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“Oh? When did he tell you that?” I ask innocently, watching her face. “It’s just, he hasn’t really said much about you, or your parents,” I go on in a rush. “I didn’t realize you were so close. Has he… has he said a lot about me, then?”
“Oh, sure. Sure,” Rose says vaguely. “Never stops talking about you. You know Jack; can’t shut him up once he gets started!”
I frown. Idoknow Jack — or, at least, IthoughtI did. The man she’s describing, though, doesn’t sound anything like him at all. Jack is quiet — awkward, even, until you get to know him. And sure, he can pass himself off pretty well; years of practice have given him a veneer of confidence that would easily trick you into thinking he was totally at his ease. But I know him better than that. And either Rosedoesn’t, or she knows a side of him that I don’t.
I’m not quite sure which of those options I prefer.
“I think I will get a drink, actually,” she says, pulling a matching Hermes wallet out of her bag. “Do you want anything?”
I ask for a coffee, and pick up my phone while I wait, going back to the chat thread with the ‘Don’t trust Jack’ messages and scrolling through them yet again. There’s half a dozen messages from me, all saying things like “Who is this?” and “Why are you contacting me?” but still only two from the anonymous sender. I sigh heavily as I put the phone back down on the table beside Rose’s, in its designer-clad case.
Rose’s phone.
She was on it a lot last night, wasn’t she? I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but what if—?
I reach out to pick it up, then snatch my hand back before I can touch it.
No. I can’t snoop through her phone. I just can’t. But all the same…
The message about Jack not having introduced me to his family arrived just after Rose did, and not long after Frankie had asked something similar; which is what had made me briefly suspect her and McTavish, who’d been part of the same conversation. But I know Rose had her phone out yesterday; there were times when she barely looked up from it, in fact.
What if it was her? What ifshesent that message?
It would have been easy enough for her to do it, I suppose. I was distracted by the messages flying between Frankie and McTavish, and not always paying attention to the conversation between Rose and Jack.
What if she did it, to try to break us up?
But why would shewantto?
“What is it you do again, Rose?” I ask as she returns to the table, carrying two huge mugs of The Wildcat’s famous coffee. “I know you’re just starting out as a wedding planner, obviously, but before that, I mean? I know how expensive it is living in London!”
I give a tinkly laugh which almost perfectly mimics Rose’s own, and silently congratulate myself on my cunning.
Scarlett Scott would be proud of my investigative skills, for sure.
“Oh, you know, this and that,” Rose says, pulling the notebook towards her again. “Parties, mostly. Never a dull moment, and all that!”
She smiles, as if this non-answer will make complete sense to me, and I feel my paranoia go up a notch.
How did she afford that bag and wallet — and the hair, and the makeup, and the general air of wealth she carries around with her — if all she does is party?
I think of the casual way she asked Jack to open some champagne yesterday afternoon.
Has he been sending her money? Is that how she gets by? And shouldn’t I know that, if so, given that I’m about to marry him?
I look down at my phone, the screen cracked from where I dropped it on the cobbled high street last month, the case smeared with ketchup which must have come from McTavish’s chips.
Jack offered to replace the phone when he saw it was broken, but I wouldn’t let him. I hate spending his money. I even feel bad about living in his house —ourhouse — when I know I can’t contribute towards it. Jack always says that working at The 39ismy contribution, but given that The 39 is his business, and it already had a perfectly good manager when I started, it’s not really much of a contribution, is it? Now I really think about it, it feels a lot like charity. And now I know — or suspect — that he’s bankrolling his sister, too, I suddenly can’t go on like this one moment longer. I have to talk to Jack; and I have to do itnow.
“Actually, Rose,” I have to get back to the house,” I lie, standing up. “I’ve, er, just remembered something. Can we do this later, do you think?”
“Noooo,” she cries, jumping up and trying to make me sit back down. “But you can’t! We’ve just started!”
She looks at her watch (A Cartier Tank, naturally.) “We’ve got ages yet,” she insists. “Come on, sit back down! We can have some of that deep fried stuff you Scots love so much.” I really want to point out here that while she might not sound it, Rose is Scottish too, but something else she said is niggling at me.
“We’ve got ages before what?” I ask, trying not to sound as paranoid as I’m starting to feel. “Is something going on?”
“No, why would you say that?” she asks, so guilelessly that I start to doubt myself again.
