The Truth About Julia: A Chillingly Timely Psychological Novel (26 page)

‘I woke up in hospital three days later. They’d put me into an artificial coma. They had tried to save my eyesight but failed. Apart from my eyes, though, all other injuries were minor. Bruises, cuts, contusions, damaged ribs, that sort of thing. It was a miracle of sorts. But a sad one. Sight, of all the senses... Although I really mustn’t complain. Had I lost my hearing I’d be unemployed now, wouldn’t I? At least I can still teach. And listen to others play. And I’m still alive. Most of the others aren’t.’

We sat in silence for a while.

‘Do you hate her? Julia, I mean?’ I finally asked.

‘Oh, of course not, dear. What would be the point of that? I don’t hate anybody. Hating gets you nowhere. We should forgive others for their weaknesses. That, Clare, is really all we can do. Our only challenge in this world.’

‘Why do you think she did it?’

‘I’ve no idea. Sam read the manifesto to me. I didn’t understand it. I really couldn’t begin to speculate about her motives.’

‘Don’t you think about her, at night, and about what she took away from you and all the others? Don’t you wish her dead, or blind, too, or imprisoned for life? Don’t you want to know
why
she committed her atrocious act?’

Grace thought about this for a moment. Then she said: ‘No. No, honestly, dear, I don’t. I’m not interested. I’m interested in Sam right now. In how to get her back on track. I’m interested in tomorrow and the day after. I’m interested in the future, you see? In how to keep on living as well as we can, considering the circumstances.’

A little later, Grace showed me out. But before she closed the door, she put her warm, firm hand on my arm, leaned forward and whispered in my ear, ‘Good luck, Clare. Have faith.’

Despite having found some temporary relief in Grace’s calming presence, I felt even worse when I returned to my apartment. Grace’s humility and generosity were humbling. I was deeply impressed by her poise and charity. I wondered whether she was religious. However, she didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. She didn’t help answer any of the questions that I was burning to resolve. She told me that Julia’s face was impenetrable, and her strange final gesture before blowing up the coffee shop unreadable. I was beginning to think I was doomed. Unless I could speak to Julia, unless Julia could tell me the truth about Julia, my peace of mind, I feared, would be destroyed for ever.

Talking of peace of mind, George: I, in turn, seem to have destroyed Amanda’s. At least that’s what she told me yesterday. During her one-hour visit (for the first time, Laura couldn’t be there – she was expecting an important food critic at the Blue Nile), she broke down and let it all out. I have to confess I was waiting for something like this to happen. She has been too calm, too controlled – there was no way she could keep that up, not even her. It was the wretched defence strategy topic that triggered it – it’s all my three visitors want to talk about right now.

As always, we met in the visitors’ room for low-risk inmates, an inhospitable space reminiscent of an airport lounge, with bad acoustics and a row of twenty square plastic tables in it, each of which was occupied by another woman and her guests. There were five guards in the room watching us, too.

‘Have you thought a bit more about it?’ Amanda asked straight after we’d sat down.

‘Yes. But I haven’t changed my mind. I’m not going to pretend I was temporarily insane. I wasn’t, and it would be unethical to claim that I was.’

My choice of words made Amanda flare up. ‘Unethical? Let me tell you what’s unethical: your utter selfishness –
that
’s what’s unethical. Your getting on your moral high horse for the sake of some idiotic principle that’ll allow you to feel self-righteous –
that
’s unethical. Your complete disregard for Laura’s and my feelings –
that
’s what
I’d
call unethical. Have you any idea how bloody worried we are about you? And how much all of this has shaken Laura – and me, for that matter? Laura’s so confused right now – her cherished aunt, the person she admired most in the world… Moira called yesterday. She’s concerned about Laura. She’s not on form, not her usual self. Apparently, she keeps dropping things in the kitchen, expensive things. Equipment, ingredients, glasses. Every day it’s something. And she threw out some customers the other day who she thought were paparazzi, but actually they were just tourists… It’s so
unlike
her. We want you out of here; we want the old Clare back.’

‘Listen…’ I began, but Amanda interrupted me.

