Nemesis (11 page)

“He would have been in touch,” Siân protested, her voice breaking. “He wouldn’t have wanted his family to worry.”

“He didn’t contact you because he didn’t want to create a trail that could be followed. I know you want to believe it, but he’s not dead. He’s out there somewhere, laughing at everyone. He murdered my sister and he thinks he’s got away with it.”

Bryn did not respond. Beside him, Siân was fighting back tears. He slid his arm around her.

Natalie felt the fight drain out of her. Why was she taking it out on them, when they had obviously suffered as much as she had? When had she become such a horrible person?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am. I’m probably the only person who can appreciate exactly how you feel. But I’m tired, I’m hungry and I’ve got a headache. I feel you tricked me into being here and I’m not in the mood for your conspiracy theories. If you want to talk about this properly, to present me with a reasoned argument about why I should help you, then you can contact me through my publishers.”

15

Natalie did not watch Bryn leave. Instead she drained the orange juice Siân had bought and wished it had been something stronger. Despite feeling ravenous, now she felt any food would choke her. So she let Siân buy sandwiches to go and they headed for the next bookstore. Neither spoke. Siân was nervy and on edge (perhaps assuming she was about to be fired), and Natalie felt overwhelmed with guilt, and not quite sure how to deal with it.

The rest of the day passed quickly. Natalie did another signing session, and then the car collected them from the book store to take them to the radio station. By the time they were heading back to her hotel, Natalie had calmed down.

“I met Geraint once,” she said, to break the silence.

Siân regarded her warily.

“He seemed like a nice kid.” Geraint had apparently been five years older than her, but in her head he was forever frozen at twenty, just as Sarah would always be seventeen. “It must have been hard on you, having him disappear like that?”

Siân’s gaze slid away. “Yes.”

“You’ve had no contact from him in all this time?”

“No.”

Natalie gave up. Taking her phone from her bag, she pretended to check her messages. In reality she had none, not even a good luck one from Simon.

As the car pulled up outside her hotel, she glanced across at Siân. “See you at dinner tonight?”

Siân inclined her head but said nothing.

Natalie headed up to her room to shower and change for dinner. When she arrived at the restaurant later than evening, to be effusively greeted by Julia and the rest of the editorial team, Siân was conspicuous by her absence.

* * *

The following day, another PR girl took over from Siân and the remainder of the book tour passed without incident. By late afternoon Natalie was back in Calahurst. She let herself into her apartment and dumped her overnight bag in her bedroom. A large mug of Java Sumatra should wake her up, and then she could catch up with one of her favourite TV shows. The thought of dialling out for pizza and opening a bottle of wine also appealed.

Her kitchen was tidier than she remembered. She put it down to her cleaner having a blitz, until she picked up her kettle and found it was warm.

There was a bottle of wine missing from the rack and the oven had been set to ‘reheat’. Inside, on the centre shelf, were a couple of small green cartons with the familiar gold logo of the local Indian takeaway stamped on one side.

Simon was on the sofa watching TV. On the coffee table was the remainder of a takeaway, packed neatly back into its box. Natalie could smell the coriander and cumin before she saw the green carton - the twin of the one in her oven. Sometimes she felt he knew her better than she knew herself. And that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“Hello,” she said, and hoped she didn’t sound nervous. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.” After the row they’d had the last time she’d seen him, she hadn’t expected to see him at all.

He clicked the mute on the TV remote. “You know you’re always forgetting to eat. I thought you’d be hungry after your trip, so I bought a couple of takeaways.”

“Thanks.” She slumped onto the sofa beside him, sliding off her shoes and squeezing her toes into the thick white pile of the rug. After a day crushed in high heels it was bliss.

“There’s also a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge,” he said.

It was as though the argument had never happened.

She smiled at him. “Shall I fetch a couple of glasses?”

“Not for me, I’m driving.” He indicated an empty coke can, squashed into the takeaway carton. “I’ve got to take the drama club for an extra rehearsal later this evening. I’d cry off but we’re doing
The Wizard of Oz
this year and they’ve worked really hard.”

“You’re leaving already?”

“I had thought you would return earlier.”

“Then why don’t you come back after drama club? Please?”

His mouth finally curved into a smile. “After two hours of listening to Year 7 murder
Follow the Yellow Brick Road
? I’ll be shattered! It’ll have to be another time, Natalie.”

He leant forward to kiss her cheek - the kind of kiss you gave a maiden aunt, thought Natalie, and re-angled her face so that the kiss landed on the corner of her mouth - not quite on target, but good enough. Although she noticed he kept his eyes open throughout, so she wasn’t quite forgiven.

“Perhaps we could meet up at the weekend?” she suggested.

He got up from the sofa, scooping up the takeaway carton from the coffee table as he passed. “If you think you can fit me into your schedule.”

If that was meant as a joke, he really needed to work on his delivery.

“I’m sorry,” she said, not quite sure what she was apologising for. “You knew I was going to London, so why did you even come round?”

“I had the mistaken idea that you might want to see me.” With that, he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, presumably to load his one knife, one fork and small glass tumbler into the dishwasher.

Natalie felt like screaming. Sometimes Simon could be so infuriating. She didn’t understand him at all.

She noticed he’d left a DVD behind on the table and leant forward to pick it up. She thought it might be a recording of the rehearsals he was doing for
The Wizard of Oz
, but written across the disc in his distinctive handwriting it said:
The Camilla Hoffman Show
.

Oh bugger! Had he watched it? No wonder he was in a mood. But if he had seen it, why hadn’t he mentioned it?

