The first rule of damage limitation: remove yourself from the situation. Melinda tried to hustle a hyperventilating, vomit-flecked Aimee away from the whispering crowd, muttering bullshit as she went about nerves and grief.
‘Excuse me,’ she ordered, elbows out. ‘Coming through, excuse me.’ Christ on a bike, what was wrong with people? Melinda could feel Aimee’s embarrassment radiating from her bowed head. She pulled her friend close to her chest, sod the stains. ‘Out the way,’ she hissed at a small child clutching a recorder. ‘How’d you like it if you were sick and people were staring at you?’
Aimee began dry heaving, and the curious onlookers of Hensley finally parted like the Red Sea. ‘Thank you, excuse us. Yes, probably shock. Yes, of course, we all are. A mother herself, obviously. Thank you.’ Melinda held Aimee’s puke- filled handbag in front of her like a talisman to ward off the more persistent vampires. ‘Coming through, coming through. Get out the bloody way.’
Just a few more steps and they’d be in the relative safety of the hall kitchen, and no longer the reluctant stars of this unscheduled entertainment. Melinda felt for Aimee, she honestly did, but God, her timing was awful. Nick caught up with them just as Melinda put her shoulder to the swinging door.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, reaching for his wife. But Aimee ducked away.
‘No,’ she gasped. ‘Don’t.’
‘Panic attack,’ whispered Melinda, stating the bloody obvious. ‘Maybe leave us for a bit. Fewer people the better.’ She could see Shelley and Byron behind their father, eyes wide. ‘Why don’t you get the kids out of here,’ she suggested, then let the door swing shut on the gossip already swelling behind them.
In. Out. In. Out. Aimee tried to picture the breath expanding in her lungs, flowing through her body, but all she could see was Lincoln lying in his hospital bed, his narrow teenage chest never to rise again. Another wave of nausea flooded through her, leaving her bent double over the steel bench.
‘Breathe,’ Lou instructed, like some kind of birth coach. Aimee gasped. ‘Come on now.’ Lou started rubbing Aimee’s back, small circles of relief she didn’t deserve. All these people worrying about her, all this caring, when she was basically a murderer. Aimee began to cry, the tears making her hiccup. She gulped for air, and started to choke.
‘Christ, Aimee,’ Melinda’s voice sounded very far away. ‘You’ve got to calm down.’
‘Go easy on her,’ said Lou, guiding Aimee towards the sink. ‘I think she’s in shock.’ Aimee leaned her forehead against the hot- water dispenser, not caring about the burning metal against her skin. ‘Hey love, don’t do that. Come here.’ Lou manoeuvred Aimee’s wrists under the tap. ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she murmured. ‘Everything’s going to be okay.’
The water squealed and spluttered through ancient pipes, but the cooling dribble on her skin did the trick. Aimee felt her breathing finally begin to slow, although her head was still a whirlpool.
‘That’s better,’ said Lou. She handed Aimee her water bottle. ‘Here, drink this.’
Oh God. Aimee leaned forward and heaved again, splattering bright-yellow bile into the sink.
‘Aimee?’ Lou spoke softly, so as not to spook her further. She’d never seen Aimee this bad before, not even when her mother died. Aimee’s shoulders were spasming, her whole torso convulsing as she retched.
‘Come on, love.’ Lou took the water bottle back and opened it herself, held it up to Aimee’s mascara-stained face. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’
Aimee turned her head away, mouth clamped shut.
For God’s sake. ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Lou. But she couldn’t help feeling slightly smug. Because it wasn’t Lou heaving her guts out, or Tansy making a spectacle of herself. It wasn’t her family the good people of Hensley were whispering about in the town hall. Lou was on the right side of the sink for once. She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Darl, you need fluids. Come on. Aimee!’
‘Give me that,’ said Melinda, grabbing at the water bottle. The second rule of damage limitation: be sure of the facts. She took a sniff, then a cautious sip. ‘Oh, you have got to be kidding me.’
