You Can Trust Me (30 page)

I nod. “I just woke up.”

“They're still open for dinner,” he says. “Shall we go down? I'm starving.”

“Sure.” I automatically turn back for my makeup, then remember it's in my handbag, which is gone in the fire. I shiver again. “I don't have any of my normal things with me.” My voice comes out all fragile and forlorn, far more pathetic-sounding than I mean it to.

“Hey.” Damian squeezes my arm. The touch of his hand sends a different kind of shiver through me. “We'll get you some new stuff tomorrow, okay?”

“Thanks.” I follow him down to dinner. At first I don't think I'm hungry, but as soon as the bread arrives, I realize I'm ravenous.

Damian and I eat two courses without stopping for breath, washing our pan-fried cod and treacle tart down with water for Damian and a glass of red wine for me. I ask for just the house wine, but Damian takes the drinks menu and upgrades my request, picking a delicious rioja with a surprising level of wine knowledge.

“I thought when you drank, you drank whiskey?” I say.

“When I drank, I drank whatever I could get my hands on.”

“I still wouldn't have figured you for a wine buff. Where d'you learn about Spanish reds?”

He laughs. “My dad taught me. He said being able to navigate a wine menu would impress women. Kind of old-fashioned, but there you are.”

“Was … is he fierce too? Like you said your mum was? They sound amazing, all the support they've given you.”

“They are. Nah, Dad's a big softie. Henpecked a bit, but I reckon he loves getting pushed around at home a bit, after being a captain of industry all day.”

I think about my own parents. Bath seemed very dull to me growing up. It makes me laugh to think that Exeter once seemed edgy—even dangerous—in comparison and that I couldn't wait to leave home to go to university there. The day I discovered, two years later, that Kara had chosen to follow me to the same place, I'd felt angry, as if she were trying to steal my freedom … muscle in on my choices. I didn't stop to think that she might have been scared of going away, picking the same uni as me because my presence made the whole experience feel less daunting, because I would be there to look after her. To show her the ropes. To protect her.

The old guilt rears up inside me. I try to ignore it, focusing on what Damian is suggesting—a return to Exeter in the morning and a fresh visit to Aces High.

“You could try to speak to Robbie, too?” Damian suggests. “Sound him out about that ‘dickweasel' e-mail Julia sent.”

I agree, then look up train times on my phone. After we've eaten, Damian suggests a stroll along the road, away from the hotel. The night sky has clouded over and the air is still and sultry, building up to a storm.

I check the time and am shocked to realize it's almost 11
P.M
. It's far too late now to call the kids; Mum will be going to bed too. I feel guilty. Then it occurs to me that I haven't heard from Will all day either. I wonder if he phoned Mum and discovered I'm not there.

Why hasn't he called me?

Is he with Catrina?

Damian gestures toward a small patch of private parkland that backs onto a row of high houses. I'm still preoccupied with thoughts of Will when, to my surprise, Damian leaps over the gate.

“We shouldn't,” I say.

He grins at me. “Go on, Livy, live a little.”

I smile at such a Julia-esque phrase coming from his lips and clamber over the gate after him.

Damian holds my hand as I jump down. He keeps holding it as we walk across the grass. I flush, grateful for the dark night. My heart is beating faster—and not because we're trespassing. I tell myself Damian can't really be interested in me. He's just being friendly.

We wander into the trees and he lets my hand go. Music is playing from one of the flats in the houses opposite. The air is sweet and humid as we stroll along. I think of Will again and how he hasn't checked in to find out how I am. Still, I rationalize, I haven't rung him either. I am too churned up to call; I'm hurt and jealous and angry. More than
anything,
I'm angry. Will has lied to me, made a fool of me.
Again.
And I have let him.

“You aren't like I thought you would be, you know.” Damian's voice breaks our silence.

I glance at him, curious. “How d'you mean?”

“Julia said you were the sensible one: classic mum, salt-of-the-earth, heart-of-the-house kind of thing.” He hesitates. “I guess I assumed, before I met you, that you'd be a bit, I dunno,
dull,
maybe. With a small life.”

