I opt for sterling gray eyes. I don’t want to express anything other than my ability to listen, and gray gives nothing away.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” I crouch down, lacing up my Doc Martens.
“Yep. Got the football pumped and ready,” Andy says, like the nonsportsman he is. “We’ll be fine, won’t we, buddy?” He ruffles Beau’s hair, who’s going cross-eyed trying to look at a cookie while eating it.
I’ve told them I’m doing the Christmas shopping, even though it’s only the tenth of October. Andy won’t question it, though, because he leaves gift buying to me.
“Call me if you need anything.” I grab my parka coat and squat to kiss Beau. “Enjoy the park, cutie pie.” I go on tiptoes to kiss Andy. “Don’t forget to defrost the chicken.”
“Will do.” Andy’s wearing a new hoodie with a line in the middle where it was folded in the packaging. It makes me so sad, that line.
“’Bye, Mummy,” Beau says, crumbs cascading.
I hope they don’t watch me from the door, but they do. I make a show of being cheerful and waving as I drive away, even though my tummy’s doing loop the loops and I can’t smile without my mouth wobbling.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
By the time I arrive at Carol’s, my mouth is so dry, it makes a clicking sound whenever I open it. This feels like a sign that I should keep it shut.
The café is dingy, down a back alley near the main street. It’s the only one of its kind in the city that I know of. Bath isn’t known for its greasy spoons. Jess Jackson has chosen well. No one can see inside; the windows are steamed up.
As the door jingles open and the smell of fried onions hits me, I’m more worried about slipping than finding the others. There are dripping coats and brollies everywhere, water dripping on the floor. Staff are shouting orders; fluorescent stars advertising sausage rolls flutter under fans.
It doesn’t seem conducive to discreet conversation, and then I notice one of those old-fashioned pointing finger signs and realize there’s another floor.
Climbing the narrow stairs, I feel panicky. Near the top, I take a moment. No one can see me. I rest my back against the banister, placing my hand on my racing heart, which I can feel even through my coat.
I can’t go in there like this. I must remember what I’m doing, who I am.
I’m neutral. I’m gray.
Jess is sitting alone in the corner, wearing the puffer jacket she wore when she accosted me at Tadpoles. She’s not aware of me yet, so I catch her unguarded. She has her arms wrapped around her as though cold; her face is pinched with worry. She looks like she’s just lost someone. Maybe she has.
I consider backing away. Then she looks at me and I have no choice but to approach, wondering whether I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.
She stands to greet me, clutching my wrist in a fumbling way that reminds me of the elderly when they’re about to fall. “Priyanka. Thanks for coming.”
She smells of fabric conditioner; a comforting scent. I imagine her doing the laundry, getting the shopping, deciding whether frangipani and red fruits will smell nice on their clothes. All these little things that make up a person’s life—things that don’t matter in the long run.
Taking off my coat, I sit down opposite her, pulling my sleeves over my hands so that she can’t see the butterfly tattoo.
She picks up her mug, scrutinizes me. “You’ve changed your eyes.”
“Well done for noticing.” I smile broadly, as though she hasn’t gone straight for the jugular.
She’s still assessing me—doesn’t try to disguise it. “I like your nose stud. Is it an emerald?”
“Yes. It’s my birthstone.”
“Me too! Taurus?”
I shake my head. “Gemini.”
“Great.” She laughs dryly. “So, I’m stubborn. And you’re, what, divided in two? We haven’t a hope.”
Of doing what?
She takes a sip from the mug. Her nails are bitten so short, the skin looks tender, puffy. “Do you change your hair color too?” she asks.
“Nope. Always pink.” I glance nervously around the room. We’re the only ones here. There are PVC covers on the tables and spindly mahogany chairs. On the walls are tin pictures of the Roman Baths and the Royal Crescent, and historic photos of people standing outside the front of the café’s original building, wearing long aprons. I gaze at one of the women, and she stares back at me in the unblinking way that dead people do.
“Have you been here before?” I ask, for something to say.
“Once. With a client... Don’t ask.” She smiles, picks at her bun, extracting a currant. I watch as though she’s doing brain surgery. “Sorry about the other day, by the way—following you to work. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“That’s okay. I get it.”
She gazes at me anxiously just like she did in the car park, as though expecting something from me.
“Is the other person coming?”