‘What is it?’ asked Lou.
‘Guess,’ said Melinda, tipping the bottle down the sink. She turned back to Aimee, sympathy well and truly evaporating now. ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ she demanded. ‘How long’ve you been walking around with half a litre of vodka in your handbag?’
Lou gasped.
‘Well I don’t know why you’re surprised,’ said Melinda. ‘You should be good at spotting that sort of thing.’
‘Hey,’ said Lou.
‘Sorry,’ said Melinda. ‘But really? Aimee?’ She leaned back against the pegboard wall, working her temples with her fingers. Bloody hell. This was a bigger disaster than she’d realised. Outside the kitchen, Melinda could hear the delighted rise and fall of unsubstantiated rumour. Inside the kitchen, Aimee began to shake.
‘It’s only since the picnic,’ Aimee said defensively, remembering the ease and comfort she’d enjoyed down by the river, the glorious numbness of the champagne. ‘It makes me feel better.’ She wrapped her arms around herself to try to stop the trembling.
‘For Christ’s sake, Aimee. You know it’ll only make things worse.’
‘Don’t yell at her,’ murmured Lou.
‘Things couldn’t be any worse,’ snapped Aimee. It was all going to collapse, she could see that now. Her wonderful, too-good-to-be-true life was going to crumble to the ground. These people were going to crucify her. We’ll have to move, she thought randomly. That’s assuming Nick would stay with her, once he found out. Or let her have the kids, if they split. She’d killed a child; no judge in his right mind would award her custody. Aimee’s breathing began to speed up again.
‘They could be worse,’ hissed Melinda. ‘And they will be, if you keep falling apart like this. Drawing attention to yourself. People will talk.’
‘They’ll talk anyway,’ insisted Aimee. ‘They’ll find out it was us. It’s only a matter of time.’
Lou stared at them both. ‘Are we talking about the accident again?’
‘Yes!’ shouted Aimee.
‘No!’ shouted Melinda.
The door to the kitchen swung open. Nick, his handsome face both angry and confused. ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘Why are you guys yelling? Byron and Shelley are freaking out, Aimee. I don’t know what to tell them.’
Neither did she. Aimee didn’t know what to say to any of them. She stared hopelessly at her upright, fire-volunteer husband, the love of her life, who hated dishonesty in any form. Stupid, she’d been so bloody stupid. ‘No,’ she said, shrinking away as he reached for her. ‘Just leave me alone.’ Aimee put her face in her hands, waiting until she heard him walk away. Even Melinda murmuring reassuringly to Nick as the door swung shut didn’t bother her. She just wanted him gone. One less person to feel guilty about.
The third rule of damage limitation — or crisis management, as this was swiftly becoming: control the information.
‘She’s so embarrassed, bless her,’ Melinda told Nick, and Sharna, who was loitering near the kitchen doorway with intent. Melinda dropped her voice, leaned in towards them both. ‘She was nervous about the reading, so we had a drink at mine beforehand.’ The fourth rule: include enough of the truth to keep things credible. ‘A stupid idea, in this heat, but I thought a bit of Dutch courage might help.’ Rule number five: accept responsibility. Melinda held her hands, up, palms spread wide. ‘My fault. But then with the news about the boy — well, it was all too much.’
Nick looked her in the eye. ‘She’s always had a nervous stomach.’
‘She puked before your wedding,’ Sharna said helpfully.
‘Exactly,’ said Melinda. ‘And she was too wound up this morning to eat anything. So prosecco, in the sun, with no breakfast? Then this kind of shock? It’s not surprising.’
‘She was asking about Lincoln just this morning,’ said Sharna, eyes bright with the sheer thrill of the drama. ‘Wanted to know all about how he was doing.’
‘Well that’s Aimee for you,’ said Melinda. ‘Always concerned about the community.’
‘I’ve had a text from a friend at the hospital,’ said Sharna. ‘They’ve let Pete go home. Maybe I should go and tell her. Might make her feel better, to know what’s going on.’ She eyed the wobbling door hopefully.
