Something to Hide

  I’ve also been ill. At first it was some sort of bug which laid me low with vomiting and stomach-ache. They ran tests at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases but could find nothing specific. Then I started getting pains in my knees. My eyesight worsened and I had to get stronger glasses. It was as if my body held itself together for Jeremy, its last hurrah, but now he has gone it has succumbed to a coup d’âge. I’ve started to feel truly old.

  And I’ve been missing him so terribly. At best it’s a chronic ache, like arthritis. At worst it’s a howling void. I have to drink myself into a stupor, swallow two diazepam and crawl under the duvet, sobbing with misery and curled in a foetal position.

  During these months a curious change has taken place. I’ve managed to detach my love for him from his crime. Maybe this happens to all gangsters’ molls. I even try to make excuses for what he’s done. He was desperate for money, to bail out his charity. He was just supporting the Kikanda, though he loathed what they were doing. He was caught up in it unwillingly, and was trying to stop it.

  Pathetic, isn’t it? And I’ve been calling Bev self-deluded.

  So now I’m here, in Marlborough, on a blazing August day, joining 150 other people in saying our goodbyes. I’m amazed there are so many of them, considering Jeremy lived abroad for much of his life, but people have flown in from all parts, illustrating the curious fact that folk will only cross the world to celebrate a friend when that friend is no longer there. But Jeremy was a popular guy. Larger than life, I hear somebody murmuring. I’m all but invisible in the crowd that mills around the lobby. After all, I was just his wife’s flatmate, from long ago.

  Bev’s mother is here, an old battleaxe with lung cancer. She was what my parents would have called a charlady and adored Jeremy because he was posh. Jeremy’s mother, on the other hand, despised Bev because she was common; she’s here in a wheelchair, her head lolling, pushed by a stout Filipina and accompanied by Jeremy’s brother, a dessicated solicitor from Fife. He, too, dislikes Bev, though now he’s leaning down to peck her cheek.

  Bev, of course, is the centre of attention. I keep losing sight of her as she’s submerged in hugs. This is her moment and she’s milking it. I know this sounds harsh but there’s an air of unreality about her behaviour. She’s spent the morning in the beauty parlour having her hair and make-up done; she’s also been freshly Botoxed. The result is eerily doll-like and dated, her hair the shiny chestnut bob it used to be in the Pimlico days. But it’s her dress that’s the most startling. It’s a riot of red and orange swirls, with puff sleeves – much too young for her, too Debbie Reynolds.

  Nothing wrong with that, of course, but I’ve been watching her closely. Though she clutches a hanky she doesn’t look bereaved; in fact, quite the opposite. She looks excited – wired – as she raises her face to be kissed. Memorials, of course, can be surprisingly upbeat affairs but there’s something beady and triumphalist in her eye, as if she alone is in possession of a secret that would astonish her guests. I know that look from the past. We were blood-sisters then and we’re blood-sisters again today, because I’m the only one who knows the nature of this secret. I must admit I’m looking forward to her speech. How good an actress is she? Or has she, over the past months, managed to airbrush out her husband’s crime and restore her marriage to its former glory? The marriage of her blogs – themselves, as I’ve discovered, a work of semi-fiction.

  I know I sound sour but I feel physically sick. I expected this event to be painful, but not to feel so excluded. Pathetically, I want to reclaim Jeremy from his own history. Our brief connection is being engulfed by these hordes of unknown people whose relationships with him, in the eyes of the world, seem so much more substantial than what happened between the two of us.

  Suddenly I have a mad urge to punish them. As I watch them filing into the Lilac Room, clutching their service sheets, I imagine pushing my way to the podium and proclaiming I’m Petra Samson, Jeremy’s mistress, the love of his life! Fuck it, I’ll go the whole hog. We’re here to celebrate Jeremy’s life and achievements. I’ll kick things off by celebrating his contribution to the imminent extinction of the African elephant.

  In the crowd, Bev catches my eye. Something flashes between us. Complicity? Fear? Ridiculously, I give her a thumbs-up sign. Why on earth did I do that? People are still arriving. I catch sight of Madeleine, who was in our class at school. Good God, she’s an old woman, leaning on a walking stick! Maybe she’s had a hip replacement. Maybe, looking at me, she’s thinking the same thing. Surely that’s not Petra? That haggard crone, pale as a ghost?