“Stephanie...” she replies. “Yes... Hope so, anyway.” She picks at the bun again, her shoulders taut, high.
Thankfully, the waitress arrives to break the tension, a teenage girl with a thick plait of hair. I order a cappuccino, then change to a filter coffee and back to a cappuccino, all of which Jess appears to find highly interesting.
And then from behind the waitress, there’s a ruffle of movement, the sound of high heels on floorboards. I lean back in my chair to see who’s coming.
“Whoops! Sorry!” The waitress turns too quickly, right into the newcomer’s path, who looks none too pleased.
Jess stands up to greet her. “Hi, Stephanie. Thanks so much for coming.”
Stephanie nods formally. She’s not classically beautiful; her nose is turned up and her teeth slightly bucked, yet she has amazing posture and her blond hair is piled into a fussy updo, her lipstick the same shade of red as her coat. I doubt Carol’s has seen the like before.
“Hi. I’m Priyanka.” I remain seated, unable to stop staring at her.
“Hello.” Her eyes brush over me as she sits down, checking the seat for crumbs, touching her hair into place as she settles.
“Would you like a drink?” Jess asks politely.
She seems to consider this a difficult question and takes so long thinking about it that Jess moves on.
“So, obviously this is a very strange situation and none of us want to be here, but I’d just like to get something straight—we’ve never heard of each other before. Is that right?”
“Yes,” I say.
Stephanie’s sitting very still and upright. You’d have thought she was here just to take the committee minutes.
“That’s what I thought. And that’s odd, isn’t it? Bath’s a small place and our husbands all belong to the Montague Club... Correct?” She looks at us in turn.
We emit sounds of agreement, Stephanie barely moving her lips.
“And what about Holly Waite? Had you heard of her?”
“No.” I glance at Stephanie, who shakes her head.
“Well, there we go, then. Our husbands must know each other, yet our paths have never crossed. So that’s weird, isn’t it?”
No one replies because the waitress has returned with my cappuccino, slopping it everywhere. “Can I get you anything else, ladies?”
We look at Stephanie. “No, thank you,” she says quietly.
As the waitress withdraws, Jess takes off her puffer. Her clothes—sporty, colorless—remind me of my students on dress-down day at school.
“So, I don’t know about you,” she says, “but I’ve been racking my brains about why this person would have written to us unless there was some truth in it. I mean, why bother?”
“Money?” I suggest.
“But she was dying.”
“As far as we know,” Stephanie says. “Why would we trust anything she says? How do we even know who she is? She might not be Holly Waite, but someone else entirely.”
Her voice is very soft, with a prominent s sound that hisses, lingers. Perhaps she’s self-conscious about it, so keeps her voice down. Or maybe she’s just demure. Could her back be any straighter?
“But why lie about something like that?” Jess asks.
“For all kinds of reasons.”
“Really?” Jess folds her arms. “Name one.”
Stephanie hesitates. It strikes me that she’s not a confident speaker—that her vocabulary might be limited. I see this at school day in, day out. Some people love being put on the spot, challenged; others recoil from it. She doesn’t seem articulate, educated, but I wouldn’t want to bet on it. People can surprise you.
“Attention... Revenge...” she ventures.
“For what?” Jess sits forward, her cheeks coloring. “Why would she want revenge, unless there were some truth in this?”
Somehow Stephanie manages to sit up even straighter. “Girls lie all the time. I have three daughters. I should know.”
I can’t comment on that, not having daughters. But Beau lies. It’s not exclusive to girls.
“It’s almost as though you want this to be true,” Stephanie says, gazing into space.
“Of course I don’t. But I do think we need to discuss it.”
“Do we?” Stephanie touches her hair, runs her tongue over her front teeth.
I watch them both, unable to decide which of them is the more fascinating. I can’t help feeling that Jess has some kind of an agenda, and that Stephanie has too, for all her appearance of indifference.
“Don’t tell me you’re seriously suggesting we should let this go,” Jess says. “Pretend we didn’t get the letter?”
I keep my eyes downcast. I haven’t touched my cappuccino yet. It’s sitting in a pool of foam on the saucer.
“Yes, I think that’s exactly what we should do,” Stephanie says to no one in particular.
Jess is looking at me now. I can feel her eyes boring into me. She wants me to say something, yet I can’t. I came here to listen. I’d like to help; my instincts are to take her side, but that could be fatal.