Melinda put her hands firmly on Sharna’s shoulders and turned her away from the kitchen. ‘The only thing that’s going to make Aimee feel better is a couple of Panadol and a litre of water,’ she said. ‘And knowing that people aren’t talking about her. Sharna — can I trust you not to tell anyone that we were all a little tipsy this morning? She’d be mortified. And I really don’t need people thinking I’m some kind of lush. It’s hardly going to convince them to give me money.’
‘Or a baby,’ said Sharna.
Bitch. ‘Exactly,’ said Melinda, walking Sharna back towards her audience. ‘As I said, stupid of me. But it seemed a nice idea at the time, to celebrate.’
‘Not much to celebrate now,’ said Sharna.
‘Oh I know,’ said Melinda. ‘You don’t need to tell me.’
Lou had just got Aimee calmed down when Melinda came swinging back into the kitchen.
‘Right,’ said Melinda, her face so stony even Lou felt a bit intimidated. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. Nick’s going to take the kids out for lunch. Lou’s going to take Aimee home, put her to bed with a pint of Berocca. And I’m going to speak to the mayor, explain that we all had a few glasses before the concert, and that you’re a lightweight.’ She held out her hand. ‘Give me your phone.’
‘Me?’ Aimee clutched her iPhone to her chest. ‘No. Why should I?’
‘Because you can’t be trusted not to call someone and say something stupid.’
Lou could feel her own phone vibrating in her back pocket. She slid it out, but she’d missed the call. Damn.
‘It wouldn’t be stupid,’ said Aimee. ‘It would be the truth.’
‘You don’t even know what the truth is.’
‘For God’s sake,’ said Lou, squinting at the unfamiliar number. ‘Can’t you two drop it, for one afternoon?’
‘We need to drop it, full stop,’ said Melinda.
‘We can’t,’ said Aimee. ‘Not now.’ She yanked off the tea towels Lou had draped over her shirt. ‘I’m going to go fix this,’ she muttered, clambering awkwardly down off the bench.
Melinda put her arms out, blocking the doorway. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘I’m going to speak to Damien.’
‘Dami-who?’
‘He’s one of the investigators.’
‘And you know his name how?’
‘We’re friends,’ said Aimee, chin up but voice wobbling. There was a vomit-coated curl poking stiffly out the side of her head. Lou had to stop herself from reaching to smooth it down.
‘Oh my God,’ said Melinda, looking as though she was about to throw up herself. ‘What have you said to him?’
‘Nothing,’ said Aimee. ‘But I have to now. I have to come clean, explain that we might have had something to do with the crash. So he can investigate properly.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Melinda. ‘Ow!’ She pitched forward as the swinging door thumped into her back. ‘Bugger off,’ she called. ‘We’re busy. Get a glass of water somewhere else.’
‘Only me,’ called a strident, unwelcome voice. Sharna. Melinda squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block her out, along with the industrial pale-green walls, the rows of smoked-glass coffee cups, the washing-up roster, the whole claustrophobic, country-town nightmare.
‘Is everything okay in there?’ asked the postmistress. ‘Can I help?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ Melinda called back. ‘We just need a moment to clean up.’ The door moved against her back again. ‘Aimee’s naked,’ she warned. ‘We’re washing her down in the sink.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ muttered Aimee, as the footsteps receded.
Melinda took a deep breath and tried for a calm, reasonable tone. Even though she felt anything but calm or reasonable. She felt uncharacteristically panicked. Aimee wasn’t just unstable, she was a bloody time bomb. Melinda dug her nails into the palms of her hands.
‘What,’ she said quietly, ‘do you think you’re doing, befriending one of the investigators? For that matter, what the hell are you doing talking about the accident to Sharna? That’s just asking for trouble.’
‘I wasn’t,’ blustered Aimee. ‘I needed stamps.’
‘No one goes to the post office for stamps. They go for gossip.’
