few Professor Morgans, each with an accompanying photo, but no matches to Marielle. I try again, this time typing just Marielle Morgan. Again, a few come up, scattered around the world, but none of them is her. I know she’s retired but I’m surprised I can’t find which university she worked for. There is no trace of her. I try again, this time adding ‘Marielle and Henry Morgan’ to the search. After scrolling down a few pages I spot an oldTimeswedding announcement from April 1988. My heart thumps with excitement as I click on the link. It’s attached to a main piece about property tycoon Lawrence Bishop-Smith, who, according to the article, was Marielle’s father and died about five years ago at the age of ninety-five after suffering with Alzheimer’s for a long time. I’m more interested in thewedding announcement so I click on the photograph of Marielle and Henry, with the original write-up underneath. It mentions the ‘very sudden’ death of her stepmother, Violet. The photo is in black and white, stylish and shot in a studio. They’re seated, both wearing formal clothes, Marielle’s hand (with the large diamond on her finger) rests on top of Henry’s, and I’m taken aback by how young they look, like two film stars from the 1950s. The piece gives little away so, instead, I decide to search for Violet Bishop-Smith. After a while I find a small newspaper article dated October 1987, which I read with interest.
SOCIALITE’S SUDDEN DEATH RULED TO BE ACCIDENTAL DROWNING
THE SHOCKING DEATHof the socialite wife of a wealthy property tycoon was today ruled as accidental drowning, an inquest heard.
Violet Bishop-Smith, 46, was found unconscious in the bathtub of her luxury home that she shared in north London with her husband, Lawrence Bishop-Smith, 64, and their daughter Savannah, 17. Toxicology reports showed a cocktail of barbiturates in her system and prescription Valium was found in her bathroom cabinet.
Mrs Bishop-Smith was found unresponsive by her stepdaughter, Marielle, 29, at around 2 p.m. on 30 August. Miss Bishop-Smith told the inquest, ‘My stepmother had been ill for a while and she usually had at least one maid in the house with her. I called Violet’s name but there was no answer, so I went to her bedroom and was surprised when she wasn’t in her bed.I knocked on her en-suite bathroom door and, thankfully, it wasn’t locked. That’s when I found her.’
Miss Bishop-Smith explained how she tried to revive her stepmother, but to no avail. There was no suicide note and Violet Bishop-Smith had not been diagnosed with depression. As a result, coroner Samantha Payne ruled Violet Bishop-Smith died from accidental drowning.
I read it twice, imagining a young Marielle’s horror at finding her stepmother dead and feel a twinge of pity for her.
‘I’m going to my room!’ Rufus calls, from the hallway, and I hear him charging up the stairs.
‘Okay. I’ll make dinner soon,’ I shout, not sure he’s heard me. I go back to my laptop and, on a whim, I look up her stepsister, Savannah Bishop-Smith. Immediately an osteopath clinic’s website pops up. I click on the link and a photograph of Savannah appears onscreen. She looks to be in her mid-fifties with short blonde hair and the same greeny-grey eyes as Marielle. This must be her: the ages match the article, with Savannah being twelve or so years Marielle’s junior, and it’s an unusual name. I scan the description under her photograph. She’s a trained osteopath and acupuncturist based in Marlborough, and before I’ve had time to think about what I’m doing I’ve clicked on the booking form and made an appointment for tomorrow at 11.30 a.m.
Next I do something I haven’t allowed myself to do for a long time. I bring up Facebook and search for OliverHarvey, Simone’s brother and my ex-boyfriend. I can’t think about Simone without remembering him and how much I’d once loved him. He was the first man to break my heart.
His profile comes up immediately and I click on it, pleased that his settings are lax. My tummy plunges when I see that he’s more handsome than I remember, with still-thick brown hair, although he’s broader, more tanned and rugged than when I knew him as the skinny, pale-faced twenty-two-year-old Cure fan. From his photos and posts, he’s now married with two cute kids and loves surfing and hiking. I scroll through his photos, wondering why there aren’t any of him and Simone. And then I see one, taken about sixteen years ago. They stare blurry-eyed into the camera with their arms around each other and Oliver has a pint in his hand. They look like they’re at a party. Simone is wearing an olive sleeveless dress, a belt cinching in her slim waist. I click on more photos, obsessively scanning each one for the little signs that tell me about Oliver’s life. About Simone’s – even though she’s only in that one photograph.
And then I freeze, my blood draining to my feet, as a photo of Oliver next to a white pick-up truck fills my screen. It’s not Oliver who has caught my attention. Or the truck. But the set of keys he’s holding because, dangling from it, is a little blue knitted bear and, apart from the colour, it’s exactly like the one Phoenix found in the gap in my hedge.
