We meet on a cold Sunday mid-January, frail snowflakes in the air. Lucy’s running late, so we wait for her in the lobby of the hotel she chose as our meeting place. There’s a massive log fire, and waiters dart about with silver trays as we stand in a circle near the curtains, trying not to get in the way.
“I can’t stay long.” Priyanka looks at her watch. “I’ve left Beau with a friend.”
“I’m sure she’ll be here in a sec,” I say, watching the revolving door for her arrival. “I’m glad you’ve got someone to help, though.”
“Only for an hour or so... Really, I could do with someone around the clock, to help out when I’m shopping or fancy a soak in the tub. It’s the little things, you know?” She taps her boots together despondently, traces of snow sliding off the leather onto the carpet.
I do know, actually. I don’t have a little one to look after, but kids are kids no matter the age. Navigating teenage boundaries by myself is terrifying. I miss Max so much, or the idea of him—the man I thought I’d married. There’s no one to swap notes with anymore, no one to share the moments with, good and bad.
“You shouldn’t have to struggle alone, Pree,” Steffie says. She looks tired, drawn in the face, but otherwise better than when I saw her last. “I wish I’d had more people around me when my girls were young. Maybe I wouldn’t have married Dan.”
This feels like a big thing to have dropped on us, but Lucy is whirring around the revolving doors, wearing a gigantic multicolored scarf, kissing us like long-lost friends.
After wasting time over where to sit and who is hungry and who’s going for the mulled rosé wine, which Lucy’s raving about, we find ourselves sitting there, looking at her, wanting to pinch her to see if she’s real.
She’s pasty-faced, with dark blond hair and full lips. I remember the latter from Holly’s painting. When she smiles, which she does a lot, her whole face changes. It’s nice; she’s nice. I can see why Nicky would have liked her.
I think things like that all the time now—how Nicky would have liked this or Holly that. Like I have a clue.
It’s because Florence DiMaggio stunned me last week by saying yes; the Waite women are going to be setting up residence in the club. I’ve been convincing myself that this is what they would have wanted, saying things to Gavin like, yes, I think the artist would really appreciate that. But in truth, I’ve no idea.
“Thanks for coming, everyone,” Lucy says, handing around the mulled rosés, placing a tiny bowl of roasted nuts between us. She has a chirpiness about her, an aura of authority. Even if she hadn’t called this meeting, I think she’d be chairing it anyway. “I know you’ve been through a lot and I don’t want to stir the pot...but it’s just that there’s something I wanted you to know. I thought it only fair that you have all the facts.”
Steffie looks like she did when we first met: aloof, disinterested. It’s a coping mechanism, so I’ve come to realize. She’s possibly even holding her breath. Sometimes, I think she’s changed more than any of us, and then she shuts down and I’m not so sure.
Lucy tucks her hands between her thighs, leaning forward girlishly. “It’s about what you said in your email, Jess, about Holly being conceived that night...at the Montague Club.”
“What about it?” I ask, my heart bouncing uncomfortably. Beside me, Priyanka is sitting very still.
“Well, why did you think that, exactly?”
“Because Holly told us...in her letter.”
“Oh.” She picks up her drink.
I don’t like this one bit. I glance at Priyanka, who looks back at me uneasily. I thought we were past this point, with no more surprises, but obviously not.
Lucy sticks her hair behind her ears, frowning. “Okay. Here’s the thing... I don’t know if this changes anything for you, but I know for a fact that she wasn’t conceived that night.”
I think about this, striving to take it in.
“What? That can’t be right.” I look at her skeptically. “How do you know that?”
She lowers her voice as a waiter hovers nearby, seeing to another table. When she looks at me, she’s emotional—her eyes filling with tears—and I know she’s telling the truth. “Because Nicky lost the baby.”
I gaze in confusion at the glass of wine in front of me, the steam and spices tingling my nose. “How...? When?”
“At around twenty-two weeks. She miscarried and had to go to hospital.” She pauses, wrapping her hands around her glass to warm them. “I went with her.”
“Holly lied?” Priyanka says, turning to me.
No, she didn’t. Surely not? None of this makes sense.
“I wasn’t surprised about the miscarriage, if I’m completely honest. I thought something like that might happen...” Lucy sighs, hooking a grapefruit slice out of her drink, placing it on a napkin. I watch the wine soaking the paper, slowly spreading.
“...She was out late every night, drinking, smoking, which she’d always been very anti up till then.” She looks at us each in turn, trying to catch Steffie’s eye beside her. Yet Steffie’s gone, off in her own world, staring out of the window. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying she did it deliberately. I think she was just out of control because of what happened to her, and losing the baby was a direct result of that. I don’t think she would have loved it, though. I mean, how could you? So, in a way, it was a blessing.”
A blessing? No, it wasn’t.
None of this was a blessing. I hate it when people do that—try to find the silver lining. Sometimes there isn’t one. There’s a dirty top and a filthy underbelly and a rotten middle.
Still, I’m not going to argue. “What happened after that?” I ask.
