The Breakdown. B A Paris
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know now he would do anything for me but too much time has passed. How can I admit that I held things back from him? He’d been so open about not being able to have children and I’d repaid his honesty with dishonesty; I’d allowed my own selfish fears to get in the way of the truth. How I’m paying for that now, I think as I lie down on the bed.
I try to relax but images of last night flash through my mind, one after the other, like stills in a film. I see the car ahead of me on the road, I see myself swerving out around it, I see myself turning my head to look at the driver. And then I see the blur of a woman’s face, looking back at me through the window.
*
In the middle of the afternoon, Matthew comes to find me. ‘I think I’ll go to the gym for a couple of hours. Unless you want to go for a walk or something?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say, grateful to have some time on my own. ‘I need to sort through the stuff I brought back from school. If I don’t do it now, I never will.’
He nods. ‘Then we can both have a well-deserved glass of wine when I get back.’
‘Deal,’ I say, accepting his kiss. ‘Have fun.’
I hear the front door slam but, instead of going into the study to sort out my work things, I stay at the kitchen table and let my mind clamber over the thoughts in my head. The house phone rings – it’s Rachel.
‘You’ll never guess what?’ she says breathlessly. ‘You know that young woman who was murdered? Well, it turns out she worked in my company.’
‘Oh, God,’ I mutter.
‘I know, it’s awful, isn’t it? Susie’s in bits. She feels terrible and is cancelling the party – she just can’t bring herself to celebrate when the murder was of someone we knew.’
I feel a slight relief at not having to go out, but also slightly sick that the murdered woman is becoming ever more real.
‘Although I didn’t really know her because she worked in a different division to me…’ Rachel continues, before hesitating a moment. ‘Actually, I feel really bad because when I went into the office from the airport yesterday, I had an argument with someone over a parking space and I think it was her. I was quite verbal – it was the jet-lag talking – and now I wish I’d let it go.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ I say automatically.
‘Susie said the people who worked with her are devastated. Some of them know her husband and, apparently, he’s absolutely distraught – well, he would be, of course. And now he’s been left to bring up two-year-old twins by himself.’
‘Twins?’ The word echoes through my head.
‘Yes, twin girls. It’s such a tragedy.’
I go ice cold. ‘What was her name?’
‘Jane Walters, Susie said.’
The name hits me with the force of a sledgehammer. ‘What? Did you say Jane Walters?’
‘Yes.’
My mind spins. ‘No, it can’t be. It’s not possible.’
‘That’s what Susie said,’ Rachel insists.
‘But… but I had lunch with her.’ I’m so stunned I can hardly speak. ‘I had lunch with her and she was fine. It must be a mistake.’
‘You had lunch with her?’ Rachel sounds puzzled. ‘When? I mean, how did you know her?’
‘I met her at that leaving party you took me to, for that man who worked in your company – Colin. You know, the one you said it was all right for me to tag along to because there’d be so many people nobody would notice that I didn’t work for Finchlakers. I got talking to her at the bar and we swapped phone numbers, and then a few days later, she called me. I told you when you phoned from New York: I said I was going to lunch with her the next day – at least I thought I did.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Rachel says gently, understanding how distressed I am. ‘And even if you did, even if you’d told me her name, I wouldn’t have known who she was. I’m so sorry, Cass, you must feel dreadful.’
‘I was meant to be going round to hers next week,’ I say, realising. ‘To meet her little daughters.’ Tears spring to my eyes.
‘It’s horrible, isn’t it? And awful to think of her killer being out there somewhere. I don’t want to worry you, Cass, but your house must only be a couple of miles from where she was killed and, well, it is a bit isolated, stuck down the end of the road by itself.’
‘Oh,’ I manage, feeling sick. Because in all the turmoil and worry, I hadn’t thought about the killer still being out there. And that we can only get a mobile signal if we’re upstairs, by a window.
‘You don’t have an alarm, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Then promise you’ll lock the door when you’re home by yourself ?’
‘Yes – yes, of course I will,’ I tell her, desperate to get away, to stop talking about the woman who was murdered.
‘Sorry, Rachel, I have to go,’ I add hurriedly. ‘Matthew’s calling me.’
I slam the phone down and burst into tears. I don’t want to believe what Rachel just told me, I don’t want to believe that the young woman who was murdered in her car was Jane, my new friend, who would, I felt, have become a great friend. We had met by chance, at the party I had gone to by chance, as if we’d been destined to meet. Still sobbing, as clear as if it’s happening before my eyes, I see her edging towards the bar at Bedales.
*
‘Excuse me, are you waiting to be served?’ she asked, smiling at me.
‘No, don’t worry, I’m waiting for my husband to pick me up.’ I moved aside a little to make room for her. ‘You can squeeze in here, if you like.’
‘Thanks. It’s a good job I’m not desperate for a drink,’ she joked, referring to the number of people waiting to be served. ‘I didn’t realise Colin had invited so many people.’ She looked quizzically at me and I noticed how blue her eyes were. ‘I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new to Finchlakers?’
‘I don’t actually work for Finchlakers,’ I admitted guiltily. ‘I came with a friend. I know it’s a private function but she said there’d be so many people, nobody would notice if there was an extra person. My husband’s watching the match with friends tonight and she felt sorry for me being on my own.’
‘She sounds like a good friend.’
‘Yes, Rachel’s great.’
‘Rachel Baretto?’
‘Do you know her?’
‘No, not really.’ She smiled brightly at me. ‘My husband’s watching the match tonight too. And babysitting our two-year-old twins.’
‘How lovely to have twins! What are their names?’
‘Charlotte and Louise, better known as Lottie and Loulou.’ She took her mobile from her pocket and thumbed through photos. ‘Alex – my husband – keeps telling me not to do this, at least not to total strangers, but I can’t help it.’ She held the phone for me to see. ‘Here they are.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ I told her truthfully. ‘They look like two little angels in those white dresses. Which is which?’
‘This one is Lottie and that’s Loulou.’
‘Are they identical? They seem it to