Too Close For Comfort (29 page)

The black dress was also doll-sized – by now I was convinced her choice of tailored fabric cages was no coincidence – but I squeezed myself into it, enjoying the sound of a stitch
giving up the ghost as my hips snuggled in. I looked at myself in the small square mirror of the medicine cabinet, forced myself to take some deep breaths. I didn’t like what was going on
here. I didn’t like what it had done to Lysette. I would watch Kimberley like a hawk, work out what her agenda was, and hit back where it hurt. I wiped the last traces of my mascara on her
fluffy cream towel and stepped out of the bathroom.

Kimberley and Lysette were on the far side of the vast bedroom by the dressing table, their heads bent in towards each other. They were talking, but their voices were low. Kimberley spun round
slowly to give me the full effect: she was wearing a floor-length black number with a fish tail, delicate blue flowers appliquéd across the shoulders. The deep V of the neckline revealed a
complicated necklace that was either diamanté or diamonds, probably the latter. Strappy, vertiginous heels completed the look – in our knee-length cocktail dresses, we looked like her
ladies in waiting.

‘There you are!’ she said. ‘We were starting to get worried. Do you want to come and do your face? We’re all done.’

I saw Lysette take in the inky smudges around my eyes, which I’d tried so hard to eradicate. She at least had the grace to look sheepish.

‘No make-up artist?’ I said sweetly. ‘We’re slumming it, are we?’

Kimberley came back, quick as a flash.

‘I just thought – it’s a charity event, after all.’

‘The dress looks nice,’ said Lysette, giving my hand a quick squeeze as I crossed to the dressing table.

I could see from the window that the metal gates were slowly parting, a black Mercedes twisting up the curve of the drive.

‘Nigel’s early!’ said Kimberley. ‘I’d better go and get a bit wifely. Chop chop, girls, we don’t have long.’

As soon as she’d swept out, I turned on Lysette.

‘Why did you tell her that?’ I hissed.

‘I’m sorry, OK? It just came out. But you know what, it will be fine.’

‘You don’t know that,’ I said, comforting myself with the thought of the picture Georgie had sent yesterday, her face tired and jubilant all at once, staring down adoringly at
the tiny bundle in her arms. She’d gone through three cycles of treatment before he’d arrived. ‘And anyway, it’s not the point. It’s up to me who I tell. And I would
never have told her.’

‘She really likes you!’

Was she naive or was I paranoid? And which was worse? I sank down on the stool, reached into my make-up bag for my mascara.

‘Did she get on with Sarah?’ I asked casually, running the wand through my lashes.

‘Yeah, on the whole,’ said Lysette, pulling the champagne out of the ice bucket. ‘Do you want a top-up?’

I didn’t really.

‘Go on then,’ I said, and she divided the dregs of the bottle between our two glasses. ‘So how about the quiz night? Was that just a blip?’

‘The truth is, they both went a bit too far,’ said Lysette. I caught her eye in the mirror, saw how stricken she looked. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t go there right now.
I want to tell you . . .’ That haunted look again. ‘If I think too much about Sarah – about her not being here – I won’t have a chance of surviving tonight.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, wrapping my arms tightly around her. Her shoulders started to shake. ‘I’m sorry she’s gone.’

We should have stayed like that. Keeping close would have kept us safe.

It took me and Lysette an impolite amount of time to make it downstairs. First we had to inspect each other’s make-up in forensic detail. Then we roared like dragons in
each other’s faces like our teenage alter-egos to check for bad breath, as much for the ritual as anything else, the wordless reminder of our shared history. Finally we made our way down the
twisting staircase, our high heels sinking treacherously deep into the mossy pile of the taupe carpet.

We walked past the TV room on our way to the kitchen, the scene almost identical to the last time I’d come here. The two junior Farthings were sprawled out in front of the blaring
television, the canned laughter and American accents a jarring contrast to the tranquil beauty surrounding the house. Their parents were, in principle, revelling in it. They were sitting on the
patio outside the kitchen, cool drinks set out in front of them, neither of them feeling the need to speak. As I looked at the tableau I couldn’t help thinking that it spoke of something more
complicated than deep marital intimacy.

Nigel sprang to his feet as soon as he noticed us. He was already in his dinner jacket, bow tie impeccably knotted. His black shoes shone like autumn conkers, his dress shirt was as white as a
fresh dusting of snow. He gave a broad smile that seemed to welcome us not just to his home, but to something bigger, something more fundamental. His kingdom, perhaps.