Already, in the space of ten minutes, it’s become about sides. I’m always awful at choosing one and tend to see both arguments. You’d think it would be a skill, but it’s often a hindrance. My big brother, Jagvir, always says that not having an opinion is a sign of weakness.
“I promise I’m not trying to make trouble,” Jess says, putting her hands on her knees, elbows wide. “But I have to be honest with you. I’m not going to be able to look the other way on this. That’s not who I am.”
I glance at her in admiration. It’s not easy to walk into a room and tell everyone who you are—that’s if you know the answer to the question in the first place. Yet she’s just done it, and I have to applaud her transparency. But I’m still not going to say anything.
I reach for my cappuccino, drawing it quietly closer, hoping no one looks at me.
“So, I think we should find out who Holly Waite was and what she wanted.”
“But why?” Stephanie asks.
Jess shifts impatiently in her seat. “So we can decide whether or not the allegation’s real.”
“And how are you intending to do that?”
“By going to the storage unit. She left us the contents. I’m guessing that’s relevant in some way, don’t you think?”
Storage unit. I remember something about that in the letter. Suddenly, I wish I hadn’t shredded it. Without it, I’m reliant on them for all the information.
“I’m sorry.” Stephanie lifts her bag, stands up. “I don’t know whether you’re a saint or just very naive, but I don’t want any part of this. I’m happily married, and what you’re suggesting could ruin our lives.”
“Don’t go!” Jess jumps up, her chair almost toppling. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I’m just getting the conversation started so we can decide what to do. You’re a part of this, Stephanie. Your name was in the letter too. We’re a...a team.”
“A team? You can’t be serious?” Her s practically sizzles.
I’m holding my mug so tightly my knuckle is burning against the hot ceramic. Stephanie is standing right next to me. If she moves suddenly, she’ll knock me in the head with her boob.
“Think about it. She could have singled one of us out, especially if she was running low on time. But she didn’t. And why do you suppose that was?” She doesn’t wait for a reply. “Because this affects all of us. She wanted us to figure it out together.”
“You don’t know that,” Stephanie says. “We’ve no idea what she wanted.”
“Then let’s find out. Please.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Jess stands very still, inhaling sharply. “Then you’re going to force me to do something I don’t want to do. If you’re not prepared to get involved, then I’ll have to go to the police.”
I let go of the mug, staring at the red mark on my finger.
What the actual hell?
Stephanie is looking at Jess in dread, holding her bag in midair. “What? Why on earth would you say a thing like that?”
“Because I can’t do this alone.”
“I don’t believe you. No one would do that to their own husband.”
“With all due respect, you don’t know me or what I’m capable of.”
Stephanie purses her lips. “What is it that you want from me?”
“Your help.” Jess’s face softens, her eyes glimmering with emotion.
“How?”
“We could go to the storage unit, start there, see what we can find out? Unless you’ve got any other ideas?” She looks at me then.
“I don’t have the address,” I say feebly.
“It’s all there in the letter.”
“I...uh...”
“You destroyed it?” she says. “Well, that figures... How about you, Stephanie? Did the dog eat it?”
I appreciate the attempt at humor, as it’s gone very tense.
“I still have the letter,” Stephanie says. “Just tell me what time you’d like me to be there.”
“Thank you.” She smiles, relieved. “How about two o’clock?”
Stephanie turns away.
“So, does that mean you’re coming?” Jess calls after her. But she’s already gone, her heels clunking on the wooden stairs.
We don’t say much after that. Jess puts on her puffer and a black tuque that makes her look even more like a boy. “See you tomorrow, then. I’ll text you the address.”
“Thanks.” Our eyes meet momentarily and I wonder whether she’s disappointed in me, but then I never gave her any sign of being an ally.
I watch her leave. She has a fast walk, her feet light on the stairs as she descends. And then it’s quiet, just me.
I look at her chipped mug and pecked bun. Stephanie left no trace: didn’t take off her coat, didn’t order anything, had no intention of staying long. Holding my head in my hands, I try to go over what was said, but the words are jumbling together. All I can think of is Jess calling us a team.
Pushing away my cold coffee, I stand up, my legs weak. If I thought this was going to disappear, I couldn’t have been more wrong. This isn’t going anywhere. Jess Jackson couldn’t have made that any clearer. And now I’m on a team I didn’t sign up for, with a goal that no one in their right mind would ever aim for.