Jonny brings the roast to the table with that air of bashful pride so common in those who cook well. The beef is pink and fulsome and Max salivates, fingering the stem of his wine glass. Hazel is sitting next to him. Evie’s absence isn’t mentioned and hovers in the corner with the other elephant in the room: the articles spread all over the recent papers. Evie’s interview with a journalist has been repeated ad infinitum, pouring petrol on the bonfire that is Hazel’s public persona. The mainstream media directly links the unsolved disappearance of Georgie Greenstreet with Hazel’s presence at the hotel.
As Max read the papers, his heart had fluttered more violently than usual, ambition mixing with frustration inside him in a slurry of panic. The vultures were flying ahead, rushing information out and causing a perfect storm of anger, fear and visceral hatred towards Hazel. The timing of the story too, happening just as Laurel Bowman’s appeal against the parole board is being heard in court, has whipped the public into a frenzy. The Flower Girls are all anyone is talking about, from print media, to morning television, to the radio. Max’s mind is whirring as he bends his head closer to Hazel, listening to her talking without really taking in the words. This is his story, he keeps telling himself. He found Hazel. It is up to him to show the world Rosie Bowman.
If only he can persuade her to meet her sister.
But he must breathe. Drink his wine. Take things slow. He doesn’t know how he’s going to get Hazel to that point because she has yet to be persuaded actually to do anything. This lunch will be crucial to that end. Because if he gets Hazel into that prison with Laurel then he has won. Any deal he’ll make will blow the rest of the scavenging journos out of the park.
‘This looks delicious,’ he says, moving to pick up a serving spoon. ‘Good enough to eat.’
Jonny grins and sets down a china dish of parsnips. ‘Try the gravy. It’s a family recipe. You’ll like it.’
‘Jonny is a fabulous cook,’ Hazel says with a smile although her hand trembles a little as she pours Max more red wine. ‘One of his many qualities.’
They begin to eat, a soft silence settling around them with the aromas from the food and the wine. Jonny’s place is bigger than Max had expected: a mansion flat in West London. He’s obviously doing well for himself. It has high ceilings with ornate dado rails and floor-to-ceiling windows. As Max gets to know Jonny better, he understands that the man has two levels of energy: high and higher. He can’t stay still. Even sitting with a plate of food in front of him, he is constantly checking Hazel and Max with his eyes, roving his hands across the table like a conductor, offering, serving, never motionless.
By contrast, Hazel has an air of childlike serenity about her, despite the stress she must be under at the moment. Her smiles are warm, her touch is kind. She seems to know exactly the right time to offer a second helping, or a top-up of wine. Max can discern a clear tension underneath but she seems to be coping well and, he’s pleased to see, is responsive to his suggestions.
‘I saw,’ she begins tentatively. ‘I saw that Laurel won her hearing. Does this mean she will be released from prison?’
Max shakes his head. ‘No. Not yet at least. I’m no lawyer but, from what I’ve read, it means that the parole board will now have to argue in front of a judge that they’re right to have decided she needs to serve more time, that she shouldn’t be released yet. Whereas she’s saying their decision is unreasonable and irrational.’
Hazel nods. ‘But she could get out eventually?’
‘I would imagine so. She’s served eighteen years, Hazel. I’d think they’d struggle to keep her in for the rest of her life. She was so young when she killed Kirstie.’
Hazel bites her lip and reaches for the remote control to turn up the music. ‘Sorry,’ she says abruptly. ‘It’s hard for me to talk about.’
‘I understand,’ Max says, patting the tablecloth as if it were Hazel’s hand. ‘What is this music?’ he asks after a moment. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘ “Dido’s Lament”,’ Hazel replies. ‘Jonny hates it. It’s so sad. I love it, though.’
Jonny raises his eyebrows. ‘I’m more of a guitar and drums sort of a guy. A bottle of wine and this kind of stuff and I’m fast asleep.’
Max lifts his head towards the Sonos system fixed in the corners of the dining room where they sit around a mahogany dining table. He falls silent as Jonny moves the conversation on, listening to the notes floating high above them. As the lament ends, he is bewildered to discover that he has tears in his eyes.
‘ “Remember me,’’ ’ Hazel murmurs to him, causing Jonny to halt mid-sentence. ‘ ‘‘But forget my fate.’’ ’
‘What does it mean?’
Hazel averts her face as she thinks, half-closing her eyes. ‘Dido lost everything she had ever loved. She was betrayed by the person she most trusted. So, I think she’s asking for her place in history but to be remembered well. Not as a victim, but as a woman who loved.’
Max watches Hazel as she speaks, the music rising above them. The wine is warm in his stomach and he is suddenly deeply and completely content.
‘Max . . .’ Jonny’s voice cuts in, scattering his thoughts. ‘We need to talk about Evie and what she’s done. Talking to that journalist. All the things she said about my relationship with Hazel. I can’t believe she spoke like that.’
