JESS

We don’t see each other for a month, as per Steffie’s wishes. I try not to overstep, but I find it frustrating. Zero involvement doesn’t sit well with me—never has. So, I text every other day, asking if I can help. I’m desperate to know what really happened in that room, but she doesn’t want to see me yet and I have to respect that.

I’m starting to wonder whether I’ll ever see her again. And then, on Saturday 12th December, I get a text message from her.

I’m so pleased to hear from her, but then I start tapping my teeth together. Why now? Is something wrong? I know they’re not doing a postmortem, but there’ll be an inquest—always is when a death is sudden. Yet from what the police led me to believe, there was nothing suspicious about the circumstances.

On the way to the café—an upmarket bistro that serves morning coffee and always has pastel macarons in the windows—I wonder why she didn’t want Priyanka to come. Maybe, if I’m honest, I’m worried she’s going to corner me alone, point the finger.

There have been nights when I’ve lain in bed in the dark, wondering whether it was all my fault. A person’s going to do that. A man’s dead. But then I didn’t get the gun out of his safe. I didn’t pour alcohol down his throat. I didn’t hold the gun to his head. And I didn’t rape Nicky Waite either.

I’m done with thinking this is our fault. And Steffie will be too, someday, when she’s got through this terrible patch.

In my right mind, I’d never be going to town in December on a Saturday. I’ve no idea why Steffie wants to put herself through it. I’m having to fight my way through the throngs at the Christmas market—coachloads of shoppers from Swansea and Birmingham. The bistro she’s chosen is near the abbey, the worst possible spot. My scarf feels like it’s choking me. I’m sure both my feet are lifted off the ground at one point. The smell of sausages and onions is overpowering, and a group of schoolkids are singing a festive song.

The song reminds me of my girls at primary school and now I’m upset, blinking back tears. The pain is with me all the time. I wake and it’s there. I laugh and then it’s there. Crying is the only time I feel authentic.

I didn’t stop loving Max when I got that letter. It doesn’t work like that. I knew this was going to be tough, whichever way it played out. He isn’t dead, but may as well be. We tiptoe around his name at home, freezing when we find one of his socks, navigating his empty chair at the table as though there’s a ghost in his place. I can’t get used to sleeping alone. Maybe I never will. Maybe I’ll be tired and brokenhearted for the rest of my days.

Was it worth it? I can’t say. Some days, I don’t even remember who we’re doing it for, or why.

Max moved out—without my having to throw his suitcases out of the window—into an apartment in Bristol. I haven’t looked it up online, am worried I’ll balk at the state of it and change my mind. Eventually, he says he’s going to relocate his mortgage company over that way too. He’s agreed to continue to support us, but knows he won’t have any access to the girls or be a part of their lives.

I don’t know if I was expecting a huge argument on this point. In any case, I didn’t get one. I think I might have preferred a fight, a small objection, even. Stand up and be a man. Defend yourself and your rights. But he just accepted my terms and walked.

He is and always will be the greatest disappointment of my life. No one will come close to it.

Someday the girls will understand that I had no choice. If I could have done it any other way, to avoid their getting hurt, I would have. Yet I couldn’t have raised them in the same house as him, knowing what I knew; it wouldn’t have been morally right. I’ve explained this to them over and over. But right now, neither of them is really talking to me.

Outside the bistro, it takes me several minutes to make my way through the queues of people streaming in constantly to ask about a table. There’s no way we’re going to get one. Then I spot Steffie sitting in the window, wearing a sparkly cream beret, and I catch my breath. She looks so gaunt, and she has someone with her.

I don’t have time to think about it because she’s spotted me too and is lifting her hand in a feeble wave. The doorbell tinkles as I enter, and I unpeel my scarf, my hair rising in static as I remove my hat and then my coat, losing weight by the millisecond.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any tables.” The waitress pounces right away.

“Oh, it’s okay. I’m with...” I point, making my way over to Steffie, distracting myself with where to put all my woolen objects.

“Hello, Jess.” Stephanie looks up at me, nudging her beret into place. It suits her, but she looks very pale. She’s not wearing as much makeup as usual, and I think she’s lost a lot of weight. “It’s good to see you.” She gestures to the girl beside her. “This is my daughter Rosie.”

I don’t know Steffie’s family, but I know Rosie was the one who found the letter. She looks nothing like her mum—has a mean, angular little face, and I wonder whether she’s thinking the same thing about me. She doesn’t even say hello, but nods, pulling her sleeves over her hands.

“I ordered you an Americano. That’s what you normally have, isn’t it?” Steffie says.

I smile. “Yes. Thanks.”

I’m not sure I could have ordered for her in return—never noticed what she drank. I was always too busy trying to get her to change her mind. And look where that got us.

“So, how have you been?” I ask, placing my coat and accessories on the windowsill. The café’s busy, but the tables are placed at a civil distance. The couple at the table next to me are young, glamorous, feeding each other cream on spoons.

Max and I will never eat out again. We’ll never share a moment again.

“Awful,” Steffie replies.

“It’s true.” Rosie folds her arms. “She’s been a total mess.”

