24
Don’t Speak
Too soon it was Sunday, and at 4 p.m. I found myself, wine bottle in hand, ringing the doorbell of Jess’s Clapham flat. Things with Simon had gone pear-shaped, but at least I could try to salvage the Marcie interview. All I had to do was convince Jess to see her, even though for ten years she’d steadfastly refused.
Simple.
Jess answered the door holding a wooden mallet wrapped in plastic. Christ. Had she deduced my true intentions and come to chase me down the street?
I must have looked startled because she pulled me into a hug with her free arm. ‘I was just tenderising the veal. It’s great to see you, Zoë.’
I followed her through the corridor, along a warm current of rosemary and into the kitchen, where all the appliances were German and the worktops granite.
‘Do you want to pop the wine in the fridge, or open it now? I’ve made punch if you prefer.’
She nodded at a ruby-red pitcher. Segments of peeled orange floated on its surface. It seemed like a lot for two people. Come to think of it, there seemed to be a lot of everything: two pans on the hob, a couple in the sink and something in the oven. She either had my mother’s tendency for overfeeding, or she was expecting more people.
Like Simon.
Balls. As if this wasn’t going to be hard enough, I now had to do it pretending I was peachy that Simon and Jess had paired up.
‘Can I help with anything?’ I asked. Normally, I’d hope for a ‘no’, but I felt antsy and a task would give me something to do other than scan the place for evidence of a recent male presence, like a pair of scuffed trainers or a rogue black sock.
The idea of them as a couple made my breath catch. Had he stood in this kitchen in his boxers, making her breakfast in bed...?
Stop it! Concentrate on why you’re here, Zoë.
‘I’m all good, thanks,’ said Jess. ‘I’d hate for you to get your dress dirty. It’s so pretty, and violet is a great colour on you.’
It was brighter than what I usually wore. Girlier, too – sleeveless with a V-neck and a full skirt. Nothing to do with trying to compete with Jess. Nope. She was wearing skinny black jeans, a black tank top and heels. Effortlessly sexy, basically. No jewellery. I’d held out a vague hope that she’d be wearing the seahorse necklace so I could ask her about it naturally.
Oh well. I was sure I could slot it – and Marcie – into the conversation suavely.
I poured myself some punch. ‘You were wearing a really pretty necklace a couple of weeks back.’
‘Which one is that, then?’
‘I think it was a little shell or something.’
She turned her back to me to start chopping parsley. ‘I don’t have a shell necklace.’
I took a breath. ‘I think it might actually have been a seahorse.’
Smooth, Zoë, really smooth.
‘Oh, that old thing.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘It was a present.’
‘Who from?’
Her chopping arm stilled. ‘I don’t remember.’
She was definitely uneasy.
I took a step closer to her. ‘Is that really true?’