40
The clinic where Savannah works is on the second floor of a Victorian building and I’m out of breath by the time I reach the top. There is no receptionist, just a tiny area with two chairs where, I assume, I’m expected to wait. I can hear voices coming from behind the door with the word ‘Osteopath’ on it. I take a seat and wait, my foot tapping impatiently and my blood pressure rising. Am I doing the right thing? What the hell am I going to say?
Before I can change my mind the door opens and a woman in a clinical white smock top and trousers appears with a middle-aged man. ‘See you in a few weeks’ time,’ she’s saying to him. ‘And don’t forget to do your stretches.’ When he disappears down the stairs she turns to me with a wide smile. She’s very attractive. The short hair in the photograph is now longer and swept up in a claw clip. She looks a lot younger than Marielle and I can’t really see any family resemblance, apart from the eyes.
‘Elena Fletcher?’
I stand up. ‘Yes.’
‘Please come in.’ She ushers me into a small room that smells of incense, with ambient music tinkling away in the background. I’m thankful it’s cool in here, and she guides me to a seat next to her desk while she busies herselfremoving the tissue paper from the white leather bed and spraying it, then comes over to me and sits down. ‘So,’ she says, in her soft, calming voice, ‘what can I do for you?’
I tell her my lower back has been playing up and she takes a few details from me and inputs them into her computer. When I made the appointment I considered lying about my name but then decided to be honest. It’s not like she’s going to tell Marielle I’m a client. Why would that even come up? Then she asks me to take off my dress and lie face down on the bed in my underwear.
She asks me questions while she manipulates my back and tells me my problem is actually between my shoulder-blades and neck. ‘You’re very tense,’ she says, and I want to laugh when I think about everything that’s happened. Not surprised I’m tense. She asks me questions about my family and I find myself telling her about Rufus. ‘I wanted a big family,’ I admit. ‘That’s all I ever really wanted. Lots of kids. A house full of them. It was only ever me and my mum, growing up. But it hasn’t turned out that way. I know in reality it probably wouldn’t have been practical having loads of kids, as my husband is a musician so was always off gigging. Now I’m separated from him and my son will be going off to university next year and I’m at that stage in my life when I’m not sure what happens next. My son, Rufus, wants to do film studies at King’s … He’s so into his films and the house is going to seem so quiet without him. I wish I could just enjoy this time, you know, but I can’t because all I keep thinking about is that he’s going to leave …’ I realize I’m over-sharing and stop talking, biting my lip so hard it draws blood. I’m thankful I’m lying on my front, my facein the hole, looking down at her white trainers so she can’t see my flaming cheeks.
‘I understand,’ she says softly, her hands warm on my back. ‘It’s just me and my son too, although he’s twenty-four now and is living at home after finishing uni. So don’t be too despondent. He’ll be back more often than you think.’ She chuckles. Carefully, she guides me onto my side and I glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes have gone by already and I haven’t even asked her about the Morgans. ‘Do you have family around you?’ she asks, in the same soothing tone. I wonder if she talks that way out of the clinic. ‘Looking after my father took my mind off my son leaving home. He was an older father so needed a lot of care towards the end.’
‘No. My mum doesn’t live near me, but I have a very good friend,’ I say, thinking of Jo. ‘She’s got the perfect family. A husband who adores her, two amazingly gifted, sporty, clever, popular kids. She’s got a proper career, unlike me. She’s like a sister to me. The sister I never had.’ I pause, hoping this prompts her to mention siblings, but she doesn’t.
‘That’s lovely,’ she says instead. ‘Friends are really important.’
‘Do you have … any family near you?’
She moves on to my neck. ‘No. My mother died when I was in my teens. I have a half-sister, but she’s a lot older so we’re not particularly close.’ I try to nod and then realize I can’t because she’s turned me onto my back and is clamping my head between her hands. ‘You’ve a lot of tension through your neck,’ she’s saying, and I try to think of ways to get the conversation back on track.
‘Your son has never been close to any of his cousins?’ I blurt out clumsily, cringing inside. She doesn’t notice my discomfort as she walks around the bed and clasps my ankles, asking me to bend my legs. Then she pushes my heels towards my bottom.
‘He has a cousin on my ex’s side, but she’s a lot younger. And it never worked out for my sister, sadly. What about your son?’
‘I … um, no.’ My mind is swimming. What did she mean about it never working out for Marielle? Was I right when I suspected Marielle of lying about a son and daughter-in-law? ‘Charlie has a brother, but he doesn’t have any children either.’
She straightens my legs gently. ‘Right, well, that’s all done. You can put your clothes back on.’ She sits at her desk while I hop off the bed. As I’m getting dressed she asks about my diet and whether I drink enough water. I answer mechanically, but inwardly I’m reeling with confusion. ‘Do you want to make another appointment?’ she’s asking me, as I get out my purse and try to concentrate on what she’s saying.