I offer up a wry laugh. “Small by name, small by nature. That definitely sounds like me. Compared to Julia, anyway.”

“No.” Damian frowns. “That's not it, Livy. I can see why you and Julia worked. She did all the glamorous things and you lived them through her and she felt grounded through you. But that didn't … doesn't … make your life small.”

“No?”

The trees grow thicker as we walk closer to the houses. The music is louder here.

“Your life isn't small,” Damian says . “You've just got too used to living at the edges of it.”

I stare at him. The song playing finishes and a DJ introduces the next track, but I'm not really listening. I'm thinking about what Damian has just said, instinctively feeling the truth of it. Then, as the floaty sound of a guitar drifts toward us, Damian gives a gasp of recognition.

“Julia loved this,” he says.

I turn my attention to the song. The mournful guitar has been joined by a man singing. The sound of his voice is vaguely familiar, but I can't quite place either him or the track. It's yet another way in which my life has diminished. I can't remember when I stopped listening to music; sometime after the kids arrived, I guess.

“What is this?” I ask.

“‘Why Worry.' Dire Straits,” Damian says. “One of Julia's guilty pleasures.”

I stare at him. “Julia hated this kind of '80s music.”

Damian grins. “In public, she did. Hey, come here.” He reaches for my hand again and pulls me toward him.

I let him hold me and sway me. He puts one strong hand on my back. The other is still holding my hand. And we are dancing. The night is so dark and quiet. The music is haunting. We move together, slowly, and I close my eyes as the song floats around us. Desire fills me again and I let my cheek rest against Damian's. I feel ridiculously excited, my pulse racing. I have no idea what I'm doing—the world and the rest of my life feel a million miles away.

The music fades away and a new tune starts up. The beat is stronger, rhythmic. Again it sounds familiar, but I don't recognize the song.

“Oh yes.” Damian's grip on my hand tightens. He presses his other palm more firmly against my back and moves me faster.

I open my mouth to ask what we're dancing to now, when the vocals start and the unmistakable sound of Elvis Presley growls around us. I recognize the song, with its infectious tune and chirpy rhythm. I've no time to feel self-conscious as Damian moves me in time with the music.

It's fun. I'd forgotten how much fun dancing could be. I haven't danced in years.

I let Damian lead me as we spin through the trees. He's a great dancer, his movements flexible and rhythmic. I'm breathless, laughing, all the terrors of the day forgotten as we glide over the soft grass,

And then the music fades again, to radio ads. And the world comes crashing back. A car passes in the street beyond. Another honks in the distance. Farther away, two men are shouting. Damian and I stop moving and stand, still holding each other. Seconds pass. The radio is still blaring out. The ad finishes and the station jingle sounds. I don't catch the name of the station, but suddenly the music is over and a male voice announces:

“This is the news at eleven o'clock.”

I step back, away from Damian. He lets me go, but keeps his gaze on my face. There's an expression I can't read in his eyes: part longing, part misery. He moves, a slight inflection of the head. It's barely there, but clear as the voice in the background: an invitation to kiss.

I move back farther, suddenly terrified. I bow my head, avoiding his gaze. And then I focus back on the radio, and I hear what the news announcer is saying.

“… has been identified as former escort, Shannon Walker, twenty-five. The body was washed ashore on the beach at Lympstone. Walker was under the influence of a cocktail of recreational drugs when she drowned.…”

“Oh, Jesus.” I turn back to Damian. He is listening too, horror in his eyes.

“He found her,” Damian says. Fear fills me to my bones. “He found her after all.”

 

SANDRA

I think that God in creating Man somewhat overestimated his ability.

—Oscar Wilde

And so we come to Sandra. I waited a long time to find her. There were other distractions in the meantime: simple affairs, disappointments at work, the onslaught of Amis's time passing with its “ropes of steam” and “hoarse roar of power or terror.” But none of this really touched me at my core. There I slept, waiting, trusting my instincts and my belief that when the killer is ready, the victim will appear, to paraphrase one of my earlier entries.

