JESS

I wait for Gavin, my boss, to be out for lunch and Mary to be safely installed inside the filing room before picking up the phone. I’d have preferred to have talked it through with Priyanka first, but she’s got her little boy home sick and I remember what those days were like. I’ll have to get on with this without her because if I put it off any longer, I’ll lose my nerve.

Kim Turner lives in a posh area on the east side of Bath, the right side of the city for London. As Priyanka said, the phone numbers were written by Holly. I’ve compared the handwriting to her letter and it’s the same. She must have tracked them down, just like she did with us.

I dial Kim’s number, chewing my thumbnail. She doesn’t answer. Hanging up, I pace the carpet.

I can’t give up that easily. So, I try again. And this time she picks up. “Good afternoon, K&L. Kim speaking?”

I’ve done my research. Originally, I was hoping K&L stood for Kim and Lucy, but that would have been too good to be true, as well as a bit girlie and way too easy. Nothing about this is easy. You’d have thought I’d know that by now.

K&L is Kim’s business management consultancy. It looks like her father and his contacts came through for her after all, just like Nicky knew they would. She’s been in business since 1995, making her about twenty-five when she started her own company. Nicky would have needed twenty more years of hard work to have achieved the same.

“Hello, this is Jess Jackson.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my trousers. “I’m sorry to ring out of the blue, but I was hoping I could meet with you about a private matter?”

“What’s it in connection with?”

“Nicola Waite.”

She inhales abruptly. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time.”

How long? But I don’t want to get into that yet, not over the phone. I want to look her in the eye. If she’ll let me.

“Could we meet please, by any chance?” I ask as gently as possible. I can be gentle sometimes.

She takes her time responding. I wonder for a moment if she’s still there. And then she speaks, more slowly, guardedly. “How do you know her, exactly?”

I’ve prepared two options: truth and lie.

I go for the lie. “We were at school together.”

“You don’t sound Northern.”

Shit.

Flustered, I reach for the truth. “My husband was at the Montague Club that night.” I wince, close my eyes.

“I’m sorry. I can’t get into this.”

“I understand,” I say quickly, “but can I just ask—are you aware that she died?”

Her voice sounds very far away when she replies. “Yes.”

“How did you know?”

“Lucy told me. Lucy O’Neill.”

“Oh, so you’re still in touch?”

“Not really. We fell out a long time ago.”

“Over Nicky?” I wait.

The filing room door opens and Mary appears. Her timing couldn’t be worse. I stare down at the floor, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Look, I don’t know who you are, or what you want,” Kim is saying. “But whatever you think happened, you’re wrong. You can’t believe a word she ever said... Please don’t contact me again.”

And before I can do anything about it, she hangs up.

I continue to speak into the phone to prevent Mary from approaching. It doesn’t work, though. “Phew, I’m glad that’s all done. I hate filing!” She claps her hands, rubs them together. “Cappuccino?”

I’m busy for the rest of the day and the next, so there’s no chance to call Lucy. But this is a pitiful excuse. There’s always time to make a phone call. No one’s that busy.

It’s just that I can’t get Kim’s words out of my head—the way she said it, like it was fact.

You can’t believe a word she ever said.

What if Lucy says the same thing? If she does, I may have to give up. What grounds would I have to carry on? Stephanie’s been clear all along about what she wants, and although Priyanka seems to want to help, it’s all a bit yada yada. She hasn’t been in touch all week. Granted, her lad’s poorly, but even so, I reckon she’d be happy never to hear from me again.

Friday is Gavin’s birthday, so he takes the six of us from work to an Italian restaurant for lunch. It’s a beautiful day, the sort that Bath was made for, sunshine lighting the honey limestone of the luxurious Georgian buildings, designed in lines and circles with the geometrical precision of honeycomb itself.

I don’t often see it this way, as a local resident, but today—after two glasses of wine—I’m full of awe. On our way back from the restaurant, we pass a shop front adorned with fake roses and I know it’ll only be a matter of time before the council takes it down. There are strict rules here. New-builds must be in keeping with the city’s architectural heritage. Residents in listed buildings have to file a request if they want a nonstandard color for their front door. I know a woman who fought a yearlong battle for a green door, and lost.

There’s a price to pay for this kind of beauty and civility. It doesn’t just happen.

We take a shortcut through the square, everyone talking loudly, pigeons scattering. As we pass the Montague Club, I glance at the unmarked door, thinking of the portrait of Sir Graves and the long line of males made in his image, and realize I’m ready to call Lucy.

While the others go inside the office, I make an excuse about needing to call Beechcroft Home and walk a little way along the pavement. I don’t want anyone to hear, so I scan the building’s face for open windows.

Lucy O’Neill is CEO and cofounder—with her father, over twenty years ago—of LRC Ltd., providing employee training packages throughout Europe on a whole range of subjects, including harassment prevention, so I noticed.

She answers right away and seems nicer than Kim, if you can tell that sort of thing over the phone.

“Hi there! This is Lucy.” Bubbly, positive. Still horsey, though, like Kim.

“Hi, this is Jess J—”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you right there. I’m at the airport, going to Geneva, and they’re calling my gate.” There’s an announcement behind her—loud, echoey. “I can’t hear you very well. Did you say it’s Jess from R&P? Phone Stacey. She’ll sort you out.”

“I... When will you be back?”

“Two weeks, sweetie.”

Sweetie? Two weeks? My heart sinks. I try to think of a way to speed things up, but can’t. I need to speak to her face-to-face, in person. She’s my only hope.

Of what? What am I even doing? It’s cold out here. I should be indoors in the warm, doing my job, flirting with Elliott, drinking Mary’s cappuccinos, keeping my family together and prioritizing them like Priyanka and Stephanie are doing.