“Well, she got worse. She dropped out of the course and fell behind with the payments on our flat. Kim had had enough by that point and left, and I was pleased to see her go because we were arguing constantly. So, then it was just me and Nicky, but eventually I couldn’t take it anymore either. Alcohol, different men staying over... I didn’t feel safe in my own home and I was worried about her. But when I tried to talk to her, she told me to mind my own business. In the end, although I hated going, I gave her my new address and moved out.”
“And that was it?” Priyanka says, looking at me out of the corner of her eye.
I know what she’s thinking: You left her? Twice? Once at the Montague Club, and then again when you left her to die a long slow death.
But that’s too easy, dumping this on the lap of the nearest woman. Lucy wasn’t responsible for her. She was a young student, with her own life and future to worry about.
“Where was her mum?” I ask. “What happened to her?”
“Not sure.” She shrugs. “Nicky was always funny about her. I think she had mental health problems, from what I could gather. I did try phoning her, but she never answered. I got the feeling that once Nicky reached a certain stage, her mum couldn’t cope with it.”
“Poor Nicky,” Priyanka murmurs.
“I didn’t know what to do.” Lucy plays with the bowl of nuts, turning it around. “If I could have helped her, I would have. But back then, you couldn’t just go online to find out what to do and where to get advice.”
“Did you see her again, after you moved out?” I ask.
“No. I wanted to, but I did my year out in London, and by the time I’d returned and got around to looking her up, she wasn’t there. And no one knew where she was.”
“She disappeared,” Priyanka says quietly.
“And then, out of the blue, she wrote to me at my parents’ address.” She looks about for her bag, swiveling to unhook it from her chair. “I still have the picture she sent me... Here, look.”
She takes a photo from an envelope, setting it down on the table. “It was the last time I ever heard from her.”
These words seem to cut right through me. I’m frightened that if I touch the photo, I’ll be breaking a spell—standing between Nicky and the last human connection with her. So, I look from a distance, like we always did, separated by time, by someone else’s account of the past, never our own.
It’s Nicky, smiling, holding a little girl in her arms. A happy little girl.
“You can keep it,” Lucy says.
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “I think you should. I’ve got one, anyway. We found it among Holly’s things.” And I’m reaching for my bag, going to my purse to show her what I mean, when she turns over the photo on the table, tapping it with her fingernail.
“Look at the date.” She makes it easy for me, placing it right under my nose.
I recognize the neat, methodical handwriting: July 1994. Holly. 1 year, 10 months.
“Oh my God. So, she was born in...” Priyanka does the math quickly on her fingers. “...September 1992. Nearly two years after the night at the Montague Club. She couldn’t have been their daughter.”
“Told you,” Lucy says.
“Okay. So, she wasn’t a blood relative,” Priyanka says defensively. “I never thought it was a big part of this, in any case.”
“But it was,” I say. “I mean, we wouldn’t have taken it so seriously if it hadn’t been for the daughter claim, would we?” I look at Steffie, who’s watching me attentively.
“Well, maybe that’s why, then.” Priyanka picks up her drink, wincing as she tastes it. It’s not great; the ginger is way too much. “She knew the allegation would be stronger if she said one of them was her father.”
“Who was the father, then?” I ask Lucy.
She exhales, cupping her face in her hand. “I’m not sure. She included a letter with the photo, but it was very vague. All she said was that she’d met a man at a party and that he was nice—an artist. But she hadn’t told him about the baby—wanted to go it alone.”
“An artist.” I nod. “Well, that’s the first thing that’s made sense.”
“And what happened after that?” Priyanka asks.
“Nothing. My career was taking off. I was traveling a lot. I always meant to try to track her down, but never did.”
“Well, she followed you—you and Kim,” I say, looking directly at her. “She collected press cuttings of everything you achieved.”
“Really?” She flushes red.
I don’t say this to make her feel guilty. At least, not consciously. Yet I can’t think of any other reason why I’d have said it.
“I did try to help her, Jess,” she says, brow furrowing. “We even spoke to a lawyer, but it was clear that she’d never be able to prove it... Of course, it didn’t help that Kim kept saying it wasn’t rape—that she’d seen it with her own eyes. I think that was what got to Nicky the most—the fact that no one believed her.”
“I did,” I say.
“Me too. Not that it made any difference.”
“What do you think Holly wanted?” Steffie asks no one in particular. “Her mother must have told her there wasn’t going to be any justice. So why do you suppose she contacted us?”
I gaze at her, in her fluffy white turtleneck and tiny white earrings.
None of us can answer that. I’m going to have to get used to the idea that we’ll probably never know.
Yeah, like that’s going to sit well with me.
I drink the overbearing mulled rosé, trying not to swallow a star anise. “By the way, Lucy, we never thanked you properly for saying you’d be a witness. We didn’t threaten them with it—didn’t have to. But it was handy to have in our arsenal.”
“No problem. Anytime. It’s always there if you need it.”
“Thanks.”
I won’t tell her about the portrait of her that’s going to be hanging in the club. It doesn’t look much like her anyway, not anymore. I don’t suppose she’ll ever know it’s there.
But we will. She’s part of the story. Because she was there on the night at the Montague Club.