  Jeremy’s favourite song is playing, ‘Let’s Face the Music and Dance’. But he didn’t, did he? He stepped out and closed the door. It’s up to us to carry on living.

  It’s fine to cry. Nobody stares at me; once things get started they’ll all be at it. Fumbling for a Kleenex, I stumble out of the lobby and down a corridor, where a sign points to the Ladies’.

  The place is empty, thank God. I step into a cubicle, bolt the door and sit down on the loo. I don’t think I can face this. When I’ve stopped crying I’ll bail out and drive home. Nobody will miss me.

  The door creaks and somebody comes in. I stop howling and hold my breath. Whoever it is doesn’t enter a cubicle, however. There’s a silence. Maybe they’re standing in front of the mirror, doing their make-up.

  Then I hear Beverley’s voice. For a moment I think she’s talking to me, and then I realize she’s on her mobile.

  ‘Hi, just checking we’re still on for tonight … Great, Pizza Express, eight o’clock … You’ll recognize me from my photo, I’ll be wearing a stripey green dress, what about you? … Wow, I like a man in a biker’s jacket, in fact I used to have a bike, a Honda 125, I used to whizz around in it to auditions … What? No, only small parts, back in my misspent youth.’ She laughs, her voice relaxed and cheerful. ‘What? No, I’m in Birmingham, at a conference, but I’ll be back tonight. See you then … Byeee!’

  There’s a silence. She’s not moving.

  Nor am I.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she asks, her voice casual. She must have noticed the closed door.

  I remain sitting. The blood drains from my face.

  Oh my God. My God. How stupid I’ve been. How very, very stupid.

  ‘Hello?’ she says. She’s not leaving until I open the door. ‘Hello?’

  It all makes sense. Only now do I realize the truth. Six months, it’s taken me; that’s how slow I’ve been. Oh, I’ve always known she was a liar, this phone call doesn’t surprise me.

  It’s the other lie. The big one. The lie about Jeremy.

  It all falls into place. There’s a hideous, sinking inevitability to it. How could I not have seen it, when it was so very obvious? I must have been blind.

  I hear the clack of her high heels on the marble floor. She’s standing close now; I can hear her breathing.

  I get up and open the door.

  ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘It’s you.’

  If she’s uneasy, she’s not showing it. She gives me a big smile and crooks out her elbow, indicating I should slip my arm into hers.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ she asks.

  I don’t move. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘Do what, petal?’

  ‘Kill him.’

  For a moment she doesn’t reply. She looks up at me, head tilted, eyebrows raised. A tap drips, plink-plonk, into the washbasin.

  ‘I killed him?’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I say. ‘Seeing your passion for animals.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, it must have been the most terrible thing – Christ, I practically wanted to kill him myself. But for you, finding out what he did. It must have been the worst crime one can possibly think of.’

  Bev’s eyes widen in astonishment. She bursts out laughing, a high, hysterical laugh. ‘You think it was because of that?’

  ‘Of course. Because of the elephants.’

  Bev’s helpless with la
ughter. She slumps against the washbasin, tears running down her face.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about the elephants!’ she shouts.

  There’s a silence. I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  She looks at me, her head cocked sideways. Her laughter stops as suddenly as it began. Far off, I hear the faint murmur of voices. She wipes her eyes; her mascara has smeared.

  ‘It’s you, dum-dum,’ she says. ‘I killed him because of you.’

  I stare at her.

  She says: ‘Think I was going to let you have him?’

  The door opens and a woman rushes in. It’s Janet, her sister-in-law.

  ‘There you are!’ she says. ‘Come on, darling, they’re all waiting.’

  She grabs Bev’s hand and leads her out. As Bev goes, she glances back at me and raises her eyebrows.

  The Lilac Room is packed. On the screen, photos of Jeremy flicker past in jerky succession, a returning loop. Jeremy in scuba-diving gear, as round and shiny as a seal … Jeremy and his brother Malcolm, tiny tots on a beach … Jeremy and Bev on their wedding day, a slimmer Jeremy in velvet suit and frilled shirt, like a cruise compère.

