JEN
Julia Jones apologises for being late – she says another bloody Brexit crisis meeting overran.
‘I’m so grateful to you for taking part. I know the Mail isn’t your favourite paper.’
‘No, you’re right there, but at least you know where you stand with them,’ she replies. ‘And I’m grateful for their support for the charity. That kind of money will make a real difference.’
Penelope swoops into the room to greet her and, although she’s written some vile things about the Labour Party during her career, with Julia she’s all charm and smiles. The MP, in turn, is gracious and polite. She asks Penelope if she could use the bathroom – she got stuck in a traffic jam on the high street, she says, and so she decided to jump out of the taxi and run the last bit to the house.
Penelope announces lunch is served at the kitchen table – nothing fancy, she says, just poached salmon, new potatoes, with roasted vegetables – and asks if anyone would like a drink. Julia, stepping into the room again, is the first to say ‘yes’. She knocks back the fizz and then holds her glass out for another. I tell Penelope I’ll have a drink a little later, once I’ve finished the interview. We climb the steps to the top of the house and in the study we make a little more small talk about politics. She takes another gulp of the champagne and, before I even ask a question, she starts to talk about that day on the Heath.
‘And you mentioned that you’ve been having nightmares?’
‘Yes, awful. Just terrible. All about Harry, my son who … who died.’ She takes another sip of her drink. ‘I’m with him, in India. We’re trekking on the side of a mountain. He’s laughing. He looks so young, so handsome. Sometimes he turns into a boy before my eyes, and I tell him that he seems to be getting more youthful by the minute. His eyes sparkle, his teeth are so white that when he smiles the light from his mouth almost blinds me. Then a shadow passes across his face. He takes a step back, reaches out to me, asks me to save him, but then the ground gives way underneath him and he falls, falls so far, and disappears. I wake up just when …’
She bites her lip as she tries to stop herself from crying. ‘I know it’s twenty years now since I lost him, but … Anyway, yes if you’re wondering whether there’s a link between seeing the murder–suicide on the Heath and the resurgence of these kind of painful memories, I’d say the answer is yes. Obviously, the deaths were very different. We witnessed a terrible, shocking murder and then a suicide, while Harry’s death was … an accident.’ There’s something odd about the way she says this last word, as if she’s not sure. ‘And of course, there’s this too.’ She holds up an empty glass. ‘I’ve told myself that I’m going to cut back once Brexit is over. But will that ever happen?’ She laughs hollowly. ‘Actually, I could do with a top-up.’
I offer to go and fill her glass, but she refuses. She’s more than happy to do it herself and she says she needs the loo anyway. I take the opportunity to check the tape has worked. I look through my notes and questions, check my phone and reply to a few emails. What’s taking Julia so long? She should be back by now. I look out of the study window and spot Julia in the garden puffing on a cigarette. I didn’t know she smoked. Penelope comes to fill up her glass and the two women start to talk. Shit. Penelope could be quizzing her for hours.
I look around the study and, after examining the bookshelves, I come to stand by the desk. On it there’s a large pad of blotting paper, framed in brass, an object that strikes me as belonging to another, more antique, age. When was the last time I’d used blotting paper? Was it some time at school? Something to do with chemistry? Yes, it involved dabbing some ink onto blotting paper with water and watching the black or blue separate into different colours. I remember the teacher telling us at the time to take note that things were often not what they always seemed on the surface. ‘The experiment goes to show that appearances can be deceptive,’ she said.
I run my fingers across the smooth surface of the pad, but there’s something underneath. I lift the frame to find a green cardboard file. I bring it out and place it across the desk. For a moment, I freeze. This isn’t mine, I tell myself. Put it back where you found it and pretend you never looked. But then my curiosity gets the better of me and I open it. At the top of an otherwise blank sheet of A4 paper is the name ‘Rebecca Shaw’. Bex.