‘Then what were you doing there?’
‘Damage limitation,’ said Melinda, gritting her teeth. ‘Now you listen to me. You are not going to say another word about this, to anyone. Not your investigator friend, not Sharna, not even a bloody priest.’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ said Aimee, sounding brave but not looking it.
‘Because you don’t know all the facts.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like that Peter Kasprowicz has a history of severe depression.’
‘I do know about that, actually,’ said Aimee. ‘And his depression has nothing to do with this. He was medicated.’
‘No. He should have been medicated. He hasn’t filled a prescription since August.’ Melinda narrowed her eyes. ‘Like someone else we know.’
Aimee turned to glare at Lou. ‘Thanks a lot.’
But Lou was looking at her phone. ‘Shit. I need to make a call,’ she said. ‘Can you two try not to kill each other for five minutes?’
‘Don’t go,’ said Aimee, grabbing at Lou’s top. But Lou shrugged her off. The kitchen flooded incongruously with sunlight as Lou stepped out into the car park.
Melinda spoke very slowly, as though to a small child. ‘There are a million things that could have happened to that plane that have nothing to do with us,’ she said. ‘Pete was depressed. He was off his meds. There was alcohol in his system — not much, but enough. And it’s an old plane. 1970s. It could have been technical failure, the carburettor icing up, anything.’
‘Ice?’ Aimee stared at her. ‘What are you talking about? It’s thirty-something degrees.’
‘Not at night. And you only need a drop of fifteen degrees for ice to form, which could easily happen if they were high enough . . .’ Melinda broke off. Aimee was looking at her as though she’d grown another head. ‘What?’
‘Oh my God, you think we did it. You think we caused the accident.’
‘I do not.’
‘You do. Or you think we might have.’ Aimee gripped the bench behind her. ‘You wouldn’t know any of this otherwise. Carburettors!’
‘I’m just gathering facts,’ said Melinda.
‘And how do you have access to Pete’s medical records? Are you spying on him?’
‘No,’ said Melinda. She wasn’t doing a thing. Clint, on the other hand . . . ‘It’s just in case.’
‘Just in case they find out our lanterns were involved.’
‘Actually, it doesn’t matter if the lanterns were involved. Legally, they’d have to prove that they were the sole or main cause. And there’s no way —’
‘Have you spoken to a solicitor?’
‘No.’ Technically, Roger was a barrister. ‘The only reason I have to think about any of this is because of you, Aimee, not because of those bloody lanterns. If you go around town mouthing off about how we might have done something, how this might be our fault, then people are going to believe you.’ Perception was as bad as guilt, especially in the papers. ‘People are upset. They want someone to blame. Listen to them.’
For the first time, Aimee became properly aware of the hubbub on the other side of the door. The babble of shocked voices, the wailing of children who’d obviously been told that one of their old friends was dead. Her community, shocked and hurting. Aimee took a few steps towards Melinda, determined not to be intimidated.
‘But we don’t need to construct some kind of legal defence,’ she said, trying to stop her voice from shaking. ‘We’ll just admit what we were doing, and let Damien and his team figure out what happened.’
‘No we bloody won’t.’
Courage, Aimee. ‘But it’s the right thing to do.’
‘Not in this case.’ Melinda put a hand on Aimee’s arm. ‘Listen to them, Aimee,’ she said quietly. ‘None of those people are thinking rationally.’ And neither are you, Melinda’s eyes said. ‘It wouldn’t matter what the inquiry found. The accident would be our fault in everyone’s minds from the moment you opened your mouth.’
‘But maybe it is.’
‘And maybe it isn’t. Pete wasn’t taking his medication, he’d been drinking. Maybe he was trying to end things.’
Aimee felt the air in her lungs go cold. ‘Are you suggesting . . . that he would . . . with Lincoln —’
Melinda shrugged. ‘I don’t know. And neither do you.’
