How to Fall (24 page)

‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ Coco abandoned the dresses abruptly. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

‘Why’s that?’

She bit her lip. ‘I don’t want to be disloyal.’

‘To Natasha? Feel free. I won’t tell.’

‘I just thought she went too far. On the headland.’ The words tumbled out in a rush.

‘I noticed you throwing up.’

She shuddered. ‘Don’t. That was so embarrassing. I must have eaten something that disagreed with me.’

‘So it wasn’t because you were upset.’

‘No.’

‘Because it reminded you of what happened to Freya.’

‘It was Claudia’s smoke. I don’t like cigarettes. It made me feel queasy.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘I suppose hanging around with her is one way to keep your weight down.’

‘The smoking is a recent thing,’ she said dismissively. ‘I’m not used to it yet.’

‘Right.’ I lifted a bag onto the counter. ‘Was that it?’

‘There’s one other thing.’ Coco came forward another couple of steps. ‘This is going to sound really weird, but I was wondering if you’d like me to have a word with Nats about being nicer to you. I feel as if she didn’t give you a fair chance. She can be a bit of a bitch.’

I frowned. ‘Why do you care?’

‘Because you seem like you’d be fun to have around.’ She laughed. ‘I mean, Ryan likes you, so I’m sure you’re OK really.’

‘I thought that was the problem.’

‘Part of it. But you can handle the Ryan thing. You can persuade him to leave you alone. Natasha will get over it.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘The other part of the problem is Freya.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nats doesn’t like you asking questions about her.’

‘I bet,’ I said softly.

‘If you could just . . . not. That would be ideal.’

‘So you want me to drop the whole Freya thing, and tell Ryan once and for all I’m not interested in him. In
return
, you give Natasha a personality transplant that means she’s actually pleasant for a change. And then we could all start again. Get to know one another. Make friends.’

Coco nodded, but her eyes were wary.

‘That’s just not going to happen.’

‘Which bit?’

‘Any of it.’

Coco’s shoulders slumped.

‘You must have known it was a long shot,’ I said.

‘Worth a try.’ She gave me a tight little smile and turned to go.

‘If you don’t like bitchy behaviour, why on earth are you friends with Natasha?’ I said, and Coco stopped, one toe drawing patterns on the floor as she thought about how to answer me.

‘She’s not so bad.’

‘I beg to differ.’ I frowned. ‘I just don’t understand why you hang around with her.’

‘I don’t know. Habit.’ Another smile, this one more genuine. ‘I know it’s hard for you to imagine, but she can be really funny. It’s a good distraction for me. I get too wound-up about training if I’m on my own too much.’

‘Darcy told me you run.’

‘A bit.’

‘Seriously, though.’

‘You could say that.’ Her eyes danced. Just talking about it was enough to make her forget everything else that worried her. ‘It looks as if I might get to compete at the next Olympics.’

‘That’s brilliant.’ I meant it.

‘Yeah.’ Coco’s good mood evaporated as quickly as it had bubbled up. ‘Well, I did my best. If you change your mind, let me know.’

‘I will.’ I watched her go, striding off down the street in a hurry, and wished she had been friends with just about anyone other than Natasha.

Sylvia creaked out of the back room with a steaming mug of pale, watery tea. ‘Did she find what she was looking for, dear?’

‘Not this time,’ I said, and started to untie one of the bags, concentrating on the job in hand. There were five of them – mainly clothes, although there were also some CDs and bits of bric-a-brac. Pulling on some rubber gloves, I sorted through the first one, untangling a smudged brass candlestick from a pair of fluff-covered opaque tights that were destined for the bin.

‘Why should anyone think a charity shop would want their old tights?’

‘People don’t think. They just want to get rid of
things
they don’t want any more.’ Sylvia leaned across and took out the candlestick’s twin, this one still with bits of wax on it. ‘Dented. What a shame.’

‘I’ll polish them up and they’ll look much better. They might appeal to a Goth.’ I could already see them in a special Halloween window display, if they didn’t sell before that – Marilyn as a vampire and Brenda as her unwilling victim. There was a flowing white nightie that would be ideal for her. It was deflating to realize that by October I would have been back in London for months. Life in Port Sentinel would be going on without me, without anyone much noticing or caring that I wasn’t there any more. I would miss them more than they missed me, I thought with a pang.

The bell at the door jangled and Petra bounded in, the perfect antidote to gloom in canary-yellow jeans and a sky-blue T-shirt. ‘Hi, Jess! Hello, Miss Burman.’ She craned her neck to see over the counter. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Working,’ I said repressively. ‘I’ll be finished at one.’

