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“So J, how’s your social life?” Beth asks, filling her second glass of wine.
“The usual drought,” I say. For years this has been my allotted role within the group: to provide them with vicarious stories of sexual disasters that make them feel they haven’t completely left all that behind, while simultaneously reassuring them that they’re much better off as they are.
“What about your architect?” Mia says. “Anything come of him?”
“Ooh, I didn’t know about the architect,” Beth says. “Tell.”
“She fancies the man who built this house. Don’t you, J?”
Pete has taken Sam outside. The child is squatting next to the patch of grass, scattering it with tiny fistfuls of gravel. I wonder if it would be spinsterish to ask him to stop. “I haven’t done anything about it, though,” I say.
“Well, don’t hang around,” Beth says. “Grab him before it’s too late.” She stops, horrified at herself. “Shit, I didn’t mean—”
Grief and anguish rip at my heart, but I say calmly, “It’s okay, I know what you meant. Anyway, my biological clock seems to have set itself to snooze for the time being.”
“Sorry anyway. That was unbelievably tactless of me.”
“I wondered if that was him outside,” Mia says. “Your architect, I mean.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“When I got Martha’s penguin from the car just now, there was a man with flowers coming to your front door.”
“What sort of flowers?” I say.
“Lilies. Jane?”
I’m already hurrying to the door. The flower mystery has been nagging at me ever since I found that strange note. As I pull the door open, the bouquet has already been laid on the step and he’s almost back at the road. “Wait!” I call after him. “Wait a moment, will you?”
He turns. He’s about my age, maybe a couple of years older, his dark hair prematurely flecked with gray. His face looks drawn and his gaze is strangely intense. “Yes?”
“Who are you?” I gesture at the bouquet. “Why do you keep bringing me flowers? My name isn’t Emma.”
“The flowers aren’t for you, obviously,” he says disgustedly. “I only keep replacing them because you keep taking them. That’s why I left a note—so you’d finally get it into your thick skull that they’re not there to brighten up your designer kitchen.” He stops. “It’s her birthday tomorrow. That is, it would have been.”
Finally I understand. They’re not a gift, they’re a memorial gesture. Like the ones people leave at the scene of a fatal accident. Mentally I kick myself for being so wrapped up in thinking about Edward Monkford I hadn’t even considered that possibility.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Did she…Was it near here?”
“In that house.” He gestures behind me, at One Folgate Street, and I feel a shiver go down my spine. “She died in there.”
“How?” Realizing that might sound intrusive I add, “I mean, it’s none of my business—”
“It depends who you ask,” he interrupts.
“What do you mean?”
He looks straight at me. His eyes are haggard. “She was murdered. The coroner recorded an open verdict but everyone—even the police—knew she’d been killed. First he poisoned her mind, then he killed her.”
For a moment I wonder if this is all nonsense, if this man is simply deranged. But he seems too sincere, too ordinary for that.
“Who did? Who killed her?”
But he only shakes his head and turns away, back toward his car.
THEN: EMMA
It’s the morning after the party and we’re still asleep when my phone rings. It’s a new phone to replace the one stolen in the burglary and it takes me a while to wake up with the unfamiliar ringtone. My head’s groggy from the night before, but even so I notice how the light in the bedroom comes up in perfect sync with the sound of the phone, the windows gradually shedding their dimness.
Emma Matthews? a female voice says.
Yes? I say, my voice still hoarse from last night.
It’s Sergeant Willan, she goes, your support officer. I’m outside your flat with one of my colleagues. We’ve been ringing the bell. Can we come in?
I’d forgotten to tell the police we were moving. We’re not at that address anymore, I say. We’re in Hendon. One Folgate Street.
Hang on, Sergeant Willan says. She must put the phone against her chest to speak to someone because her voice goes muffled. Then she comes back on.
We’ll be there in twenty minutes, Emma. There’s been an important development in your case.
—
By the time they arrive we’ve cleared away most of the party debris. There are some unfortunate red wine stains on the stone floor we’ll have to deal with later, and One Folgate Street isn’t looking its best, but even so Sergeant Willan seems amazed.
Bit different from your last place, she comments, looking around.