‘Of course I know. Peter Kasprowicz loved Lincoln. He’d never do anything to hurt him.’ Aimee crossed her arms. ‘Melinda, that man’s son is dead.’
‘And you confessing won’t change that.’
Was she made of stone? ‘His life is in ruins.’
‘So why do you want to ruin three more? Six, if you count Nick and your kids. Seven, with Tansy, eight with her baby. Come on, Aimee. You’ve got a depressed, drunk, amateur pilot, flying at night through a bloody hailstorm of fireworks, and you want to sacrifice all of us because of a couple of tiny lanterns on the other side of the river? What’s wrong with you?’
‘I’m trying to act like a decent human being, rather than a sociopath. What’s wrong with you?’
Bloody hell, they were still at it. Lou walked back inside to find her two oldest friends glaring at each other.
‘Thank God,’ said Melinda. ‘Talk some sense into her, will you?’
‘You understand, don’t you?’ pleaded Aimee. ‘You’re a mother.’
‘Understand what?’ said Lou, texting. Tansy was at a friend’s house, and didn’t want to leave. Too bad. Picking you up in ten, she typed, and pushed send.
‘Why we have to say something,’ said Aimee. ‘About the accident.’
‘Why we bloody can’t,’ said Melinda. ‘It’ll ruin all our lives. Including yours, Lou.’
‘But it’s fine to ruin Pete’s, is that it?’ Aimee was getting teary. ‘He doesn’t deserve justice?’
‘His is already ruined,’ said Melinda. ‘You said so yourself.’
‘Lou,’ bleated Aimee. ‘Help me.’
Do I have to? asked Tansy. Yes, said Lou. But she didn’t want to upset her daughter. So she added a smiley face and a promise of McDonald’s.
‘Lou.’ Melinda had her do-what-I-say voice on now. ‘Tell her.’
But Lou didn’t feel like falling into line. ‘Buggered if I know,’ she said. ‘And to be honest, I don’t really care.’
‘What?’
‘Lou —’
‘And neither do either of you.’ Lou glanced back down at her phone, where there were real problems. ‘You’re both only worried about yourselves.’
‘Well, Melinda is, but I —’
‘Aimee’s not even thinking about —’
‘Stop it, both of you.’ Lou had had enough now. Enough of Melinda’s power games, enough of Aimee’s whingeing. Enough of looking after everyone. Because that was all she bloody did. Ironic, given how everyone questioned the quality of her mothering. Lou shook her head. She had her own family to look after, now more than ever. She didn’t have time for this. ‘Come on. Let’s be honest. Neither of you are really worried about Pete, or Lincoln. You never have been.’
That shut them up. ‘You don’t want the truth, Aimee. You just want to feel better. You want someone to tell you it’s all going to be okay, to absolve you. To take over. It’s like when you call me in a spin, asking for advice. You’re not actually after my opinion, you’re looking to outsource the worry. You use people like a pacifier.’
Aimee’s face went blotchy pink as she gaped at Lou like a newborn searching for a nipple.
‘You’re not trying to give Pete justice,’ said Lou. ‘You’re trying to make this someone else’s problem.’
‘Thank you,’ said Melinda.
‘As for you.’ Lou turned to Melinda, who was somehow not covered in vomit or sweat like Aimee and Lou, but looking cool and righteous. And angry. Well, Lou didn’t care any more if she was angry. ‘You’re not worried about them either. Or us, or our families. You’re worried about yourself, and your precious company, and what might affect your bloody IPO. Do you think we’re stupid?’
‘And you’re the only one who’s not thinking about herself, is that it?’ Melinda had her hands on her hips, looking very much like she used to in the playground thirty years before when someone didn’t do what she wanted. ‘The only one who’s not a bad person.’
‘I’m the only one who’s not being a hypocrite.’
‘You are, actually,’ said Melinda. ‘Because you’re as much a part of this as we are. You can’t just wash your hands of the situation and say it’s got nothing to do with you.’