“How are things going with the inquest?” My question is badly timed, as the coffees have arrived, and we sit back in our seats, waiting. The waitress sets a place of macarons between us and Rosie takes one, putting it into her mouth whole.

“I’m not sure,” Stephanie says, as the waitress moves away. “The communication’s not been great, but then I haven’t been chasing it as much as I could. I find it...difficult.”

“I’m sure you do. But you know you can always delegate anything to me.”

“Yes. I know. Thanks.”

“It’s good they’re not doing a postmortem,” I venture, stirring my coffee. “I mean, that’s one positive thing, isn’t it?”

Rosie looks up from her hot chocolate, watching us closely.

“Yes, I think so. From what I can gather, everything’s straightforward, but there are procedures they have to follow.”

“Course.” I glance at the young couple again, who are kissing. Turning my chair slightly, I put my back to them.

“How’s Priyanka?” Steffie asks.

“She’s okay. Same as us, really. Taking it one day at a time.”

“I’d like to see her, but not yet... You’re the first person I’ve seen, other than my sister. It’s hard, facing people. I don’t know what to say.” She sniffs and her hand trembles. “Work have been brilliant, though.”

“You’re not back yet, are you?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet. They’ve said I can take all the time I need. But I’m thinking of going in on Monday. I think it would do me good.”

“She needs the normality. It’s good for up here,” Rosie says, tapping the side of her head. And then she links her hand through her mum’s arm, rocking to one side to kiss her on the cheek.

I’m touched and look down at my lap, trying not to well up. Sugar might help. I select a green macaron, nibbling it.

“Did you ever meet him?” Rosie asks me. “Dan?”

“No. I’m afraid not.”

“Well, you didn’t miss anything. He was a bast—” She stops, still holding her mother’s arm. “I didn’t like him much.”

“He’s dead, Rosie,” Steffie says quietly.

“Sorry, Mum.”

I swallow the rest of the macaron, barely tasting it.

“We can’t spend too long here, I’m afraid.” Steffie sets down her cup. “We’ve got a lot of shopping to do. Christmas has caught me out this year...”

Christmas. I haven’t done one thing in preparation for it yet. No word of a lie.

“...But I wanted you to meet Rosie. Because she has something to say to you.”

“I do?” she says, frowning.

“Yes. Go on.”

Rosie takes her time, eating another macaron. “Yeah, well, I just wanted to say, like, sorry about the letter. Sorry he found it.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” I say. “Seriously.”

“Yes, she does. None of it would have—”

“No,” I say curtly. I glance about me, but everyone’s wrapped up in each other and Christmas and pastry menus. No one’s thinking about blame and guilt and death.

“I’m sorry, but I’m through with this.” My hands curl as though I’m about to pummel the table. “We’re not doing this anymore, Steffie. They’re the ones to blame. We didn’t do anything wrong—not Rosie or any of us. We’ve gotta get this right on the inside, in our minds. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says.

Rosie gives a short laugh of surprise at my heatedness and I notice the glimmer of a stud on her tongue. “Mum said you were cool.” And she nods slowly, respectfully.

“Can we meet again soon?” Steffie says, outside the café. It’s impossible to have a conversation here. The Salvation Army band is playing “Silent Night” three feet away. Opposite there’s a closed charity shop at the top of a couple of steps, so I steer us there, away from the main foot traffic.

“Yes, that would be nice.” I hold on to the railings as I look around for Rosie, checking she’s not within earshot, spotting her peering in the window of an expensive lingerie shop. I turn back to Steffie. “I’m glad you got in touch. I need to talk to you about something, but was waiting to hear from you first.”

“Oh?” She removes a tissue from her pocket, dabs her nose.

I pause, unsure whether to press on. I don’t know whether the timing’s right, whether she’s strong enough to talk about this yet.

“What is it? If you don’t tell me, I’ll only worry.” A sequin is hanging by a thread from her beret, touching her hair. It makes her seem even more fragile.

“It’s just...do you remember Lucy, Nicky’s friend—the one I contacted?”

A look of apprehension comes over her face. “What about her?”

“Well, do you remember that she wanted to tell us something?”

“I don’t think I...”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” I glance over at Rosie again, who appears to be taking photos of the mannequins for some strange reason.

When I look back at Steffie, I can tell she’s torn between wanting to know more and protecting herself. She’s pressing her gloved hands together, the hint of a frown below her hat. “What, Jess?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.” She touches the sleeve of my coat. “Please.”

“Okay...well...she’s desperate to meet and I’ve been putting it off. But I wondered whether we should hear her out. What do you reckon?”

She shuffles her feet. She’s wearing sneakers, albeit gold ones. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can manage it.”

“Of course. Forget I said anything.”

“Why don’t you meet her without me? I know you want to.” She tries to smile, her mouth quivering.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You could go with Priyanka?”

“We’ll see.”

She touches my arm again. “You’ve changed, Jess.”

“Me? How so?”

“I’m not sure... Do you still believe in the truth—everything out in the open?”

I hesitate, knowing she’s hit on something vital, in the way that she sometimes does, surprisingly so. But honestly? When someone’s dead because of the truth coming out, it’s hard to tell how you feel about it.

