‘OK, but they saw me escaping from Mark’s house, remember? Which means they followed me there without me knowing. I’d say we’re not the ones who are one step ahead here.’
There’s silence at the other end of the line, and for a minute I picture Nick Whitely the other side of our wall. Eventually he asks, ‘Don’t you feel safe with me?’
It’s a stupid question and slightly petulant. It’s a very teenage notion to believe that someone can keep you safe just because he’s a big strong man. In the last week I’ve had my house broken into, been in danger while I was sleeping, been followed over a hundred miles, had my photograph taken climbing out of a window and been run off the road. And Joss. Whoever these people are, I think I’m justified in believing that a journalist from a local newspaper probably can’t guarantee my absolute safety. In fact if I’m brutally honest, I’d be safer with Cassie, but I’m sure as hell not going to tell Nick that.
‘Of course I do. Forget I said anything. I’m still freaked out about yesterday. I’ll just be glad when we’ve spoken to Jennifer and gone home.’
‘If she’ll speak to us. She wasn’t exactly inviting us around for tea when we mentioned Bethany yesterday,’ Nick reminds me. He has a point, but we’ve still got to try.
‘I’ll go out and get breakfast while you drag yourself out of bed, I’ll knock five times when I get back so you know it’s me.’
Is he joking? Christ, I hope so.
Armed with a hefty breakfast order Nick hangs up, leaving me to make myself look half decent. While he’s gone, I quickly phone my dad to assure him I’m OK. He’s quiet throughout, and at the end of the conversation he tells me to be careful. I promise I will – fingers crossed – and jump in the shower.
I spend longer than necessary under the hot spray, the water that pounds on to my neck and shoulders feeling better than any massage I’ve ever had. I could stay here all day, but I know I’m just delaying the inevitable, so I drag myself out and wrap myself in one of the hotel’s fluffy towels. Nick’s made no mention of anything between us. Maybe that’s not what he was going to say. I’m not ready to think about what might happen between us when all this is over – I’m not ready to think of anything other than getting my son back in my arms.
I’ve been out of the shower just minutes when my mobile rings. It’s a number I don’t recognise.
‘Hello?’
‘Susan?’
‘Mark.’
‘Where are you?’ He sounds concerned.
‘I can’t talk now, Mark. How did you get this number? Why are you calling me?’
‘I’m worried about you, Susie.’ My old nickname. Seconds on the phone to him and I’m so close to tears it’s unbelievable. ‘Come home to me and we’ll work something out. I want to help you.’
My heart pounds against my chest and my throat’s almost closed. I want to do what he says. I want to turn around and go home, to the house where we were so happy. I want my husband to fix what’s wrong in my life. That’s why I surprise myself by what I say next.
‘I’m not coming home, Mark. I need to find out what’s going on here. I need to know what you’ve done.’
‘I haven’t done anything.’
He’s lying. Dylan is alive, Mark’s former fiancée is dead and I want to know who the hell I was married to. I stop myself telling him any of this; I can hear Nick’s voice warning me not to show my hand, not to trust him, to
be careful.
‘Goodbye, Mark.’ I hang up the phone and begin to cry. This is it. I’ve chosen to distrust the only man I’ve ever loved, the father of my child, and there’s no turning back.
No questions have been asked, so I’m not forced to lie about Mark’s phone call. When Nick gets back he either doesn’t notice my puffy eyes or presumes that things have just got on top of me, which suits me fine, I don’t like to lie.
The older woman behind the library desk today is friendly enough and doesn’t pry when we enquire what time Jennifer will be here.
‘She doesn’t start until one,’ she tells us as she issues us with another two guest passes. Clearly Jennifer hasn’t had a chance to warn her to look out for a pair of evil journalists. ‘But she usually gets here a bit early for a cigarette.’
When we go out to the front of the building, Jennifer is the first person we see. She stands out amongst the students mainly because she’s a good twenty years older than them, but also because of the way she looks, the way she’s dressed. Her bootcut jeans and plain black shoes aren’t exactly dowdy, but they’re a far cry from the black skinny jeans and suede ankle boots worn by the girls dotted around campus. Despite the fact that it’s really not that cold, she wears a clunky green parka that might be fashionable on some but she manages to make it look, well, plain. Her hair, the colour of dishwater, is untouched by the GHDs used by half of the universe, me included when I can be bothered. She is holding her cigarette between her lips, fumbling in her bag with one hand and balancing a Styrofoam cup of steaming liquid in the other. When she looks up and sees us, an angry look crosses a face free of make-up.