“The rosé’s delicious.” I raise my glass.
It was worth saying that just to see the look on Steffie’s face.
Lucy’s the first to leave, then Priyanka, who sits for a few minutes with her coat on, her bag on her lap. She has to get back for Beau, but somehow can’t move. I know how she feels. It’s been a lot.
“Pree, I’ve been thinking...” I say, turning sideways in my seat. “We have five daughters between us. So that’s eight women total. Couldn’t we all look after Beau?”
She looks confused, jaded. “How?”
“I dunno, but surely we could work something out, if you were to tell us what you needed. We could come over on weekends and evenings, just to give you a break. What do you reckon?”
She fiddles with the stiff white tablecloth, biting her lip.
I look at Steffie for her input, opening my eyes at her. Thankfully, she takes the hint.
“I think it’s a good idea,” she says. “My daughters are definitely at an age where they could help.”
“It’s too much,” Priyanka replies. “It’s not your responsibility. This is my problem, not yours.”
This really gets to me, after all we’ve been through. I stop her hand from fiddling with the cloth, pressing it firmly. “For God’s sake, Pree. We’re not offering to breastfeed him or pay his bloody university fees.”
She blurts a laugh, tutting at me.
“It would just be a couple hours here and there, to see you through this tricky bit—or for however long you needed it. Whatever you wanted.”
“Okay.” She nods. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” I say, sitting back in my seat, satisfied.
It may be my imagination, but when she stands to leave, she seems less burdened and I’m hoping I’ve lightened her load a little. But as I say, I could be imagining it. Sometimes, I give myself more credit than is due.
“I’ll call you,” Priyanka says, buttoning up her parka, taking her leave.
I feel very sad after she’s gone. If I had my way, we’d all be living in some kind of commune, helping each other out. But people don’t live like that—not in Bath, anyway.
“Are you all right?” Steffie asks.
I shrug; I don’t want to go home yet. Both the girls are out. The house will feel lonely. “I don’t suppose you fancy another drink?”
“Why not?” She smiles.
We order a normal wine without bits floating in it, and sit in silence. The snow’s coming down thicker. I’m thinking about Nicky and Holly. When I’m not thinking about my girls or my mum, I’m thinking about them.
“I’m sorry, Jess,” Steffie says, at length.
“What for?”
“I was watching your face when Lucy said Holly wasn’t their daughter... I know you were upset, especially after all the work you’ve done for her at the club.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I think I’d have done it anyway.”
“I’m not so sure,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s not just about the genetics. It’s the fact that she lied.”
“I know.”
Sometimes she’s brighter than she looks.
I look at where Lucy was sat, her chair askew where she pushed it aside, the grapefruit segment lying on the napkin, a cluster of money tossed onto the table to cover the bill. She didn’t even bother counting the notes. So financially fluid, so confident. Nicky must have longed for a bit of that.
“Jess, I need to talk to you about something,” Steffie says.
“Yep. Go ahead.” I’m still looking at the grapefruit, so it takes me a moment to grasp what’s happening.
I watch her carefully, my heart picking up pace.
“It’s about when Dan died...” She fiddles with her earring, selecting her words. “I...”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I glance nervously around the room. We’re not that far from the club. This place could be crawling with Montague cronies. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“But I want to.” She stops fiddling, lifts her shoulders. “I killed him. He wasn’t going to kill himself. I thought he was, at first—that’s why I went. But I don’t think he was the type. He was too self-preserving. He just wanted to scare me, or hurt me. So I placed my hand over his, lifted the gun to his head, pressed as hard as I could, and it went off.”
I open my mouth, stunned. Again, I glance around the room, wiping my palms on my jeans.
“I did it in cold blood. I wanted him dead. He said it was his idea to assault Nicky and that she wasn’t worth it.” She wells up. “She was with me in that room. I felt her with me, Jess.”
I reach for her hand. It’s petite, soft, and it’s then that I realize why she said we.
“Did he threaten you with the gun?” I ask.
She pulls her hand away to pick up her napkin, dabbing her eyes. “Yes. He said he would shoot me if I didn’t stay back.” She can barely say the words.
“Then it was self-defense. He got you there under false pretenses, threatened you with violence. He was a nasty bully. And you know what else he was.”
She looks at me, a little smudge of mascara underneath her eye. “I know,” she says.
I waited a long time to hear that. Sometimes, it’s not just them we’ve got to hear it from; it’s us too.
Picking up my wine, I sip it, thinking. The room has thinned out a little. The waiter is gathering plates and tips, his shoes squeaking discreetly.
This revelation doesn’t change anything. No one knows but us. We could pretend it never happened. For once, I wouldn’t have to tell the truth. For the first time in my life, it wouldn’t matter.
“Do you know what, Steffie?”
She drops her napkin, tears dried, emotions checked. “What?”
I could say anything. She’s waiting for me, hanging on my words, their unofficial leader.
I’ll never know if I led them the right way.
“I think we should forget all about it. We should pretend this conversation never took place and that nothing untoward ever happened in that room, aside from in 1990. It’s over, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, and then turns to look out of the window, watching the snow fall.