You Can Trust Me (37 page)

“Are you all right?” Paul says gently.

“Yeah, just haven't got my ‘It Girl' look together yet.”

Paul chuckles. “You sound like Julia. Um, but you look like shit.”

“Cheers. No, seriously, I'm fine.”

He tilts his head to one side. “I'm not sure I believe you.” He smiles again. A warm smile, full of concern.

It completely undoes me, and before I know where I am, the tears are streaming down my face again. Paul frowns, then puts his arm lightly across my shoulders and steers me across the hall and back into the kitchen. I'm hiccupping, desperate to stop crying, hideously embarrassed. And yet relieved to be letting out some of the pain that I feel. Paul sets me in a chair and fetches a piece of kitchen towel from the counter. He passes it to me, then walks over to the sink and fills the kettle.

“Tea or coffee?” he asks.

“Tea, thanks.” I sniff, then blow my nose. “God, Paul, I'm so sorry.”

“Don't.” Paul turns from the fridge, a carton of milk in his hand. “Don't apologize. I know how awful this is, what's happening with you and Will.”

It's not just my marriage.

As Paul fetches mugs and makes a pot of tea, I try to work out how on earth to begin telling him what I know: that Julia was almost certainly murdered because she found out who Kara's killer was, that the killer knows I am on his trail, that he is almost certainly someone I know.

Paul sits down opposite me. He places the steaming teapot on the table between us.

“Will called last night. Dad wouldn't speak to him—I pretended he was out.”

“I know. Paul, listen.”

“Then Will came round. He was furious.”

“What?”
Images of a fight spring into my mind's eye: Will's face screwed up in anger, blood on his knuckles. “Will went to Leo's house? What happened?”

“He stood on the doorstep, yelling his head off, hammering on the door.”

My eyes widen. “Oh my God, did Leo talk to him? Did you?”

“No.” Paul shakes his head. “We didn't even go to the door, just sat in the living room until he gave up and went away.”

I let my head sink into my hands. What a mess.

Paul clears his throat. “Liv?” he says. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.” I blow my nose again and look up.

“Becky and I are having problems too,” he says. “So I know what it's like. I wanted to tell you yesterday, but it seemed … I dunno, inappropriate with everything over Hannah.”

He's joking, surely. I stare at him, remembering the way he and Becky had their arms around each other at Leo's party.

“You two?” I say. “It didn't look like you had problems the last time I saw you.”

“Becky and I are good at putting on a show for everyone else, but the truth is she hasn't gone to Spain to be with her parents. She's there to get away from me, a … a trial separation. I talked to her yesterday. She said she was even thinking about divorce.”

“No.” My mouth drops open.

“I'm afraid so,” Paul says, a rueful note to his voice. “We didn't want to spoil Dad's party by letting the cracks show, but…”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope.”

My mouth is still gaping. I can't believe I didn't see any sign of problems in their relationship. “But how …
Why?
What
happened
?”

“I don't know.” Paul shrugs. “I still love her, but she says I don't listen to her, don't notice her … that she's tired of being the one making all the effort. Usual old clichés.” He pauses. “Personally, I think it's more about Becky's life feeling empty, though she'd never admit it. She was always adamant she didn't want kids, but I think it's hard when so many of her friends have become mums in the past few years.” He looks at me. “I often wondered why you two were friends, you're so different. Becky's all dynamic, no soft edges.… She goes straight after what she wants.”

“Whereas I skirt around the edges of life?” It's hard to keep the bitter tone from my voice. Have I really lived this vicariously since Kara died? Experiencing my life through Julia's adventures—or Will's status at work—or the kids?

“No.” Paul's face reddens. “I didn't mean it as a diss. You're fantastic, Livy. A brilliant wife. A wonderful mother…”

“Right.”

Silence falls between us. I don't want to think about the implications of what Paul has said; his words echo Damian's too strongly. Instead, I turn my mind back to that party at Leo and Martha's just a few weeks ago, and how envious then I'd felt of Paul and Becky. You really can't understand other people's relationships.