‘For fuck’s sake, Clare, we’re talking about a simple legal strategy, not about moral principles. Fuck the means. It’s the result that matters. Everyone has to have a strategy – whatever works best, that’s just how the system functions. You know that. You’re self-sabotaging. There are other ways to deal with your guilt, healthier ways. Do you hear me? I’ll help you with that, if you let me. It’s not the right moment to play the bloody martyr. Do you even realize how much is at stake here? You could be locked up for years, even for the rest of your life. Hasn’t your lawyer made that clear to you? I want you back. Outside. I need you. You and Laura are all I’ve got left.’ Then Amanda began to sob. I tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away. The people on the neighbouring tables had stopped talking and were looking at us, and one of the guards signalled for us to keep our voices down.

‘I’m aware of that,’ I said as gently as possible. ‘I am. I want out, too. I miss you, both of you. But I wasn’t temporarily insane. I’m just not prepared to lie about it.’

Then Amanda started to shout at me. ‘But of course you bloody were! How can you even
think
you weren’t! That’s just ridiculous. The Clare I know would never kill anyone. Never! You were completely out of your bloody mind! You’d been drinking, you had a breakdown, you were undernourished, dehydrated, hypothermic, your brain wasn’t working right. You’d been under so much stress that it simply broke something in you. That
happens
– it’s called a nervous bloody breakdown. You didn’t know what you were doing – of course you didn’t. That’s what the lawyer says. And the psychiatrists. Everyone! And they’re right. It’s not even just a strategy. That’s how it was. It’s the bloody
truth
.’

‘But I did, Amanda. I did,’ I whispered. ‘I did know what I was doing.’

‘No, you didn’t! You think you did, but you didn’t. My sister’s not a murderer! I refuse to believe it. And you better get a grip on this – I’m not going to watch you self-destruct in court, I can tell you that. I’m going to have you sectioned if you don’t change your story. Do you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?’

And then Amanda stormed out, although our time wasn’t yet up. But the word she’d used stayed behind. Murderer.

Murderer. Am I a murderer?

XVIII

Since Amanda uttered that dreaded word during her outburst in the visitors’ room, I haven’t been able to sleep. At all. The pills have stopped working. So I may as well use my nights to finish this job now.

After my meeting with Grace, my despair grew worse. I just about managed to transcribe our interview, but not much else besides. For days, I sat in my armchair with my blinds drawn. I forced myself to answer Amanda’s calls every day, because I knew that otherwise she would have turned up at my doorstep – and she had keys to my flat. Since the announcement of the award, she had become very anxious that I might do something stupid. On 28 October, however, Amanda didn’t call. And the next day, around noon, someone pounded on my door.

‘Open up! I know you’re in there, Clare,’ a bright voice called. ‘I’m not leaving until you let me in.’ It was Laura.

Very slowly and reluctantly, I opened the door. I absolutely couldn’t face speaking to anyone – not even Laura. But she burst in, hugged me and then took a step back to look at me.

‘Jesus, what’s wrong with you? You look terrible. Are you sick or something? And what’s with the drinking at this time of day? It’s not even twelve yet.’

She must have smelled the whisky on my breath. I mumbled something about a toothache.

‘Well, then go to the dentist, and
pronto
,’ Laura said. ‘The days of self-medicating dental pain with spirits are long gone. This is the twenty-first century, remember?’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Whatever. You’re right. I’ll go.’

Laura looked at me again. ‘It’s not even true, is it? You look really shit, you know that? Have you lost weight?’

‘Look, I’m a bit stressed about my book project – important deadline coming up, and I’m behind. I just really need to work, OK?’

‘Since when can you work when you’re drunk? I should think that working and drinking, and drinking and thinking, are kind of mutually exclusive.’ Laura wouldn’t let go. She’d folded her arms and was studying me.

‘I’m not drunk, Laura, I just had a drink. Small but significant difference, all right? I was just about to take a shower and make some coffee and get started when you interrupted me.’

‘Well, I’m sorry I got between you and your shower. You certainly need one, I can tell you that.’

‘Thanks. That’s really charming. Did Amanda send you?’

‘No, she didn’t. In fact, she’d kill me if she knew I was here. Do you want to know why?’

I sighed. ‘Why?’

‘Because you forgot her birthday! It was Mum’s birthday yesterday. She was completely distraught that you didn’t call her. It really, really upset her, actually. I mean, your own sister. Come
on
. You only have one. How difficult can it be to remember that one family birthday?’

