You Can Trust Me (14 page)

I close my eyes, but it takes a long time before I fall asleep.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Mum, Zack's eaten all the Kashi.
Again.
”

Hannah's whine shakes me from my reverie. Will may have dismissed Damian's claims out of hand, but I need to know for sure. I'm still determined to persuade Joanie to let me look at Julia's papers and get on Julia's computer. However, from our encounter at the funeral, I'm not hopeful that Joanie will even listen to my suspicions, let alone let me act on them.

“There's another pack in the cupboard,” I say absently, glancing over at the kitchen table, where my children are sitting at either end, each indulging in their own particular style of breakfasting. Will, of course, left for work long before they were up.

Zack sits in front of a huge blue bowl of cereal, slopping milk over the side as he wolfs it down, intent on finishing and getting on with the next thing. Hannah, on the other hand, languishes over two seats, like a Victorian lady on a fainting couch. Her makeup and several mirrors are positioned around her own, as yet empty, bowl and she touches each item with trailing, delicate fingers.

“Why do
I
have to get it?” She looks up at me, pouting. “It's not fair. You make me do everything.”

“For goodness' sake.” I'm in no mood to argue with her. We've already had one fight this morning over the state of her room. I stomp past her chair, pull out the fresh pack of cereal, and run my finger under the flap. I'm not concentrating, and the cardboard catches the skin. It smarts, a thin line of red oozing up from the cut. I wince, then feel irritated at myself for being so clumsy.

Zack finishes his cereal in two massive mouthfuls. He stands up and carries his bowl to the sink, using both hands as I've taught him. I put the new box down beside Hannah's place and she snatches it up angrily. Having deposited his bowl, Zack turns and flies up the stairs. I know he's going to brush his teeth, that he will come down in a minute and bare them for me with an out-breath to show they are “minty fresh”; then he will put on his shoes and give me a big hug. Sometimes it seems to me that while my son fits effortlessly into the running of the house, my daughter exists purely to throw wrenches in the works. This is one way in which she is most unlike my sister, who specialized in a more passive kind of resistance.

Right now, Hannah is casting me evil looks as she pours cereal into her bowl. One eye is made up—a job she does beautifully, with soft peach eye shadow and just a lick of mascara. I don't like her wearing makeup to school at twelve years old, but the rules allow for a minimal, natural look, and if I don't see what she puts on at home, I'm fully aware she will be applying cosmetics at school. Anyway, the makeup is slight, and like Kara before her, Hannah has a knack for the visual. I worry more that, like Kara, she is unhealthily obsessed with her appearance and often—though she tries to hide it—attempts to skip meals.

“Kashi is
so
disgusting,” she says, her voice dripping with contempt.

“You wanted some five minutes ago. And it's organic,” I argue.

Hannah fixes me with a hard stare. I know full well she's capable of turning a disagreement over cereal into World War III, so I speedily change tack. “How about oatmeal, then?” I try to keep my temper by focusing on her long, skinny fingers as they trail anxiously over various pimple-cream options. She is still such a child, whether she knows it or not.

“I
hate
oatmeal,” she snarls.

Shaking my head, I leave the room.

*   *   *

My palms are sweating as Julia's mother, her tone characteristically brisk, answers my call later that morning. I pretend that I have an appointment with an old friend in the Bridport area and would love to drop by on my way. Joanie agrees, though I can tell from her tone that she's not exactly thrilled at the prospect of my visit.

It's a pleasant drive through the Devon and Dorset countryside. At this time of year, with the sun shining and the fields lush and green, the whole area is at its best. As the traffic slows for a stretch near Lyme Regis, I remember coming to a conference for work at a hotel near here many years ago. I didn't know it at the time, but it was actually the high point of my working life. My boss valued me, wanted to fast-track me after I'd won an essay competition, and yet I was torn between the legal career that potentially lay ahead and my long-desired ambition to move back into academia. I glowed with confidence—as testified by the three men who, separately, tried to chat me up over the weekend. I turned each one down with a smile. Will had just proposed, and we were planning on buying a house in Exeter and doing it up. Life seemed full of possibilities, my work and home existences in perfect balance with each other.