‘I’ll call security,’ she threatens as we reach her. I glance around but don’t see anyone in uniform. I reach into my pocket and hold out the trusty lighter I’ve carried around since I started needing cigarettes again. She hesitates, then takes it.
‘Hear us out first, then if you still want us to leave, you won’t need security,’ Nick promises. She shakes her head.
‘No way,’ she replies firmly. ‘I had enough of your kind when it happened. Spinning your vile lies about Beth. You people make me sick.’
‘I’m not a journalist,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m Mark Webster’s ex-wife.’
Her bushy eyebrows lift in shock.
‘Sit down,’ she says at last, and gestures to the wall next to her. Relief floods through me: for a second I’d thought she was going to start shouting for security anyway.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I want to know what happened to Beth,’ I tell her honestly, gesturing for the lighter and pulling out my own cigarettes. ‘What
really
happened, not what everyone said happened. I want to know, I
need
to know if Mark was involved.’
‘You want me to tell you Mark Webster wasn’t involved,’ she states flatly. ‘Well I can’t. And if you’re not here to hear some hard truths, you’d better take yourself back to wherever you came from.’
‘I am. Well . . .’ I falter and look at Nick. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready, but I need to hear the truth. You were Beth’s best friend; I need to know your side of things.’
‘Why now?’ she asks bitterly, and takes a long drag on her cigarette, savouring the taste of the smoke. She finally blows it out and continues. ‘Why does it matter to you after all this time?’
I’m trying to be honest, but I don’t want to tell this woman everything. I don’t trust her.
‘Mark never told me about Bethany during our marriage,’ I reply. ‘I only found out about her when I stumbled across some photographs of the two of them.’ It’s almost true.
‘So you came to Trevelyan to look for an ex-girlfriend of your ex-husband, even though you knew nothing about her murder? Why would you give a toss who she was?’ She tilts her head to one side and lifts her eyebrows again. They’re thick and unruly; they’ve obviously never seen a pair of tweezers. Or hedge-clippers. She’s not stupid, she knows I’m not telling her the whole story.
‘I wanted to know why Mark never mentioned her,’ I only half lie. ‘It seemed strange that he would tell me about other former girlfriends but not this one. I know my ex-husband; I was suspicious and intrigued. I wish now I’d stayed away but I can’t ignore what I found out.’
‘So what do you want from me?’ Her voice is softening; I think I’m winning her over. Well she hasn’t called security yet, so that’s a bonus.
‘It’s like Susan said,’ Nick chips in. She looks almost surprised, like she’d forgotten he was there. ‘We just want the truth.’
‘And you are?’
I wonder if he’s going to be as honest as I have been.
‘I’m a journalist,’ I’m surprised to hear him admit. ‘But I’m not here for a story. Even if I wanted one, my boss would never let me stir up this much mud. I’m here as Susan’s friend.’
I know better than to push her, but I’m not sure I can wait much longer. I’m about to say something when she begins to speak.
‘You’re right about Beth being my best friend at uni,’ she says quietly. ‘But she was more than that. She was like part of me. It was as though we’d known each other our whole lives. She was so amazing, and when I was with her I was a different person. She brought out the best in everyone around her; you couldn’t be down when Beth was around.’ She smiles fondly, memories lighting up her face. ‘I felt so special that she’d chosen me. She could have been friends with the most popular, most affluent girls at Trevelyan, but she chose to spend her time with plain, square me. Purely and simply I worshipped her.
‘In the middle of our first year, the Hill College Theatre Company put on a production of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. As expected, Beth played Hermia. She was amazing, everyone in the audience was hanging on her every word. On the last night Mark and his friends came to watch the play. Afterwards we all met in the student bar.’ Her face knits itself into a scowl. It’s clear she loved Beth Connors and my ex-husband was a very unwelcome intrusion.
‘Was that the first time they met?’ Nick asks, gently trying to prompt her to carry on. She completely ignores him; right now she’s in another place, a crowded, smoky student bar twenty-two years ago.