Max raises his shoulders along with his glass. ‘Ah, yes. The shame of it is that we didn’t control it ourselves, prep her to say more positive things. At this stage of the game, people will read into absolutely anything. Or nothing.’ He drinks from his glass.
‘Well, I’m hugely concerned. All that attention on Evie is really not good. It’s interfering with her schoolwork. I don’t understand how her mother could ever have let this happen.’
‘We don’t blame Evie, of course,’ Hazel interjects. ‘The poor thing was tricked by the journalist, it’s obvious. She’s only fourteen, after all. Something should be done about these papers. They’re out of control.’ She dips her head as her voice falters. ‘They’re trying to take photos of me, out on the street. No one’s protecting me, everyone knows who I am. All these years I’ve been someone else, and now it’s all out in the open. I don’t understand why they don’t stop them, put a ban on it. You don’t know what it’s like, reading things about yourself that are so untrue. So vile. The other day,’ she looks from Jonny to Max, ‘I had to go to the chemist to get a prescription. The doctor has prescribed me some anti-anxiety pills,’ she explains softly. ‘And as I went in, someone actually spat at me. It landed on my sleeve. I’m not Laurel.’ She wipes her eyes and a smear of mascara stains the top of her cheek. ‘I’m not her.’
Max shifts in his seat, sensing his opportunity. ‘I agree that things have been blown up out of proportion,’ he says. ‘As I warned you down at Balcombe Court, once the press got wind of who you really are, Hazel, they were bound to run with this story. That’s why I want some damage control. I want to try and rein this in before it becomes something beyond any of us.’
‘Isn’t the damage already done?’ Jonny reaches over to wipe away the mark on Hazel’s face. ‘After what Hazel’s just said? Added to which, she’s getting more letters, more hate mail.’
‘From the same person as before?’ Max asks.
‘Maybe.’ Hazel’s voice trembles. ‘I’m not sure. The ones I had before New Year were . . . different. They all had the same quality about them. These ones seem . . . erratic. As if they’re coming from all kinds of nasty people. And there are photographs of . . . terrible things.’ She presses the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. ‘They say they want to kill me. Make me pay. Accuse me of taking Georgie. Even though she’s been found!’
Hazel puts her hands over her face, her voice becoming muffled. ‘Of course I didn’t hurt her,’ she says desperately. ‘I was so relieved when she was brought back safely.’ She releases her hands and stares wildly at Max. ‘I am NOT Rosie Bowman! I haven’t been for nineteen years. I am Hazel Archer. THAT is who I am. Not that child . . .’ she begins to cry gently ‘. . . not that child. I’m not her any more . . .’
Jonny gets up quickly and comes to stand behind Hazel, leaning in over her chair to put his arms around her. He buries his face in her hair, whispering, ‘I know, I know . . . I know you’re not, my darling.’
Max says nothing for a moment. His mouth is dry.
‘Do you know how stressful it is?’ Jonny turns to him angrily. ‘Leading a double life? I know . . .’ he taps his chest ‘. . . what this poor woman has been going through.’ He strokes Hazel’s hair. ‘I know, my darling. I’m here.’
Max clears his throat and fingers the stem of his wine glass. ‘Well, yes. Of course it’s been terribly difficult for you. All of you,’ he says, looking apologetic as Jonny glares at him. ‘But . . . you must appreciate . . . what I’ve been reading . . . And then the interview with Evie . . .’ He hesitates, tracing the edge of his coaster with his fingertips, gathering his thoughts. ‘I really think you should consider doing what I’ve been asking.’
Hazel’s crying quietens and eventually she stops, reaching forward to sip from her wine glass.
Seeing Jonny open his mouth to speak, Max jumps in again to maintain momentum. ‘So, I should tell you that I have already contacted Toby Bowman, your sister’s solicitor – your uncle, Hazel, I believe? He’s been in touch with Laurel. He’s on a high after winning the hearing. And . . .’ Max reaches over the table as if to touch Hazel’s arm but drops his hand at the last second, resting it on his placemat ‘. . . she has agreed, Hazel. Laurel will see you.’
Hazel gazes down at her lap, saying nothing in response.
‘And you think that bringing them together will stop the bad press?’ Jonny asks, returning to his chair, buzzing with a vitality that even Max has noticed is blurred by red wine. ‘I mean, call me an idiot, but why would it?’
‘Because it might jog Hazel’s memory. It might enable her finally to know what happened that afternoon with Kirstie. And if she does, then she might be able to help Debbie and Rob Swann get some closure. Which, frankly, will improve her popularity with the public no end.’
‘Right. I get it,’ Jonny says, looking over at Hazel. ‘What do you think, darling? Can it hurt?’
The edges of her mouth twist, as if she is in pain. ‘No,’ she says at last. ‘I suppose it can’t.’
‘So you’ll go?’ Max says, his heart thumping. ‘Because, in actual fact, there’s a window this week. On Thursday. Toby can arrange a visit then.’
Hazel looks at him, thoughts playing out across her mind. Finally she gives a short, swift nod.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’ll go.’