‘Shit,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I completely forgot what day of the week it was…’

‘Yes, I can see that. And what time of day it is, and so on. You definitely do seem a little disorientated.’ After a pause, Laura said, more gently: ‘Hey, do you want to tell me what’s wrong? Is it that Temple business? You know, Mum is really worried about it.’

‘No, no, sweetheart, it’s not that. I’m OK, really. I promise. But thanks for asking. As I said, I’m just a bit stressed about the deadline. Don’t you have to be at the Blue Nile today? What about lunch service?’ I really,
really
wanted her to leave. My head was pounding, and I was embarrassed. I didn’t want her to see me like this. I was in my dressing gown, and Laura was right: I desperately needed a shower.

‘Moira’s doing lunch today, and we’ve also appointed a sous-chef. Haven’t I told you? It’s so exciting. Business has been very good lately, and we can’t really cope with the demand anymore, just the two of us. So we asked around, and a friend recommended a friend. We interviewed her last week. She’s called Lizzy, and seems really nice and enthusiastic and capable and all that. Today Moira’s showing her the ropes, and tomorrow I will. We thought it would be better if we took turns. Too many cooks, and so on. Talking of cooks: you know what? I think you need something to eat. You look like you haven’t eaten anything decent for days. Why don’t I cook something for you? I have the afternoon off, and I’d love to make us something.’

‘Laura, that’s very sweet of you, darling, but I really need to work. And… my tooth, remember? Chewing hurts.’

‘No, sorry, not good enough. You’ll eat with me. I’m not leaving. What do you fancy? I think you need protein, and iron, and vitamins. I know: I’ll make us some feta-bulgurwheat fritters and a spinach-fennel salad. With cranberry sauce and Greek yoghurt on the side. How does that sound?’

‘Sweetheart, as I said. I need to work. I mean it. Really. You should go out and have some fun. Enjoy your afternoon off. Go chanterelle hunting or something. Source some baby pig trotters. I’ll order in some pizza.’

‘OK, so you don’t like the idea of vegetarian. I can cook meat, too, you know. If you crave meat, that’s fine. How about lamb? There’s a really good organic butcher around the corner. I’ve got it: lamb shanks resting on a bed of grilled baby gems, with a mustard-horseradish sauce.’

‘How can meat be resting on anything, Laura? It’s dead matter. Dead things don’t rest.’

‘Jesus, you really are in a super-grumpy mood today, Clare. What’s eating you?’ Laura rolled her eyes at me. ‘That’s industry speak. Everyone in the sector talks like that. Haven’t you noticed? All food now rests, nestles or perches on beds of something or other. Everything’s sun-blushed, succulent, free-range, forested, hand-cured, heritage, line-caught, luscious and so on, and caressed by reductions, infusions, emulsions and jus. Menu descriptions are amuse-gueules, really, the first point of contact with the customer. It’s kind of an art form in itself, finding the right words to describe something in a way that tantalizes the imagination.’

‘But it’s distasteful, that overblown gastro-rhetoric. After all, we’re not talking about art, we’re talking about things like sausages and mash. When did it become acceptable to talk about food as something you can “deconstruct” or “curate”? There’s something seriously wrong with all this food fanaticism. It’s just another bloody form of glorified, hollow consumption. Christ, people used to bury their heads in the sand, now they bury them in jewelled couscous, sprinkled with pomegranate seeds and toasted almond flakes and a hint of orange blossom essence.’

The second I finished my diatribe, I regretted it. I didn’t mean to snap at Laura. I didn’t mean to attack her profession. The truth is, I am immensely proud of her and all her achievements. And I love her cooking – what she does is amazing. I was just so tired, and I so desperately wanted her to leave me be.

She looked at me aghast, her eyes widening while I spoke.

‘Fine. You made your point,’ she said eventually. ‘Sounds like you should just order in pizza after all.’ Then she grabbed her bag and banged the door shut as she left.

Although I was quite drunk, I had enough presence of mind left to realize that I’d hurt her feelings. I opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. ‘Laura… wait,’ I called, ‘listen, hon, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…’ But Laura ran down the stairs without looking back.

I left dozens of messages on her phone that day, and texted apologies, but they all remained unanswered. And so did my attempts to call Amanda. It was completely unlike Amanda to ignore my calls, and it showed just how upset she was about my birthday blunder.