‘Everyone was still in costume.’ She smiles at the memory. ‘It was the last night and no one wanted the run to end. David Thompson, from the props department, went mad the next day: the university had rented the costumes from the Shakespeare Company, and Oberon – I can’t remember his real name, isn’t that funny? – got beer all over his tights. Lucas almost shit a brick when he found out.’
‘What part did you play?’ I ask. She looks up like she’s only just remembered we’re here.
‘I wasn’t in the play,’ she replies, still looking bitter at the memory after all these years. ‘My face was more suited to backstage.’
Always in the shadows, I think. On the outside looking in while her beautiful friend was the centre of attention. It’s how I used to feel when Mark was around; he was the one people wanted to talk to, to be around. I’m no Bethany Connors. I’ve always been more like the woman sitting next to me, ordinary, nothing special. Not for the first time I wonder what Mark saw in me; if I was just a way of forgetting someone else.
‘I didn’t care,’ she lies, as though she can read my thoughts. ‘I enjoyed Beth’s success. She had this amazing way of making me feel like her triumphs were mine too. She made everyone feel like that, that’s why people loved her so much. We were all so wrapped up in her happiness. That old saying, “boys wanted to be with her, girls wanted to be her”, that was Beth to a T. That night she was just radiant. Every boy in the bar wanted to be near her, but the minute Mark walked over, they didn’t stand a chance.’
I understand that completely. Mark always had a way of making everyone else around him cease to exist. When he talked to you, you felt like the most special person in the room. It isn’t just his looks; he has a confidence that sucks you towards him and makes you never want to be pushed out of his bubble. And outside Mark’s bubble is a cold place indeed.
‘I remember it so clearly. He walked over to her and said, “What happened? Didn’t they have any policewoman costumes left?” I thought she was going to punch him – no one had ever told her she looked like a stripper before – but she just cracked up and didn’t leave his side all night. At the end of the evening he offered to walk her home, but she was having none of it. She turned him down so politely, then said to him, “I’ll see you again though, funny man.” When we got home, she spent hours talking about him like a lovestruck teenager.’
I try to hold back the feelings of jealousy. I imagine Mark going home that night, frustrated that his best efforts had been thwarted and vowing to get his girl no matter what, like some valiant fairy-tale prince. Memories of my slightly less classy and slightly more inebriated self falling drunkenly into bed with him the very first night we met come crashing to mind. How much of an easy disappointment I must have been.
What was it he saw in me? I was the complete opposite of what he was used to: I’d never been the centre of a man’s world before, let alone a man like Mark. Was it because I was easy? Because I bore no resemblance to the love he’d lost? Did he love me, or was I a punishment for him, chosen because I wasn’t even a close second to his first love?
‘After that night they were inseparable,’ she continues. ‘Mark was a big man on campus, him and his friends used to strut around like they owned the place – which his father practically did, by the way. He was the last person I’d have expected Beth to fall for; she never could stand the rich list.’
‘The rich list?’
Jennifer nods. ‘The Durham elite. Mark was way up top, second really only to Jack Bratbury, the most affluent boy at the university. He was a nasty piece of work, the only one of Mark’s friends Beth couldn’t bear to be around. I think he used to hit on her in front of Mark, but Mark was too scared to say anything to him. One word from Jack and Mark would have been relegated to nothing. Beth hated the way it worked here, but Jack’s father made some incredibly generous donations to the university. And didn’t we all know it.’ She pulls a face and finishes the last of her tea, which I’m guessing is probably stone cold by now. She doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Mark’s best friend Matty was Durham elite and so were most of the boys he went around with. Beth said they weren’t so bad really; she said she actually felt sorry for them, never knowing the true value of money. She thought Mark was different, though: he disliked the way the university worked as much as she did and hated that people thought he got in on his father’s merits. The first real argument we ever had was about that. I remember saying, “God, my heart bleeds for him,” and accusing her of selling out to the rich kids. I told her that before she knew it she’d be acting like she owned Trevelyan too. I was pretty harsh. She looked so hurt.’ She shakes her head to remove the memory. ‘I said I was sorry the very next day, but things weren’t really the same after that. She kept her distance and her relationship with Mark seemed stronger than ever. That was until she turned up at my room, the week before she died, in floods of tears.’