“I'd never have guessed about you two in a million years,” I say.

“Yeah, well…” Paul pours the tea. His phone beeps. “I just thought it might help to know that all marriages go through bad patches.”

“Our situation is different.” I sniff. “It isn't the first time Will's done this. And we have two children whose lives will be devastated.…”

“I know.” Paul checks his phone. “All the more reason to hang in there, wouldn't you say?” He stands up. “Sorry, Liv, I've got to go. I'm staying in one of my mum's houses while the builders are doing up ours. Mum wants me to check on some damp or something.” He pauses. “Actually, Becky and I are doing up the house to sell it on. We talked about that last night too.”

“Paul, I'm so sorry.” The words seem entirely inadequate.

“Thank you,” he says with a sigh. “Er, I really do have to go.”

I stare at the mugs on the table between us. “What about your tea?”

Paul makes a face. “Rain check. Take care.” He swoops down, planting a kiss on the side of my head. “Don't get up, I'll see myself out. Call you soon. And don't forget, I'm here for you. Anytime.”

He leaves. I take a sip of tea. It's perfect, just the right strength. Will always pours it too fast, while I tend to forget I've made it and end up drinking it cold. As I put my mug down, my engagement ring clinks against the china. It feels loose on my finger, just as my pants feel loose against my hips. An image of Julia's diamond and emerald ring flashes into my head. I still don't know how that ended up in Will's possession. I still don't know what Julia found out about Kara's killer. Or who killed her.

A few minutes later, Hannah reappears from her room with her phone held triumphantly aloft. “Dad says I can go to Romayne's,” she says.

“What?”
I take the phone. Will confirms he has relented on Hannah's punishment. This is so unlike him that I can only believe he is doing it to set himself up as the “good cop” parent and to defy me. I'm itching to accuse him of undermining me—as well as to ask what the hell he thought he was doing, going round to Leo's and banging on his front door last night—but Hannah is standing here, all excited. “Fine,” I say. “I'll drop you off in an hour or so.” Hannah skips around the room, delighted. I turn to Will, still on the phone. “You can pick her up later,” I say, my voice tight. “Zack will be home at six or so. D'you want me to wait in for him, or will you be here by then?”

“I'll be there,” Will says quietly.”You don't need to be.”

“Right,” I say. “There's food in the fridge, so I'm sure you'll manage tonight without me. If it's what you want.”

“None of this is what I want,” he says coldly.

We say good-bye and ring off. My guts twist as I hand Hannah back her phone. I almost call Will again to tell him I don't want this either. Then I remember Catrina and how he can't even admit to the resumption of their affair. There's no point in speaking.

I put on a brave face while I drop off Hannah, but tears stream down my face as I drive home. I feel like such a failure. I check the time as I park in the road outside the house. It's just after 5
P.M.,
and the temperature has dropped sharply, all traces of yesterday's humidity gone. I get out of the car but hesitate instead of walking straight up the path to the front door. The air is cool against my hot cheeks. The house is going to feel so alone.
Jesus,
how can my world be disintegrating like this? I lean against the gate that leads onto the front path. My limbs feel heavy; my head feels light. I haven't eaten anything today except half a slice of toast. The thought of food makes me feel nauseated.

I stand up, taking a deep breath. Whatever happens, I'm going to have to be strong for the kids.

But now I know the things I know, and do the things I do. And if you do not like me so, to hell my love, with you.

Julia's sharp tongue sounds in my ear with one of her favorite Dorothy Parker quotes. I almost manage a smile. Somehow, I will survive this.

I turn, ready to open the gate. From nowhere, a chill prickles down my spine. I have the strong sense I'm being watched. I whip around, peering up and down the road. I catch a shadow, a shape, moving quickly, ducking behind a van across the road.

I stare for a second, holding my breath; then a young woman in a T-shirt and shorts emerges from behind the van. Very skinny, with lank, straggly brown hair. She fixes her gaze on me as she crosses the road.

