JEN
I quickly draw the interview to a close and usher Steven down the stairs. He asks me whether there’s something wrong, but I tell him not to worry. I thank him again for his time and his honesty. Downstairs I find that Ayesha Ahmed is already here. I go through the motions of greeting her, thanking her, introducing her to Steven, but my mind is elsewhere. I tell everyone I just need to make a quick phone call. I step into the back garden feeling as though there’s not enough oxygen in the air. I quickly dial Bex’s number. She doesn’t pick up. I dial it again, but this time using WhatsApp. I hear a click.
‘Jen?’
‘What … what were you doing that day, on the Heath? The day of the murder–suicide.’
‘Erm – I was meeting you, remember?’
‘I know – but before. Before you met me.’
She goes quiet.
‘I’ve just spoken to Steven, Steven Walker. And he told me that he saw you talking to Laurence before the attack.’
I hear her take a deep breath and then exhale. ‘Jen, it’s something I wanted to tell you, something I should have told you a while back.’
I let her speak.
‘It’s not something you’re going to like. But you’ll understand why I didn’t tell you, or at least I hope you will.’
‘Go on.’
‘I was walking up to meet you on the Heath when we bumped into one another, almost literally. I was coming round the corner, you know where the loos are, opposite the café? Laurence didn’t see me and nearly ran into me. We talked for a while before he ran off, and that’s why I was late to meet you.’
‘But why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I know, and I’m sorry. I was about to tell you, but …’
‘But what?’
‘Do you remember the first night we met Laurence? In the French House?’
The question takes me aback. Why is she talking about this now?
‘Yes, of course, but I don’t understand—’
‘We’d all had plenty to drink. You went back to your flat in south London and Laurence and I shared a cab back north.’
What’s she going to say? I almost don’t want her to tell me. I wish she’d stop, that she’d cut the connection.
‘At the end of the journey he asked me into his house for another drink and—’
‘What? You slept with him?’
I hear what sounds like crying.
‘I had a drink, and after that I can’t remember anything else. It’s a blank. But … but I think … Jen, I think he … raped me.’
I can’t take in the enormity of what she’s saying. I’m unable to speak, as if my tongue is paralysed.
‘I woke up in his bed. I could remember getting out of the cab, going into this house, saying what a nice place he had, and taking a sip of wine. After that … nothing.’
I remember Laurence’s bed. I recall the feel of the sheets, the smell of our two bodies together. ‘But you had sex?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Fuck! So he drugged you? Some kind of date-rape drug like Rohypnol?’
‘I don’t know.’
I suddenly feel sick. I spent five years of my life with Laurence. A man who has not only stalked me, sent me creepy messages, attacked me on the Heath, but one who had raped my best friend. ‘Oh God, Bex, but why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was going to, I really was, but I wasn’t sure what had happened. Whether anything had happened. It would be my word against his. And then you started to date him. I thought it might fizzle out after a few weeks. I didn’t think you’d be a … proper couple.’
Hearing these words makes me want to scream. I turn to see the little group of strangers in the kitchen. Penelope. Steven. Ayesha. Jamie. His lovely dog lying in a spot of sunshine. The doors to the garden are closed, no one can hear my conversation, but Penelope stands up and stares at me through the glass with a concerned expression. I move away and walk down the lawn to stand under the magnolia tree. The white and pink flowers split open like something indecent. I hear the sound of a bird singing in a nearby tree. The peace and beauty of the moment sit in contrast to what I’m feeling inside. It’s a kind of anger I’ve never felt before. A fury that goes beyond what’s happened to me. A rage that desires revenge.
I try to keep my voice steady. I think back to the early days of my relationship with Laurence. Initially, I had picked up a certain coldness between Laurence and Bex, but I’d put it down to some kind of unconscious rivalry for my affections.
‘How could you still be friends with him? After what he’d done?’
‘I suppose for y-you,’ she says, as sobs begin to fragment her voice.
‘And what about that day? On the Heath?’
She sniffs and blows her nose. ‘He started to flirt with me. He said how well I was looking. He told me … he told me that he was just coming to the end of a relationship.’
‘With Vicky Da Silva?’
‘He didn’t mention a name.’
‘And then what?’
‘He asked me out on a date.’
‘What?’
‘I know, I know.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I felt like punching him in the face, but of course I didn’t. I told him to fuck off, in a jokey kind of way. Not that I should have tried to let him down gently.’
‘For God’s sake, Bex. After what he did to you?’