Lou shrugged. ‘Doesn’t mean I have to waste my time arguing about it,’ she said. ‘Trying to control everything. What will happen, will happen, regardless.’ Her phone vibrated. Lou checked it, and shoved it back in her jeans. ‘Honestly, I’ve got bigger things to worry about than your insecurities, or your reputation.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ said Melinda. ‘It’s not your money that’s going to end up paying for this.’
Lou gave a snort. ‘That would be one of the benefits of not having any.’
‘Think of the effect it will have on Tansy,’ said Melinda, changing tack. ‘The baby.’
Lou whirled around. ‘Don’t you dare bring Tansy into this. You don’t care about her, or what might affect her. God, you don’t even ask how she’s doing.’
‘I do,’ said Aimee, pathetically. ‘I ask.’
‘Only so you can feel smug about the fact that it’s not your perfect daughter,’ said Lou. ‘Only so you can sit there thinking, “My Shelley would never do this.”’
Aimee groped along the bench for her water bottle.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Lou grabbed her handbag. ‘Fuck the both of you. I can’t be dealing with this.’
Neither Aimee nor Melinda stopped her as Lou strode towards the door. They just stared at her, looking stunned.
‘Tell,’ said Lou. ‘Don’t tell. I don’t care. Do whatever suits you. You always do anyway. Both of you.’ And she banged out the fire exit and into the glorious peace of the parking lot.
In the quiet of the kitchen, Aimee began to cry. She didn’t bother to wipe the tears, just stood there with snot and mascara dripping down her face, leaving tracks in what little foundation had managed to survive the morning. There were flecks of white tissue on her black shirt where Lou had tried to scrub the vomit away, and a roll of escaping fat where her Spanx had clearly given up. She looked pathetic and vulnerable, and it was all Melinda could do not to bustle her out the door after Lou and safely home. But she couldn’t. For all their sakes, she couldn’t make Aimee feel better. She had to make her feel worse. Melinda reached out and grabbed Aimee’s wrists.
‘Listen to me,’ she said quietly, feeling like the biggest bitch who ever walked, but this had to be done. Aimee was self-destructing and taking them all down with her. ‘If you start telling people about the lanterns, if you talk to anyone about us potentially having anything to do with the accident, I’ll make sure no one in this town ever listens to you again.’ She squeezed Aimee’s wrists, hard, to drive the point home.
‘Like you, you mean,’ said Aimee.
‘They don’t like me, but they respect me,’ said Melinda. ‘They’ll listen to me. They’re not going to listen to you, Aimee, because you’re not credible.’
‘I am,’ said Aimee. ‘I’m school council president. I’m practically a local.’
‘You have a history of making things up.’
Aimee gasped. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘You imagine things,’ said Melinda. ‘Convince yourself they happened. You’ve done this before.’
‘I was ill,’ Aimee whispered, twisting in Melinda’s grip. ‘And that was a long time ago.’
Melinda’s heart twisted with her. But still she kept her hold tight. ‘You convince yourself that you’re responsible for events you have nothing to do with.’
‘I was unwell,’ Aimee repeated. ‘And it doesn’t mean I’m sick again now. It doesn’t mean I’m imagining this.’
‘Aimee, you weren’t unwell. You didn’t have the flu. You had a mental breakdown. You were in a psychiatric hospital.’
The harsh words bounced off the steel surfaces around them. No one ever said it, Melinda realised. But someone had to. And as usual, it was her.
‘If you tell anyone . . .’ Aimee said shakily.
‘I won’t say anything,’ Melinda promised. ‘As long as you don’t. Deal?’ She squeezed one more time. ‘Aimee? Do we have a deal?’
Aimee yanked her hands away and wiped them down the front of her skirt, as though to get any trace of Melinda off her.
‘Come on, promise me.’
Aimee backed towards the door, looking at Melinda as though she didn’t even recognise her. ‘You’re supposed to be my friend,’ she whispered, as she fumbled for the handle, then ran, stumbling slightly, out into the sun.