‘Oh. Can’t I help? I’ll be excellent at . . .’

‘Sorting through donations.’

‘Yes. That.’ She turned to Sylvia. ‘Please, Miss Burman. I won’t distract Jess. I’ll help.’

‘Of course you will.’ Sylvia smiled. ‘If you want to spend this lovely sunny morning in here, I don’t mind at all.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather be on the beach?’ I asked Petra when Sylvia had gone into the back room.

‘Yes. But I wanted to spend some time with you.’ It was typical Petra: honest to the point of brutality.

‘That’s sweet of you.’

‘There are always too many people around. We never get a chance to talk.’ She pulled a jumper out of the bag I had given her and held it up. It was a lurid shade of green, with a V-neck. ‘Who would buy something like that?’

‘A golfer, maybe? Someone who came to their senses, anyway, since they gave it away.’

‘It’s been nibbled by moths.’

‘Badly?’

She turned it round so I could see that it was riddled with tiny holes.

‘Throw it out. No one will want that. Hideous is one thing. Manky is another.’

‘Someone might like it. You don’t know for sure.’ Petra started to fold it. I picked up the bin and held it in front of her.

‘Drop it in there. Believe me, we’re not lacking in
stock
for the shop. We don’t need anything that will just take up space.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘This kind of thing.’ I had found some jeans in the second bag I was emptying, and I was scanning them like a crime-scene investigator, trying to work out why they’d been donated. ‘These look perfect. Designer denim. Skinny cut and size six, so they’re not going to appeal to everybody, but these were expensive jeans when they were new, and they’re not ancient. We’ll sell them for a tenner.’

‘Bargain. I might try them on.’

‘Feel free.’ Out of habit I checked the pockets. ‘Wait a minute. Someone’s left something in here.’

I held the jeans upside down and shook a silver chain out of the small coin pocket. It slithered onto the counter. There was a pendant on it and I flipped it over to look at it: two lovebirds with a tiny red enamel heart held between their beaks. ‘That’s so pretty. Oh, but the chain’s broken. Well, that explains why she forgot about it, whoever she was. Or maybe she wanted to donate it. But I’d have kept the pendant and got a new chain, myself.’

Petra hadn’t said anything. She reached out and lifted up the pendant, staring at it.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘This.’ Her face was completely white. ‘This was Freya’s.’

‘What?’

‘This was Freya’s,’ she repeated. ‘She got it a few weeks before she died. She wore it all the time – I mean,
all
the time. I never saw her without it.’

‘She must have had one like it. It’s pretty, but it can’t be unique.’

Petra turned it over. ‘No, it
is
hers. I’m positive. Look, the bird on the left has a wonky tail.’

It was true: the tail was set at a slightly odd angle, as if it had been bent and pushed back into shape.

‘And Freya’s was the same?’

‘Definitely. Hugo teased her about it. He said it must have been on special offer because it was broken and whoever had got it for her was a cheapskate.’

‘Didn’t she say who had bought it?’

‘It was posted through the letterbox one night. Freya said she didn’t know who it was from.’

I had a feeling I knew. It fitted all too well with the imaginary boyfriend. ‘All right. It could be Freya’s. Are these her jeans?’

‘No. Definitely not. She didn’t wear that sort of thing. She couldn’t have afforded them in the first place.’

‘So what’s Freya’s necklace doing in someone else’s pocket?’

‘Maybe it fell off without her noticing and they picked it up,’ Petra suggested.

‘Maybe.’ I was looking at the broken chain, at the links that were pulled out of shape at either end. ‘Something snapped this chain. Someone pulled on it, hard, or it got caught in something. It didn’t just fall off. Did she say anything about losing it?’

Petra shook her head. ‘As far as I remember, she was wearing it the last time I saw her.’

‘Which was when?’

‘A few hours before she died.’ The significance of that was starting to sink in. Petra stared at me with wide, haunted eyes. ‘Oh God.’

‘Exactly.’ I sounded as grim as I felt. ‘So the next question is—’

The shop bell interrupted me and I stopped dead as the door opened cautiously. It was Darcy, today with her hair in ringlets, wearing a lot of peacock-blue make-up around her eyes.

‘Can I come in?’

‘There’s nothing to stop you.’ Smoothly, and without drawing attention to what I was doing, I slid the necklace off the counter and into the pocket of my own jeans. I was on the wrong side of the counter to kick
Petra
if she started to talk about it and I hoped like hell she had the sense to stay quiet.

