‘You have to tell your side of the story,’ Max says, sitting down on the window seat next to Hazel. He is turned sideways, his focus solely on her. In front of them, Jonny stands with legs apart, thumbs thrust through the belt loops on his jeans.
The window behind them is white from the glare of the snow. Despite the apparent calm, the hustle of the search for Georgie is still tangible. It colours the conversation with a distracting rattle of anxiety, a sense of distant, breathless momentum. Max is desperate for more booze, something to quell the adrenaline that sears through him like mercury. But he restrains the desire. He has to keep his head clear, his motives exact.
The scratches on Hazel’s face are still raw and swollen, a brutal reminder of the hatred shown towards her by Georgie’s mother. ‘And that’s exactly why,’ Max says, pointing to the marks, his words running away from him as he tries to slow down, to gather his thoughts. ‘That’s why you’ve got to tell your version of events.’ He swallows, bringing his palms together, taking a steadying breath. ‘Nobody has ever heard it, have they? You were so little and then . . . well, then you were given your identity for witness protection. And because of that, everyone just lumped you in with your sister – the Flower Girls – there’s been no distinction made between the two of you, has there? It’s not fair, frankly.
‘But now you’ve got the chance to set things straight. Say what really happened, how it wasn’t you. That you were an innocent bystander, that you weren’t involved.’
Hazel gazes at Max, a hard knot in her throat as she considers his eagerness, his confidence that what he’s saying is right. She glances up at Jonny, at his broad stance. As always, Jonny’s solid masculinity is reassuring, it comforts her.
‘I don’t know,’ he says into the resulting silence. ‘If we put this out in the papers, our lives will become a nightmare. We’ll have press everywhere. I’ve got to think about my job. About Evie. What’s she going to go through, with her friends at school?’ He turns to Hazel. ‘I mean, are you even allowed to say who you are? Tell everyone your real name? Won’t you get into trouble for revealing it?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replies in a tiny voice. ‘There was never a court order. They did the identity change for us out of kindness.’ Her tone borders on sarcastic. ‘It’s only for criminals when they’re released that it causes a problem, I think. And I’m not a criminal. Am I?’
‘Well, I hate to say it, but unfortunately the Greenstreets know who you are now.’ Max smiles ruefully. ‘And there are journalists outside the hotel doors, itching to get inside. The story of a little girl going missing is huge. The Greenstreets will talk. They want their daughter found and they think you’re responsible. Nothing’s reached the press right now, but it will do very soon. You don’t want it happening in an uncontrolled way when all hell will break loose, frankly,’ Max says. ‘Your only hope of putting this all to rest, once and for all, is to – very calmly and rationally – tell your side of the story. Explain that you’re just a normal woman, living a normal life with a job and a family. That you wouldn’t dream of hurting a child. Not Kirstie Swann, and not Georgie Greenstreet.’
Hazel goes to speak but Jonny cuts in, one leg jiggling inside his jeans. ‘Well, all right, I can see that. But how would it work?’
‘I’ll write a proposal and look to get us representation. Then,’ Max says carefully, ‘we can think about an interview. Or even . . . a book.’
‘Do you have a background in this stuff? Have you written anything like this before?’ Jonny asks, shooting a look at Hazel to check she’s noticed this pertinent questioning.
‘I worked in print journalism for fourteen years before I turned to fiction,’ Max says. ‘I’ve done freelance work at the Mail, the Evening Standard. Since then I’ve had two novels published under my own name and I’ve also ghostwritten a biography. I’ve got the experience and contacts and, believe me,’ he looks directly at Hazel here, ‘it won’t be hard to sell this story.’
‘Right,’ Jonny says, placated.
Hazel has yet to say a word, watching Max and Jonny, considering what she hears. She wants to speak, to cry until she is wrung out. But she can’t hear properly over the banging of her heart in her chest, like a moth trapped in a lampshade, getting ever closer to the white heat of the bulb. The scratches gouged on her face are smarting and she can’t rid herself of the image of Jane Greenstreet’s expression as she hurtled across the dining room to attack her. It was so filled with loathing. The effort to keep rising sobs within her is making it hard for Hazel to swallow or speak. So she concentrates on the men, their plan-making. Jonny will know what’s best. Max seems to be completely on her side too. She doesn’t understand why he is, but she is deeply grateful for it.
‘What do you think, darling?’ Jonny asks her, his voice soft. ‘Can you see yourself doing this? Do you think it might help? I mean, I can see Max’s point. I can see the advantage in putting across what you know about what happened back then. You’ve never said, have you? What do you think?’
Hazel shakes her head and touches her face gingerly. ‘They hate me,’ she says. ‘All of them. Hate me.’
‘But maybe this is a way to turn things around?’ Max suggests. ‘Maybe if you explained things, said what really happened, people would think differently about you. You know,’ he says, leaning forward, warming to his task, ‘people judge when they don’t know any different, when they’re only given one story they can latch on to. Tell them a different story and then you’ve got an opening, a way of letting them make up their own mind. There will always be people who close their eyes to certain ideas. But in this case, there isn’t another version for anyone to think about. All everyone thinks is that Laurel’ – he doesn’t notice Hazel flinch at her sister’s name – ‘was responsible for the death of that child.
‘At the moment – I mean, you must have heard about this – your sister’s challenging the courts for her release, she’ll want to flood the media with her side of events. But if you give them another story – a better one – make them see you as a human being, not a monster . . . then,’ Max sits back in his chair, unconsciously rubbing at the pain in his chest, ‘you might win your own freedom. Imagine that. You might be able to live a normal life again.’
‘I’ve never had a normal life, Max,’ Hazel says. ‘I’ve never had my freedom. I’ve lived a lie since I was six years old. For nineteen years, I’ve lived like this. I don’t think I know any other way to live.’
‘OK, but what about Jonny?’ Max replies. ‘Wouldn’t you like to be together out in the open? Not always worried that someone will find out who you are? Able to tell Evie about your past? Not to lie to your future step daughter?’ He chooses the words deliberately.
Hazel looks down at her lap as Jonny reaches over to grip her hand tight. ‘Yes,’ she answers in a small voice. ‘I would.’
‘Then why don’t we try?’ Max continues. ‘We could do an interview and I could write the book proposal. And then you could just read it and see what you think. You can make any changes to it that you like. If you hate it, or you get cold feet at that stage, you can withdraw it, take it back. You’ll have my word that I’ll destroy it. I promise . . .’
‘Hang on, mate,’ Jonny interrupts, his tone suddenly urgent and panicked. ‘What’s that? Can you see outside behind you?’
He pushes forward, his chest almost flat against Hazel’s face as he leans up close to the window. ‘Over there. Can you see it?’
Hazel twists round uncomfortably so that she can look outside and Max does the same next to her.
‘It’s the policewoman, isn’t it?’ Max says. ‘Hillier?’
‘She’s carrying something,’ Jonny says, his voice shaking, his knuckles white as he grips Hazel’s shoulder. ‘She’s carrying something in her arms.’