As I turn off the A35, it occurs to me that my life shrank when I got married. Ironic, I think, that in giving up my maiden name, Small, I started down a track to a narrower, more limited life.

I park outside Joanie's large detached home. It always amazes me that Julia grew up here. There is nothing of her wild, city persona in either the 1930s house or the quiet, leafy street in which it's situated. It's a big place for Joanie on her own, but she has always refused to consider moving, even after Julia's father died of cancer a couple of years ago and the bills started to mount up. Julia was dismissive of her mum's reluctance to move on, sneering that Joanie was too set in her ways to consider it. I wondered at the time if the story was really that simple. Julia used to insist that her mother had been born with a “gene for martyrdom” and would go to her grave complaining that the world was against her, but then Julia had hardly spent any time with either parent since she went off to uni—so how would she really know anything about Joanie's state of mind?

I straighten my skirt as I walk over to the neatly manicured front lawn. A warm breeze ruffles my hair. Two black trash cans stand on either side of the gate, like plastic sentinels. My heart thumps as I ring the front doorbell. Joanie answers promptly.

“Hi.” I offer up a smile.

“Hello.” Joanie doesn't respond in kind. Her voice is cold, and for a moment, I actually wonder if she's going to invite me inside. She's dressed in a cotton blouse and what my own mother would describe as slacks. Her hair is neatly styled, with no signs of any gray roots. Her skin is remarkably smooth and her figure still trim. I look deep into her face. There's nothing of Julia about her, except, perhaps, in the shape of her eyes and nose.

“Come in,” she says at last.

“Thank you. It's kind of you to see me.” I smile again, trying to ingratiate myself. Joanie purses her lips. There are lines around her mouth, a legacy from her two-packs-a-day smoking habit.

“I'm going out later, for lunch,” Joanie says, opening the door. “But I can offer you a cup of tea.”

I'm about to reassure her that I'm not intending to stay for long, when Robbie looms into view. I'm so startled to see him that I actually gasp.

Joanie emits an exasperated
tut,
though whether this is directed at me for being thrown by his presence or at Robbie for leaping about like an overgrown puppy is hard to tell.

“Hi, Livy—God, it's
fantastic
to see you,” Robbie gushes.

“Er, you too,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn.

“Mum said you might pop by,” Robbie goes on, sailing past his mother to plant two huge kisses on either side of my face. “What brings you to Bridport? I came up to see Mum yesterday. I've taken a few days off from the hotel. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have offered you a lift.”

He bustles me past Joanie and into the living room while I repeat my “old friend in the neighborhood” cover story. A quick look around the furnishings, all rather stiff and formal, reminds me of how much older than my own mother Joanie is. Almost a different generation. The lawn through the French windows is mown in careful stripes. A charred patch in the corner—presumably from a recent bonfire, though it's an odd time of year to be having one—makes a sharp contrast with the manicured rose beds. Unlike our overgrown garden at home, there's not a weed in sight.

“Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?” Robbie hovers over me as I sit at one end of the couch.

Joanie perches on the armchair opposite. Up close, I can see the strain in her eyes.

“Nothing, thanks.”

Robbie nods and takes the seat beside me. He's sitting too close. I shift away.
Back off, Dickweasel.
That's what Julia would say.

But I am not Julia.

“How's Wendy?” I ask.

“She's fine,” Robbie says, smoothing his fingers through the hair that creeps over his shirt collar at the back of his neck. I wonder idly why he can't see that keeping it long at the back just accentuates how bald he's going on top. “Wendy's at home right now with the kids. I've been helping Mum go through some of Julia's things.”

“That must be hard.” I hesitate. “Er, perhaps I could help?”

“No need.” Joanie purses her lips. “We're actually rather busy,” she says pointedly.

“Right.” I gulp. I'm clearly going to have to be more direct, though Joanie certainly isn't making it easy. “I'm sorry to barge in on you. I … I've been so upset about Julia. I
am
so upset—”

“We
all
are.” Joanie speaks with feeling.