  Standing at the podium, a sixty-fags-a-day salesman, kippered in the sun, is telling us about his friendship with Jeremy when they were working in Hong Kong. He was a man in a million, God bless, he says. Life and soul of the party, big man, big heart. They broke the mould when they made him. He talks about Jeremy’s love of fast cars and ends on a risqué story about a stag night which is greeted with silence.

  A young woman takes the stage and has problems with the microphone. Her voice booms and then dies to a crackling whine. Apparently she helped with the charity in its early days. He was so kind and generous, she says. He was like a father to me. She talks about his fundraising, how he could charm money out of a stone, and makes a joke about the job-lot of unsuitable books that arrived from Philadelphia Central Library, via some tick-boxing grant, before succumbing to sobs.

  The stories float past me. I’m sitting way behind Bev, who occupies the front row. Her shiny chestnut head is bowed, as if in prayer, as her husband’s warmth and general wonderfulness is shared by a succession of speakers. I’m poleaxed with shock but I can’t begin to think about it now, not with all these people around me. I sit rigid, holding myself together, waiting for Bev to speak.

  She’s the last. Some man jumps up and fiddles with the microphone, yanking it down to her height. She shoots him a flirtatious smile as he returns to his seat; then she turns to us, her face suddenly serious.

  ‘Thank you so much for being here today,’ she says. ‘I know some of you have come a long way, but it means so much to me and Jeremy’s family. We’re still trying to come to terms with our loss.’ Her voice falters. She lowers her eyes for a moment, then takes a breath and looks up. ‘I can’t believe he’s not here – my husband, my soulmate, my lover, my best friend. We were together for thirty-five years and I can honestly say that our love had grown deeper and stronger with every passing day. We made each other laugh, you see. Living with Jem was like one long party.’ She smiles. ‘Plus, we’d always fancied each other rotten.’ A murmur of amusement. ‘My dear friend Petra, who’s here today – where are you, Pet?’ She spots me and points; heads turn. ‘She remembers that first day when I came back from the surgery, walking on cloud nine. I’ve met the man I’m going to marry, I said, didn’t I sweetie?’

  I nod. Bev’s still looking at me, smiling.

  ‘Remember Jem’s first words, when he saw my bedroom?’ she says. ‘Either those teddies go or I go.’

  The audience erupts into laughter. Bev pauses until it subsides.

  ‘But seriously, folks,’ she says. ‘Everyone who came into contact with Jem loved him, but none more so than the primitive tribe he so tirelessly helped, through the charity to which he devoted his life during what turned out to be his last few years. I was, of course, behind him one hundred per cent, and when I saw the smiles on those African faces I knew it was all worthwhile.’ Her voice falters. ‘Jeremy, I was so proud of you … we all are, and we’ve been honoured to know you …’ Suddenly she bursts into tears. ‘So goodbye, my darling, my love …’

  Her voice chokes up. She’s sobbing uncontrollably now.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t … I can’t …’ She looks at us, her face streaming with tears. ‘Please raise a glass on my behalf. I can’t face … God bless you all.’

  She swings round and stumbles from the stage.

  I jump to my feet but the woman next to me puts her hand on my arm. ‘Let her go, the poor love.’

  For Bev has indeed gone. She’s grabbed her bag and rushed out through the emergency exit. There’s a murmur of commiseration in the room. People understand. She’s distraught; in her fragile state it’s all too much for her to bear.

  Bev’s was the last speech. Malcolm, Jeremy’s brother, gets onto the stage and announces that drinks and canapés will be served in the Honeysuckle Room, and there’ll be a collection bucket for Manak, for those who wish to make a donation.

  I move fast. As people shuffle towards the door I struggle through them in the opposite direction. At last I’m free and run towards the emergency exit. Yanking down the bar, I push open the door and step into the car park.

  Bev’s car’s gone. There’s an empty space next to the dustbins. Her brand-new, yellow Beetle has disappeared.

  So, of course, has she. As I knew she would.

  Bev, the consummate actress, who has fooled us all.