When he walked back into the sitting room, she held the DVD up. “You recorded my TV interview?”

“Yes, I made some notes on your performance. When you have the time, I’ll take you through them.”

“Notes?”
She felt a sense of unease steal over her, that took her right back to her teenage years. “I thought it went OK. I sold the product, dropped in some personal stuff, everything you trained me to do
… ”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were planning a book about your sister?”

At least now it was out in the open.

She hesitated for a moment, before admitting the truth. “You would have stopped me writing it.”

 
“I would have counselled caution,” he said.

When he didn’t say more, she said, “You understand why I had to write it?”

He regarded her for a few moments and then said, “No, actually. I appreciate you have unresolved issues regarding your sister’s death, but there are other ways you could have dealt with them.”

“Like visit a shrink? Look how well that turned out.”

He grimaced. “Charles is that kinky ‘doctor’ character, right? Why didn’t you ever tell me the whole of it, Natalie? You know I’d have bloody killed him - strung him up by his own fucking tie backs.”

Natalie felt suddenly cold. In the TV interview she hadn’t mentioned the thick cord that Charles used to tie back the curtains in his office - and all the other things he’d thought to do with it. So how would Simon know? Unless -

“You’ve read the book
… ”

“One of my ex-students now works for the
Calahurst Echo
. He saw an advance review copy and phoned me for a quote. I was grateful for the heads up. At least now when I’m door-stepped by the press, I’ll know what I’m supposed to have done. Because you do realise what you’ve accused me of, don’t you? Abusing my position as a teacher to seduce one of my students?”

“No one is going to think ‘the teacher’ is you.”

“Sometimes your naïvety astounds me. I’ll be the first person they’ll suspect.
Or, if I’m lucky, perhaps the second after James Fitzpatrick.
There’s nothing people love more than the rumour of a scandal, particularly if it’s unsubstantiated. Those tiny provincial minds can run riot with very little evidence. You should know. You’ve had a lifetime of experience. And therein
lies
the problem. People will look at you and me, and think, ‘Ah yes, he’s done it once, he must have done it before’.”

Too late she remembered that if there was one thing guaranteed to wind Simon up, it was to be reminded of the way they had first met.

“We didn’t begin our relationship until I’d come back from university.”

“After reading your book, do you think anyone is going to believe that? Journalists will ask around and soon find out how I personally coached you through your exams, helping you get the necessary grades to get into university. They’ll want to know why I went to all that trouble for you. The kinder ones might suggest I felt sorry for you, the not-so-kind will say it was because I wanted to get into the knickers of a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“
Simon
!”

“I suppose what I find most hurtful,” he was saying, “is your utter lack of loyalty. All credit to you - you took the opportunities you were given and you ran with them. Look at everything you’ve achieved, all those books you’ve sold, the millions you’ve made. But while you’re living up here in your ivory tower, do you ever consider the rest of us? Do you ever think about what it must be like to be me, stuck at that bloody school forever and never progressing beyond Head of English & Drama, all because of my relationship with you?”

She was ashamed to realise she had never given it a second thought. “Is that why James Fitzpatrick was promoted over you?”

“The Governors were quite matter-of-fact about it.”

“Oh, Simon, I’m so sorry
- ”

He sighed. “That’s your problem, Natalie. You never think first but you’re always sorry afterwards - and I’ve got the point where I’ve had enough. You’ve written this book and stirred everything up - what is it that you’re expecting to happen? Do think that Welsh traveller is going to turn up here after all this time and say, ‘Yep, it’s a fair cop, I did it’? It isn’t going to happen! You’ve moved on from your appalling childhood and made a huge success of your life, but now you’ve written this grubby little book reminding everyone who you are and where you came from. I think it’s a huge mistake, I do really.”

“I didn’t need to write the book - my entire life story is one click away on Google - but I’m not ashamed. Why should I be? If I’d wanted to hide from my past, I could have changed my name and moved away. This way, I can be an inspiration to others
- ”

“An
inspiration
?” he derided. “Listen to yourself! You’d have been more of an inspiration if you’d done something different. As far as I remember, it was always Sarah who wanted to be a writer, not you. Yet from the moment she died you took on her dreams and aspirations, you cut your hair in the same style, wear the same kind of tarty clothes and even dated the same men. It was as though you didn’t trust yourself enough to be ‘you’.”

“That isn’t true
- ”

“Of course it’s true! All I ever hear from you is Sarah, Sarah,
Sarah
. You need to move on from the morbid fascination you have with her death. And get rid of these fucking water lilies,” he gestured towards the prints she had hung up on the wall, “they make my stomach turn over just looking at them.”

“What? No, I can’t, I won’t
- ”

“Then let me do it for you.”

He reached out and lifted one of her water lily prints from the wall. It was one of her favourites, somewhat larger than the others, and was a copy of a panel Monet had intended to hang in the
Orangerie
, in
the
Tuileries gardens in Paris.
Before she could get her head around what he was intending to do, Simon had raised the picture high above his head - and then deliberately dropped it. As soon as it hit the floor, the whole thing shattered; the glass exploding out across the room.

“There you are,” he said, slightly breathlessly, “that wasn’t so difficult.”

Natalie didn’t know how to react. She wanted desperately to cry, but thought that if he knew how much she had been affected by the broken picture he was likely to go ahead and smash all of the others. She was vaguely aware of a stinging pain from the sole of her foot, where she must have trodden on a shard of glass, but it hardly seemed important. So she waited, perfectly still, to see what he would do next.