‘Don’t you both look lovely?’ he said. ‘Thank you so much for joining us tonight – we’re honoured to have you along for the ride. Let me organise you some
drinks whilst we wait for the car.’

Nigel’s voice made him sound as if he’d been catapulted directly from the 1940s. Cut glass didn’t begin to cover it.

‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I think I’ll just have a sparkling water.’

‘My tipple of choice,’ he said, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Let’s live a little and ask Lori to add a slice of lime. And you?’ he asked, turning his attention to
Lysette.

His gaze was like a laser beam: you could almost feel its heat as it moved.

‘She’ll go bubbles, won’t you?’ said Kimberley, waving her flute like a baby with a rattle. ‘I need somebody to keep me company.’

Lori had silently appeared, her large, dark eyes tracking us.

‘Oh, poor you,’ said Nigel lightly. Their eyes met for a second, neither of them smiling.

‘I’ll get drinks,’ said Lori, into the silence.

‘That would be very kind,’ said Nigel, his smile locking back into place.

*

Nigel held open the door of the large black car that had come to collect us, sweeping down into a mock bow as we lined up. Kimberley smiled haughtily, pulling her gauzy wrap
around her bony shoulders as she climbed in. Watching her made me realise that I’d forgotten my trusty trench. I apologised, dashed across the crunchy gravel as agilely as heels allowed, and
slipped back through the door. I’d have to ask Lori to dig it out of the coat cupboard.

‘Lori?’ I called.

‘You’re not my mum!’

The words hit me at top volume. I poked my head round the door of the TV room. The younger boy – Lucas, if memory served – was holding an enormous remote control, red in the face
with rage.

‘You must calm down,’ said Lori, a helpless look in her eyes. ‘Is time for homework.’ His brother was coolly observing them, a certain relish in his cornflower-blue
eyes.

‘You’re just my servant,’ spat Lucas. ‘You’re my slave, like in Roman times.’

‘Slave!’ shouted the older boy. ‘Slave, slave, slave.’

‘Don’t you dare speak to Lori like that,’ I said, not stopping to think. ‘Do you want me to go and get Kimberley?’ I asked her.

‘No. No, no,’ she said, looking even more distressed. ‘What you need?’

‘I just came back for my coat. Please don’t worry though . . .’

‘I get for you,’ she said, visibly relieved to have found a face-saving exit strategy.

I stole a last look at them both – they were swaddled in logo-covered leisure wear, top of the range technology and calorific snacks strewn around them. I tried not to find them
despicable. They were boys not men, after all, moulded and shaped by their environment. None of my wise inner monologue was working – they were a pair of little shits.

I followed Lori to the coat cupboard, risked putting a hand on her shaking arm.

‘I should have got for you the first time,’ she said, her face turned away from me.

I withdrew my hand. ‘No, I should have remembered.’ She pulled out my coat, turned to hand it to me. ‘You sure you don’t want me to get their mum? You shouldn’t
have to put up with that kind of behaviour.’

She paused, gave a pained attempt at a smile.

‘No, no. I need this job. I was knowing it would be,’ she screwed up her face as if she’d smelt something utterly disgusting, ‘not so nice before I came. The money is
nice though.’

‘How did you know? Did Susan tell you?’

She nodded, something like fear in her eyes. She turned back, firmly closing the doors of the cupboard.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Please, though, please don’t tell Mr and Mrs Farthing. I work it out.’

‘No, thank
you,
’ I said, slipping the coat on. ‘If you ever need to talk to someone – even when I’m gone, there’s my friend Lysette.
She’s a good egg. She’d speak to them for you.’

If she’d devoted a week to working it out, it’s unlikely she’d have been able to translate ‘good egg’ into Romanian. Her face was shutting down again, a trace of
regret that she’d revealed herself to me. Or was it the mention of Susan – elusive, mysterious Susan – that had made her back away?

I smiled a goodbye, and zigzagged my way back across the perilous gravel towards the purring black sedan. Even their car was unjustifiably pleased with itself.