  Part Four

  Pimlico, London

  A NEW COUPLE has moved into the flat downstairs. They’re very much in love. It’s their first home together and their happiness seeps up through the floorboards, their little room and everywhere. I hear their muffled laughter in what is now the kitchen. They shop together, nattering to each other as they lumber their Lidl bags down the area steps.

  How sweet, that they’ve festooned their tiny yard with fairy lights! It’s a summer’s evening; I can see them down there, drinking Prosecco and checking their mobiles. Oh, to begin again. That’s what I said to Jeremy, before we kissed. What if we just started out again and had another life? My tenants have taken my place and I feel protective of them, wishing them better luck than I had.

  It’s eighteen months since Jeremy died. For a long time I couldn’t face opening his boxes. Finally I unpacked them and hung his clothes in my wardrobe. His other possessions – the collage, the photos and trinkets – I’ve put on my shelves. I simply couldn’t bear to throw them away. I’ve placed a candle in front of them, which I light from time to time. This might be borderline weird, but there you are. Google ‘death rituals’ and you’ll find a lot weirder.

  I’m on the internet now, researching a book about food in Renaissance art and pondering, yet again, about getting a dog. My life has long since reverted to its former state – the same, yet profoundly different. At least I’ve stopped bursting into tears in the middle of John Lewis, and these paintings of glistening sweetmeats are actually making me hungry. I’m toying with the idea of flying to Melbourne and spending Christmas with Sasha but haven’t summoned up the courage to ask her.

  I’m thinking how ridiculous it is, to be nervous of one’s own daughter, when the phone rings.

  It’s Maureen, a friend of Bev’s from her nursing days. I glimpsed her briefly at the memorial. She wastes no time in small talk.

  ‘I’ve seen her,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  Nobody’s seen Beverley since that day. She simply disappeared. It’s not a missing person’s case, the police haven’t been informed, because Bev’s made contact with various friends by email. She’s told them she’s travelling, I’ve always been a bit of a gypsy, but there have been no blogs and no photos. She’s hinted that she’s visiting old friends around the world and sorting out what to do with her life. Maybe she’ll go to live in France.

  What is she going to do with her life? Sooner or later she must resurface
but I suspect she’ll have changed her name because she knows I’ll be looking for her. Needless to say, my emails to her have gone unanswered. I’ve told nobody the truth; I suspect they’ll think I’m mad. After all, there’s no proof, no evidence, nothing. And our Bev a murderer?

  Sooner or later I’ll find her. And now Maureen has done the job for me.

  ‘I decided to try online dating,’ she says. ‘Since Robbie passed away I’ve been on my ownsome, and I know it’s hard for women our age but I thought I’d give it a whirl, dip my toe in the water. I mean it’s not much fun, is it, cooking for one? So I lied about my age, apparently everyone does, and I decided to check out the competition. That’s when I saw her. She’d lied too, she said she was fifty, fifty years young, she said, and she called herself Twinkletoes.’ Maureen laughs. ‘Rather appropriate, in the circs. But I recognized her. Different hair, but it was Bev all right.’

  Twinkletoes, it seems, is looking for a man in the Kent area. He must have a GSOH and enjoy both long country walks and snuggling up in front of the fire with a glass of wine. And he must love animals. I’m petite, 5’4”, slim and tactile, I discover, when I log on. My friends tell me I look young for my age. I’ve just come out of a long relationship and I’m looking for romance, with the possibility of a long-term commitment.

  And there’s her photo. Her hair’s darker, and cut short, pixie-style. It suits her. To my surprise I feel a momentary throb of sympathy. She’s lonely too! Join the club.

  This passes in a flash.

  Kent. So that’s where she lives.

  I enlist my gay friend Lennox as bait. He doesn’t know the reason but he’s always up for a lark. We set up his profile together. He calls himself Teddybear. Teddybear lives in Ramsgate with his three dogs and six cats. We throw in a tortoise for good measure. Recently divorced, Teddybear is tactile and widely travelled, with a GSOH – lotsa laughs.

  He puts a wink onto her entry and promptly, even eagerly, gets a response. Hi, love ya profile! Tell me about your doggies and moggies. What’s their names?