“Dunno” is all I can say.

“It wasn’t your fault. If it weren’t for you...” She looks over her shoulder at Rosie before continuing. “Well, I never thanked you for what you did for me...at the club.”

“What did I do?”

There’s a funny expression on her face. “You covered for me.”

I look at her intently. “Did I?”

As the Salvation Army starts playing again, she gives a little start, clutching her heart. She smiles up at me nervously. I know the moment’s passed, the opportunity gone with it.

A crowd is gathering around the band. Coins tinkle into collection boxes.

“Are you okay for money, Steffie?” I ask, hoping it’s not too personal a question.

“Yes, we’re fine. Dan’s business was in good shape and he had several investment properties. But we’re going to move, downsize. The house doesn’t feel the same now.”

I reach for her hand, which is stiff in a leather glove. “Steffie, I—”

“Sorry to interrupt, Mum,” Rosie says, appearing at the foot of the steps, “but I really think we need to make a move.”

“Course,” I say, smiling at them both. “You get going. We’ll speak soon.”

When I get home to our Max-less house, the girls are curled up with books on the sofa. They don’t say hello, but when I sit down beside Poppy, she doesn’t get up and move away. And I accept this small offering gratefully.

I notice that Steffie has texted me.

Two days later, I find myself in the Sicilian café where I originally read the letter, waiting for Duane Dee, my sculptor client, who was also with me that day. It feels like I’ve gone full circle, but I’m not back where I started because I’m not the same person now. None of us are.

I was worried how I’d feel being back at ground zero. Yet when I walk in and sit down at the same table on purpose, expecting some kind of out-of-body experience, I realize that reading the letter wasn’t the moment when everything changed for me. And this sets me wondering when that was exactly...but then Duane appears and my thoughts are interrupted.

It’s good to see him. Christmas is a nonstarter for me this year, and no one’s less festive than Duane. He doesn’t look like he even knows which season we’re in, wearing a light summer sweater splattered with clay.

I don’t listen to him today, any more than I did the last time. Ignoring the Christmas menu, he orders his usual calzoni and I order my usual Americano and almond pastry. And then he starts to tell me how difficult it is to make a living by being an artist and how that’s part of its magic, because if it was a cash cow, then everyone would be doing it and it wouldn’t be a labor of love.

On he talks, waving his hands around, the tassels of his Aztec scarf dipping in his sparkling water. And I’m thinking about how there were two parts of this that I’ve never put together before and how shortsighted of me that was.

Holly was an artist; and I work for the city’s most prominent art dealer.

Duane is talking about Van Gogh now. I tune in. “...And he was, like, a total failure. He only sold one painting in his lifetime and died in poverty. Can you imagine?”

“Yes, absolutely shocking.”

He frowns. “What is? The poverty, or lack of acclaim?”

“Both.” I’m not sure what I meant either. I shut up, finish my pastry.

When we part ways, I walk back to work, unable to get the conversation out of my head, which is unusual where Duane’s concerned. And it comes to me then—I’ve got it: the moment when everything changed. It wasn’t at the Sicilian café, reading the letter. It wasn’t at the Montague Club, seeing Max’s photo on the wall. It was when I unlocked Holly’s storage unit and saw where she lived.

That afternoon, I persuade Gavin to take a trip across town with me. He’s in a good mood, having just returned from a boozy lunch. As I drive, he searches for Christmas songs on the car radio, trying to get me into the spirit of things.

Not gonna happen. But I force a smile for the boss.

Giving the door of unit twenty-one its customary kick, I open it, waiting for the light to flicker on. Looking at it through Gavin’s eyes, it strikes me afresh just how disgusting it is. I should have cleared up, but there’s not been a chance, nor has it felt like a priority.

“Tell me again why we’re here?” Gavin says, wrinkling his nose. It smells even worse than when we were here last.

“Because I wanted you to look at these.” I gesture to the canvases. I’ve never counted them before: there are thirteen. “Oh, and these.” I pick up the sketchbook lying conveniently near us on a crate.

He flicks through it, hands it back, then gazes at the canvases. He doesn’t speak for a few minutes, just stands there.

The suspense is killing me. “Any good?”

“Not bad. Who’s the artist?”

“An unknown.”

“Where is he, then?”

I smile at the sexism. Surely he’s noticed the Tampax carton near his foot?

“It’s a she. And sadly, she passed away recently.”

“Oh.” He scratches his chin. “Well, if you want to get rid of them, then I think we could find someone to buy the lot and look at framing them and selling them.”

“That’s not what I want,” I say, looking up at him.

His lips purse in surprise. “Oh?”

“I want to do something a bit different—something that would set Moon & Co. apart.”

“We’re already set apart.” He jangles the change in his trouser pocket. “We’re the best in the city.”

“Yeah, at doing the same thing as everyone else—dealing mostly with artists from privileged backgrounds. But this would give us a different emphasis—inclusivity, raw talent...”

“Raw talent, eh?” He smiles, whistling a Christmas tune, looking around the room at the paintings again. “Go on, then, Jess. I’m listening.”