At the window above, an elderly resident is watching me, her pale face close to the window. She reminds me of my mum and I feel ashamed.

Do I actually care about Nicky and Holly, or am I just angry, wanting someone—Max—to pay for what he’s putting me through?

I don’t think this is what Mum would tell me to do. She’d put the girls first.

I’m about to hang up, when I realize Lucy’s beaten me to it. I guess they really were calling her gate.

An hour later, I’m deep into sulking, the way I do when I know I’m right and everyone else is wrong, when something unexpected happens.

Lucy calls me back.

“Hi, Jess, have you changed your number? This isn’t the one I’ve got for you. Anyhoo, I felt bad cutting you off. I know you’ve been having some issues. Can you chat now? I’m on the plane.”

She doesn’t sound as though she’s on the plane. It’s very quiet. But then she’ll be flying first class, not in a cramped cabin surrounded by screaming kids.

“Jess...? Are you there?”

I have to put her straight. If I were so inclined, I’d use this case of mistaken identity as a way in. But I’m sick of lies, plus I’ve been drinking and don’t trust myself to carry it off.

“I’m not who you think I am,” I murmur, walking the phone out of the office, down the corridor to the front door. Stepping outside, I hug myself on the top step, wishing I’d brought my coat. “I’m Jess Jackson, a friend of Nicky Waite’s.”

Silence.

I gaze up at the blue sky, watching a seagull riding the current, wings gleaming. “Hello?”

“I’m here,” she says. “You just caught me by surprise, that’s all. I’ve not heard that name in a very long while.”

“That’s what Kim said.”

“Kim Turner? You’ve spoken to her?”

“Yes.”

I’d like her to make the next move. It shouldn’t be me all the time. It feels like it’s always me.

“God, I haven’t spoken to Kim in years.” She sighs and then swallows something. I picture a glamorous woman, legs curled underneath her, sipping champagne among the clouds. “Not since we graduated. We fell out big-time. And now it’s just a round-robin email every few years and Christmas cards... Doesn’t that sound complete nonsense?” She laughs.

Yes, it does, but I don’t say anything. I sense that I’ve found a talker. At last.

I remember seeing butterflies in the garden as a child, creeping up to them as they rested on the wall, wings spread. Closer I’d creep. If I stepped on a twig or kicked a stone, they’d be off in a puff of dust.

“Nicky died, didn’t she? I think that’s the last time Kim and I swapped personal emails, when I contacted her to tell her... Oh, yes, please. Thank you...” Her voice is muffled, changes direction. Bottle and glass clinking. “I didn’t know a thing about it at the time. The first I knew was when her daughter wrote to tell me, about a year after it happened. What was her name? Hannah, Helen?”

“Holly.”

“Yes, that was it. It was a bit odd, really. She didn’t give me any way to contact her in return, so it felt one-sided, like a hit-and-run. She just wanted to tell me that her mother had died of an overdose and she didn’t believe it was accidental—she’d been deteriorating for years. Well, obviously I was upset to hear this, especially when she said it was because of what had happened to her in—” She stops.

There’s a long pause.

“Kim told me that you couldn’t trust a word Nicky ever said,” I say. “Is that true?”

“No, it isn’t!” She laughs scornfully. “That’s so Kim. Now you see why we fell out. She used to have it in for Nicky. I always thought she was jealous of her, quite frankly.”

Jealous...of Nicky?

“So, she was an honest person, in your opinion?” I ask. “You could trust her?”

“Absolutely! She just didn’t have the easiest start in life, that’s all. I don’t think Kim had ever met anyone like her before and didn’t know how to take her. But Nicky was fine—more than fine. I liked her a lot. I was very sad to hear she’d died.”

How sad? Sad enough to help us?

“I need to talk to you in person, Lucy. It’s important. Do you think we could meet when you return?”

“I could probably sort something out, yes. Where are you based?”

“Bath.”

“Oh, well, that’s easy, then. Why not...? I always felt I could have done more for her. I think about her sometimes, you know?”

Yes. I think I’d have done more for Nicky too, had I been in her shoes.

But then who’s to say? People in their early twenties aren’t known for their excellent choices. At that age, I was too busy holding a grudge against my parents to have a care about anyone else.

“I’ll have my PA, Stacey, set something up,” she says.

“Okay.”

We’re about to end the call, when she adds something. “Sorry, how did you say you knew Nicky, again?”

If she’s who I think she is—not exactly a social activist, but not at peace about Nicky either—she’ll set up the meeting, no matter what I say. And I won’t be cornering her, doing it under false pretenses. I’m tired of forcing people to do the right thing. Was this how Holly felt, rounding up the key players, trying to persuade them to have a conscience?

People aren’t butterflies. And I’m not five frigging years old anymore.

As I speak, I kick a pine cone from the step, shuttling it across the road, knowing I’ve nothing left to lose. “I think my husband raped her.”

“Oh my God! I wasn’t expecting you to say that...” She’s pausing to have a long drink, by the sounds of things. I don’t blame her.

Does she remember the men? Is she bringing their faces to mind, wondering which one I was stupid enough to marry?

“Okay, now I get it... Don’t worry. Stacey will be in touch. We’ll talk.”

There’s hope in that voice, in our conversation. It feels like a small victory, one that I can’t celebrate because nothing about it spells good news.

I return indoors, heading straight for the bathroom, where I hold my hands underneath the hot air dryer, warming myself up so that I can be of use this afternoon and type.

Ten minutes later, I receive a text from her. I read it under my desk, my heart thumping.