The Breakdown. B A Paris
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‘Oh, good. A glass of South African red, please.’ She turned to me. ‘Can I get you something?’
‘Matthew will be here soon but…’ I hesitated a moment ‘… I’m not driving, so why not? Thank you. I’ll have a glass of dry white.’
‘My name’s Jane, by the way.’
‘I’m Cass. But please don’t feel you have to stay here now that you’ve been served. Your friends are probably waiting for you.’
‘I don’t think they’ll miss me for a few more minutes.’ She raised her glass. ‘Here’s to chance meetings. It’s such a treat to be able to drink tonight. I haven’t been out much since the twins were born and when I do, I don’t drink because I have to drive home. But a friend is dropping me home tonight.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Heston, on the other side of Browbury. Do you know it?’
‘I’ve been to the pub there a couple of times. There’s that lovely little park just across the road from it.’
‘With a wonderful play area for children,’ she agreed, smiling, ‘where I seem to spend quite a lot of my time now. Do you live in Castle Wells?’
‘No, I live in a little hamlet this side of Browbury. Nook’s Corner.’
‘I drive through it sometimes on my way back from Castle Wells, if I take that short cut that goes through the woods. You’re lucky to live there, it’s beautiful.’
‘It is, but our house is a bit more isolated than I’d like. It’s great to be only a few minutes from the motorway though. I teach at the high school in Castle Wells.’
She smiled. ‘You must know John Logan then.’
‘John?’ I laughed in surprise. ‘Yes, I do. Is he a friend of yours?’
‘I used to play tennis with him until a few months ago. Is he still telling jokes?’
‘Never stops.’ My phone, which I’d been holding in my hand, buzzed suddenly, telling me I had a text message. ‘Matthew,’ I told Jane, reading it. ‘The car park’s full so he’s double-parked in the road.’
‘You’d better go then,’ she said.
I quickly finished my wine, then said, truthfully, ‘Well, it was lovely talking to you, and thank you for the wine.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She paused, then went on, her words coming out in a rush. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to have a coffee, or lunch even, some time, would you?’
‘I’d love to!’ I said, genuinely touched. ‘Shall we swap numbers?’
So we took each other’s mobile number and I gave her my home one, too, explaining about the terrible network reception, and she promised to give me a call.
And less than a week later, she did, suggesting lunch the following Saturday, as her husband would be home to look after the twins. I remember being surprised, but pleased, that she’d phoned so soon, and had wondered if she perhaps needed someone to talk to.
We met in a restaurant in Browbury and, as we chatted easily together, it felt as if she was already an old friend. She told me how she had met Alex and I told her about Matthew, and how we were hoping to start a family soon. When I saw him standing outside the restaurant, because he’d arranged to meet me there, I couldn’t believe it was already three o’clock.
‘There’s Matthew,’ I said, nodding towards the window. ‘He must have got here early.’ I looked at my watch and laughed in surprise. ‘No, he’s bang on time. Have we really been here two hours?’
‘We must have been.’ She sounded distracted and when I raised my head I saw that she was staring at Matthew through the window and I couldn’t help feeling a little burst of pride. He’d been told on more than one occasion that he looked like a young Robert Redford and people, especially women, often gave him a second look when they passed him in the street.
‘Shall I go and get him?’ I asked, standing up. ‘I’d like him to meet you.’
‘No, don’t worry, he looks busy.’ I glanced at Matthew; he had his phone out and was tapping away at it, engrossed in writing a text. ‘Some other time. I need to phone Alex, anyway.’
So, I left and, as I walked off hand in hand with Matthew, I turned and waved at Jane through the restaurant window.
*
The memory fades but my tears increase and somewhere inside me I’m aware that I hadn’t shed as many tears when Mum died, because I’d been expecting it. But this news about Jane has shocked me to the core, shocked me so much that it’s a while before everything comes together in my brain and I’m hit by the terrible realisation that it was Jane I saw in the car last night, Jane who had looked back at me through the window as I’d driven past, Jane who I’d left there to be murdered. The horror I feel is matched only by the guilt that presses down on me, suffocating me. I try to calm down, telling myself that if it hadn’t been raining so hard, if I’d been able to make out her features, if I’d known it was her, I would have got out of my car and run back to her through the rain without a second’s hesitation. But what if she had recognised me and was waiting for me to go and help her? The thought is horrendous, but if she had, surely she would have flashed her lights, or got out of her car and come to me? Then another thought hits me, more horrendous than the last: what if the killer had already been there, and she had let me drive away because she wanted to protect me?
*
‘What’s the matter, Cass?’ Matthew asks when he arrives back from the gym and finds me white-faced.
The tears that I can’t manage to still, spill from my eyes. ‘You know that young woman who was murdered? It was Jane.’
‘Jane?’
‘Yes, the girl I met a couple of weeks ago for lunch in Browbury, the one that I met at the party Rachel took me to.’
‘What?’ Matthew looks shocked. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Rachel phoned to tell me it was someone who worked for her company. I asked what her name was and she said Jane Walters. Susie’s cancelling her party because she knew her too.’
‘I’m so sorry, Cass,’ he says, putting his arms around me and holding me tight. ‘I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.’
‘I just can’t believe it’s her. It doesn’t seem possible. Maybe there’s been a mistake, maybe it’s another Jane Walters.’
I sense him hesitate. ‘They’ve released a picture of her,’ he says. ‘I saw it on my phone. I don’t know if…’ His voice trails off.
I shake my head because I don’t want to look, I don’t want to have to face the truth if it is Jane in the photo. But at least I would know.
‘Show me,’ I say, my voice trembling.
Matthew moves his arms from around me and we go upstairs so he can get on the Internet on his phone. While he searches for the latest news update, I close my eyes and pray: Please, God, please, God, don’t let it be Jane.
‘Here.’ Matthew’s voice is low. My heart thumps with dread but I open my eyes and find myself looking at a photo of the murdered woman. Her blonde hair is shorter than when we met for lunch and her eyes seem less blue. But it is definitely Jane.
‘It’s