“Of course.” I pause. “The thing is, there are some things—unanswered questions, really—that have been puzzling me.”

Joanie raises her eyebrows. I can feel Robbie's presence, still too close. He is watching me intently. I have a sudden flashback to the day I met him. He didn't go to university himself but came to Exeter on a regular basis—mostly, as far as I could see, to muscle in on Julia's social life. We met one evening when he was out with Julia and Kara. I didn't take to him much on that first occasion; he seemed nervous around his own sister—who teased him mercilessly—and strangely overawed by mine. And he didn't know how to talk to me, veering between shyness and swagger. For a while I wondered if he might be secretly gay—he seemed so uncomfortable around women. It strikes me now that, with a mother like Joanie, it would have been surprising if he'd behaved any other way.

“Unanswered questions?” Joanie's voice is like steel. “Is this related to your … your outburst at the funeral?”

“Sort of.” I launch into my prepared story, explaining how Shannon ran away from me when I met her in Aces High. Not wanting to reveal that I found the details of her meeting with Julia in a diary in Julia's flat, I say vaguely that Julia had mentioned she was planning to see Shannon and that it was important for some reason. “Shannon was waiting at the bar. She didn't know Julia was dead, and, when I told her, she looked terrified.”

“That must have been terribly upsetting for you,” Robbie says. His voice is overly sympathetic.

I nod, not wanting to meet his gaze. A black cat wanders in through the open door as Joanie stares at me. I stroke her back, then watch as the cat slinks across the carpet and rubs herself against Joanie's legs.

Joanie gives the cat a pat and I remember Julia telling me how Joanie
showed way more affection to her bloody pets than to us when we were growing up … always a cat on the go, never dogs, they need
real
love.

“So Julia told you that she was planning to see this girl, but not
why
she was meeting her?” Joanie raises an eyebrow, and for a second I get a glimpse of Julia: coolly sardonic and nobody's fool.

Beside me, Robbie sits back. He's still watching me intently. His gaze is unsettling. Between his overt interest and Joanie's naked contempt, I'm rapidly losing my handle on our conversation.

“Like I say, there are unanswered questions,” I press on. “I know Damian—Julia's boyfriend—has been in touch and he's also, er, concerned. He believes Julia was investigating something from—”

“Stop.” Joanie raises her hand, palm toward me. “Livy, I've always liked you. I know you and Julia were good friends. But you're presuming too much.” She hesitates, lowering her hand. “In fact, I'm sorry about this, but I have to ask you something.”

“No, Mum.” Robbie sits forward, suddenly anxious.

“What is it?” I press my lips together. My emotions right now feel so turbulent, I could just as easily shout as weep—possibly both.

“I need to ask you if you've been to Julia's flat since … that terrible day?…”

My cheeks burn. What was it that gave my illicit visit away? I look into Joanie's cold, judgmental eyes, and a shudder runs through my body. I see no warmth and no concern, just hostility. No wonder Julia described her mother as an emotional vampire.

“Livy?”

I clear my throat. “I did go back, just the once. I had keys, you know, Julia and I kept each other's keys.”

Joanie nods. “Ah, I thought that must be the case. Which means these must be
yours.
” She fishes in her handbag and hands me my own spare keys, presumably taken from Julia's silver Tiffany fob.

“Yes, er, thank you.”

“I'd like Julia's set back now, please.”

My fingers tremble as I remove Julia's keys from my key ring. Just like at the funeral, I feel as if I'm losing her in some small yet significant way. I hand the keys over.

“So what did you take?” Joanie's question is so direct, I almost gasp a second time.

“What?
Nothing
.”

Joanie purses her lips. It's obvious she doesn't believe me. Then I remember how Julia's computer and TV and a few pictures, vintage bags, and bits of jewelry were missing.

“I didn't take anything,” I insist. “The TV and her Mac and things in her bedroom … they were already gone when I got there. I … I thought
you
took them.”