I'm rooted to the spot. I don't feel threatened—she's shorter and slighter than I am and there's something cowed, defeated about the way she holds herself. A low rumble of thunder sounds in the far distance as the girl reaches the sidewalk and walks up to me.

Close up, I can see she is in her late twenties or early thirties, with terrible skin, all acne and pockmarks.

“You're Livy, aren't you?” she says. Her voice is surprisingly middle-class. Her face is puffy and pasty, and she is definitely way, way too thin.

”How do you know my name?”

“I've got something you want,” she says, scratching her arm as she speaks.

I glance down. Track marks run up and down the inside of her arm. I take a step away. She's a junkie.

“Don't go,” she says. It's a plea, not an order.

I look into her eyes. They're haunted. Miserable. There's a tarnished chain around her neck. The letter
P
dangles from the end.

“What's your name?” I ask.

She stares at me, blinking.

“Does it begin with
P
?”

She says nothing.

“
P
for what?” I persist. “Penny? Patsy? Pippa?”

She shakes her head. Another rumble of thunder sounds in the distance. “It was me gave Shannon that locket you've been looking for,” she says. “I came here to tell you where I got it. I was just waiting to ring on your door.”

My head spins. Conflicting emotions fight in my head. She could be lying about the locket. Except, if she is, how the hell does she know about Shannon having it? Dammit, she's a drug addict. She's
got
to be lying. Still, I can't let it go. If she knows something, anything, I have to find out.

“Who are you? How do you know where I live?”

“It doesn't matter.”

Could she be Kara's killer? She could be older than she looks. Still, surely she wouldn't be here, making claims, selling information, if she were a murderer.

“Tell me about the locket?” I ask. “What did it look like?”

“Silver,” she says straightaway “With a picture of two girls inside.”

“Okay, so where did you get it from?”

The girl scratches her arm again. “I'll tell you if you pay me,” she says.

I hesitate. Money. Of course. She wants money.

“How do I know any of what you're saying is true?”

The girl shakes her head. Backs away.

“Wait.” I reach out, grab her arm. She's all skin and bone. She winces. Then she twists out of my reach. “I just want money,” she says. “Five hundred pounds.”

I glance along the road, back toward our house. Panic surges through me. This girl is a drug addict, connected in some way to a killer. She knows who I am. Where I live. Where my children live. My throat is dry. The girl backs away again.

“Well?” she says.

“Wait, okay.” I pull the bank card for my old, sole account from my pocket. “I don't have five hundred pounds on me, but I can go with you to an ATM.”

The girl hesitates, then gives a quick, sharp nod. “Okay.”

I head for my car, but she holds back. “I'm not getting in there with you.”

“But…” My heart thuds painfully. A voice in my head is telling me I should walk away, not trust her, that she can't possibly really know anything. Still, she had Shannon's name, she described the locket.…

“Fine, we'll go to Fore Street, there's a cash machine there.”

She nods. We walk off together. The girl says nothing. Her breathing is labored and I realize I'm going too fast for her. I try to slow down, but my body is jumping with anxiety, the same questions tumbling over and over in my mind:
What do you know? Where did you get the locket?
I contemplate calling Damian, but I don't want to frighten her away.

In a few minutes, we've reached the bank with the cash machine. I slide in my card. The girl stands beside me, and I cover the keypad with my hand as I put in the numbers—Kara's birth date. The money is issued and I grab it quickly. The girl draws closer.

“Please tell me who you are and where you got the locket.”

She stares at me mutinously.

“Okay,” I try again. “You don't want to tell me who you are, so tell me how you know Shannon.”

She shakes her head again.

“You have to tell me something before I can give you any cash,” I insist. “How did you get the locket? Why did you give it to Shannon?”

“I owed her money and she was getting heavy about it,” the girl says reluctantly. “She got these big guys from a club to threaten me if I didn't pay her back.”