*

The journey was hell. Every fibre of my being wanted to blurt out what I’d witnessed, but I’d made Lori a promise. Meanwhile, Nigel – who was sitting opposite
us on a flip-down seat – was on a charm offensive. How did you train to do my job? Did I enjoy it? Did I think that criminality came down to nature or nurture? He listened to each of my
answers intently, as if they were so wise that he ought to be carving them onto stone tablets for posterity. If my blood hadn’t been pulsing so fiercely through my veins, it would have been
hard to avoid being ground down by his silken flattery. It felt so natural, so meant. I could see why he glided down the corridors of power with the lightest of treads. The other two barely spoke
for the entire length of the journey, Kimberley’s face moulded into a mask of cold boredom.

‘Thank you so much for indulging me,’ said Nigel, as the car drew up outside a beautiful, Gothic-looking building which was part of one of the Cambridge colleges. It was floodlit,
with a short red carpet, a couple of liveried officials taking tickets. ‘We must talk again. I’m sure you’d have real insight into some of the problems we face with young
offenders and gang culture.’

Kimberley’s blue eyes rolled, almost imperceptibly. I felt my jaw clench, the memory of those two little boys – a two-man gang all of their own – fresh in my mind.

‘I don’t know that I would . . .’ I paused a second. ‘For what it’s worth,’ I said carefully, ‘I do think it tends to be more about nurture than nature.
A lot of those children need more support than they’re getting.’

Kimberley stiffened, the air churning between us. Did she sense there was more to my words than a pointed comment about social inequality?

‘But your job requires you to think that, doesn’t it?’ she said coolly. ‘If it’s all down to nature you might as well just pack up and go home.’

Lysette loyally jumped in.

‘Mia’s brilliant at her job. All her patients love her, and she unlocked a whole criminal case a couple of . . .’

She trailed off. Her words were solely for my benefit now. Nigel had climbed out, and Kimberley was following, face arranged perfectly for the flashbulbs that were erupting all around her. They
stood and posed, his hand resting on the small of her back, their smiles never wavering. Kimberley turned her head towards him, rested it against his shoulder. More flashbulbs popped. Lysette and I
hung back in the car, peeking round the door like a couple of urchins.

‘They ain’t seen nothing yet,’ said Lysette, gamely placing her scuffed black heel on the ground. We clambered out, me trying to retain a modicum of elegance and not flash my
knickers. I needn’t have worried: the photographers briefly scoped us out, then waited for juicier prey. But then, as I walked up the red carpet, one of them grabbed my arm.

‘You’re the shrink, aren’t you? You’re working on the Sarah Bryant killing?’

It was the guy who’d been in the pub with April that first lunchtime. I looked away, refused to reply, but he was snapping photos by now, his huge camera jammed in my face.

‘I can’t do this!’ gasped Lysette, rushing towards the doorway. He fired off a couple of rounds at her retreating back.

‘Have some respect,’ I hissed, hurrying after her.

Lysette was at the entrance with the Farthings, her distress written all over her face. Kimberley had an arm around her shoulders, was leaning into her, her body blocking me from getting too
close.

‘This is the last of our party,’ said Nigel, politely down-playing Lysette’s upset, and they waved us through.

We emerged into a large atrium, ancient and beautiful, the last of the evening sun glinting through the mullioned glass windows. Kimberley had pulled Lysette up ahead, Nigel and I drawing up at
the rear. The room was packed with a smartly dressed crowd – they were sipping something with bubbles and sneaking looks at the Farthings. Nigel immediately began to move around the room,
seeking people out, not even affording me a backward glance: he was like a bumble bee hell-bent on maximum pollination. It worked: people visibly blossomed in his presence, faces wreathed in smiles
as soon as he approached. I watched him a second, his strong hand shooting out to shake hands with a curly-haired, portly man in a dinner jacket who also looked like he could have wandered in from
another era. All of the people here exuded certainty and privilege, the two aspects inextricably locked. Nigel didn’t allow his smile to fade, although it never quite reached his eyes. Who
was it who dwelled underneath that shiny veneer?

I cast around for Lysette. She and Kimberley were doubling back, crossing the room with purpose. ‘I need a minute,’ she hissed, hurrying past me towards the loos. I hated the feeling
it gave me, the sense I wasn’t in their posse. Even if I didn’t want to be, I wanted to be the one to make the choice. Why had I come here anyway? I grabbed a glass of Prosecco –
no, as it hit the back of my throat I instantly knew it was champagne – and scoped out the room. Helena was arriving, her husband just behind her. The relief of seeing her was quickly offset
by doom: Jim wasn’t far behind, louchely handsome, his wife tightly gripping his hand. They hadn’t seen me, which gave me a momentary advantage.