What I had forgotten, of course, was that Petra had no love for Darcy. She straightened up and said to me, ‘I’m going to have a look around.’

‘Fine.’

‘I hope I’m not interrupting.’ Darcy had turned the cheerfulness up to eleven, obviously hoping to breeze through our first encounter since her confession. ‘You don’t have to stop talking because I’m here.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ I forced a smile. ‘What’s up?’

She leaned on the counter, her head close to mine, and dropped her voice so Petra wouldn’t be able to hear what she said. ‘I was just wondering how you were today. After what we talked about last night, I mean. Did you read through the sketchbook?’

I had lost an hour flicking through it when I’d given up on sleep, reading the notes Freya had left for herself. It was as close as I could get to hearing her voice. At times, it was almost like having a conversation with her, as I’d laughed at the funny remark she’d overheard in a café and scribbled down.

‘I had a look.’

‘What did you think?’

‘I thought what you did was evil,’ I said levelly.

‘
Evil
is a strong word.’ There was more than a
suggestion
of a pout on her face. Darcy couldn’t or wouldn’t see that her behaviour wasn’t the kind of thing you could brush aside, but I steeled myself to be stern.

‘I know. And I also know you came in here to see if I’d forgiven you for the part you played in making a fool out of Freya.’

She flinched. ‘If you want to put it like that.’

‘I told you, it’s not my place to forgive you. I didn’t even know her.’ I looked over at Petra, who appeared to be immersed in a scurrilous biography of Marilyn Monroe. ‘You should be apologizing to her sister.’

Darcy shot out a hand to grip my wrist. ‘You can’t tell her. Don’t tell the Leonards. Don’t tell anyone. I’d have to leave Port Sentinel if everyone knew. I told you the truth but it was private. Off the record.’ She was beginning to sound hysterical.

I freed my arm with some difficulty. ‘Calm down. I’m not going to spread it around. But I think you should explain what you did to them. It’s the only way you’re ever going to be at peace with yourself.’

‘I’m not ready for that,’ she whispered. ‘It’s too hard.’

‘Now, maybe. But one day, you’ll do it.’ At least, I hoped she would. Fundamentally, Darcy wasn’t a bad person, even if she was as changeable as the weather,
but
she was weak. I still wasn’t sure I’d seen the real her. I wasn’t actually sure that Darcy herself knew what the real her was like.

In the meantime, reformed character or not, she could make herself useful.

‘Let’s talk about something else.’ I held up the jeans. ‘Look at these. Aren’t they lovely?’

‘Oh my God. Seven for All Mankind.’ She reached out and rubbed the material between her finger and thumb. ‘Feel the quality.’

‘Someone donated them to us. You wouldn’t have any idea who, would you?’

Darcy narrowed her eyes, considering. ‘They’re from last year. A couple of people had them.’

‘Like who?’

‘Stephanie Cardew. She’s on holiday in Hawaii at the moment, lucky her. But I think hers were a different wash. They were darker.’ She frowned. ‘Natasha had a pair just like these and I haven’t seen her wear them for a while. I think they belonged to her.’

I dropped them as if they were red-hot. ‘Suddenly I don’t like them so much.’

‘Don’t blame the clothes because someone mean owned them.’ Darcy stroked the denim lovingly. ‘I’d buy them but they would never, ever fit me. Natasha’s tiny.’

‘Isn’t she, though.’ I caught Petra’s eye; she was looking wild, as if she were about to rush out and confront Natasha. I held her gaze for a couple of seconds while Darcy was drooling over the jeans.
Leave this one to me. I’ll sort it out
. ‘Are you sure they were Natasha’s?’

‘As sure as I can be.’ Darcy was sounding more certain of herself. She peered at a small bleach spot on the left thigh, a mark that I hadn’t noticed. ‘Yes. Natasha’s, definitely. She wore them loads. She was gutted when she dropped bleach on them. Maybe that’s why she gave them away.’

I wasn’t actually shocked to learn that the jeans were Natasha’s, but having Darcy confirm it made my heart race so fast that I was surprised she couldn’t hear it. I made conversation for a few minutes, chatting as if nothing of consequence had happened. I didn’t trust Darcy enough to tell her what we had found, and Petra evidently felt the same way. She had gone back to the Monroe biography, reading it from the end. Darcy talked. I smiled. The clock on the wall ticked. Nothing had changed; there was no urgency about what I had found out. There was no reason why my hands should slip on the counter top, slick with sweat. Stupid adrenalin, kicking in when it definitely wasn’t required.