It wasn't a promising start. Unlike Annalise, Sandra had no veneer of intelligence or professional ability. In fact, she did not possess any obvious qualities at all. And yet … other than with Kara, of course, I have never felt such a desire to take a person in my life. It was overwhelming. Perhaps my ultimate challenge. You see, I could have killed Sandra within minutes of meeting her. And yet I waited. I waited to test myself. To see how far I could triumph over my own impatience. It was then I realized that I, myself, was the rival I had been waiting for. In that moment things fell apart and the center could not hold. As I dissolved, so I was reborn. Sandra was nothing in herself, but she represents my own second coming.

We met on Dartmoor one hot day a few summers ago. I was driving home from seeing a client, reminding myself that I needed to pick up some flowers as a present for my wife, and that I should probably buy some milk while I was at it, when I passed Sandra on a deserted road. She was with her two small children (both girls, born to different fathers) and I could see, as I passed her, the slouch in her walk that told me everything. I don't really know why I pulled over. I was just suddenly sure that Sandra was next. My destiny. I got out of my car and waited for them to walk by.

“Hello.” I said.

Sandra looked at me suspiciously. Her hair was a mess of unspeakable highlights in dire need of a cut, and her clothes were desperate. The two little girls had grubby smears on their arms and legs. She was carrying one; the other was whining at her legs. All three of them looked exhausted.

“Might I offer you a lift?” I smiled disarmingly and indicated the cool interior of my car.

Sandra frowned.

I glanced at the picture I had placed on the dashboard, hoping her gaze would follow mine.

“Is that your family?” she asked.

”That's right,” I said. “Quite the handful.”

Sandra hesitated. The older girl whined. “Please, Mummy.” Sandra still hesitated.

“It's fine. I just stopped because you all looked so tired and hot and I wanted to help,” I said with a rueful shrug. “But I totally understand. You can't be too careful these days.”

I headed for the car. I got inside. I took hold of the door handle, ready to pull the door shut.

“Okay, er, thanks.” Sandra blushed.

And in they came. Easy as pie.

I put on my best face as I drove them to their little home on the moor. Sandra was clearly lonely and miserable. I gradually drew her out, complimenting her on the children and commiserating about the challenge of single parenting. I used my old favorite, the dead daughter leukemia story. I thought it would be just the ticket for Sandra. It was. By the time I dropped her at the end of her road, she was very open to another meeting. We didn't even swap numbers—I just arranged to pick her up the following Saturday afternoon, when the girls would be with Sandra's mother.

We met and walked across the moor, to the River Dart. We were seen by several couples, which helped my resolution not to take things further too fast. Sandra, yawn, was eager to tell me her story, which predictably featured a series of brutal ex-boyfriends. She was delighted to inform me that leaving the last bully who had humiliated her had been a huge step, that she was turning her life around … blah, blah … I told her, in faltering tones, that my wife didn't understand me, that our marriage was a sham. And then I kissed her—ever so gently—near where the Dart pooled into a mini-lake, surrounded by rocks. As I stared into the cool dark depths, my plan resolved itself inside my head.

And so I waited. I held myself back the following Friday, when Sandra and I met again for a couple of hours. And the weekend after that, when she brought her daughters with her to introduce me to them properly, as she said with a silly, shy smile. Both times I could have killed her in any number of ways. God knows I was bored enough to do it. My view of Sandra's personality had in no way been enhanced since our first meeting. Often, I thought of Kara as I watched her. Like so many others I've been drawn to, Sandra had one tiny echo of my angel girl: her fine blond hair. Though Sandra's came out of a bottle. And yet the differences were overwhelming. Kara had been sacred ground. Sandra was an ugly scrap of wasteland: soiled and littered. Still, it was such sweet agony to delay the gratification, to resist myself.

I had only a few hours the Friday after, but I knew it was time. I determined to make this count, even when Sandra turned up to our meeting with fresh highlights in her hair and the younger of her daughters who, she said, had not been well and hadn't wanted to stay with her grandmother that day. I should explain that Sandra, knowing I was married, had not told her mother she was meeting me. This was the beauty of our country walks. Few witnesses. No explanations. Limited risk.