I was mortified. Sickened by myself. So I did what a lot of people do when they are accused of something. I threw it back. ‘How can you think such filthy thoughts?’ I yelled.
Mum went beetroot, but she held her ground. ‘Are you sure you’re telling me the truth about Daniel?’
‘Of course I’m sure. How can you be so disgusting?’
Her words scared me. By then I had turned eighteen. Daniel was seventeen. We hadn’t ‘done it’, as my school friends called it. But we were close. Perilously close.
At times, my love for Daniel was so overwhelming that I could barely breathe when I sat opposite him at breakfast. Yet at other times, I could barely stand to be in the same room as him. Both feelings that I was to have later, towards Joe.
And that’s the nub of it, you see. Because of Daniel, I was unable to feel attracted to a man unless it was wrong. That’s why I was so drawn to Joe. And that’s why my honeymoon had been a disaster. Why I always found it difficult with Ed.
‘Then,’ I continue falteringly, ‘the same boy from school asked me out again. (I’d explained there’d been a misunderstanding over the previous date.) This time, I wouldn’t let Daniel stop me. It was my way to break free.’
I close my eyes again, shutting out my bedroom with its posters on the wall; the desk with my homework littered over it; my brother with his furious eyes as he took in the clingy top I had put on for the date. A glittery silver one (which I’d saved up for) that showed my curves …
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ says Ross, sensing my distress.
‘I need to.’
So I make myself describe how Daniel went mad. How jealous he was of this boy. How he said I’d never be able to stop doing what he and I had been doing. How he called me terrible names.
Whore.
Slut.
Fatty.
That no one else would ever want me.
And how I then said those fateful words.
I wish you had never been born.
Daniel went very quiet then. Just stared at me for what seemed like ages and then left the room. Dabbing on foundation to cover my tears, I flew down the stairs.
I stop. Compose myself before I continue with the final part of the story.
On my way out, Mum caught me. ‘You look nice,’ she said, casting an eye over my top. ‘But you’ll need your coat. It’s cold outside.’
I’d been so desperate to leave that I’d forgotten. Now I grabbed it from the rack.
Her voice quivered. ‘Are you going out with Daniel?’
‘No.’ I spat the word at her, flushing hotly as though I was telling a lie. ‘I’m meeting someone else.’
Her colour was as high as mine. ‘Promise?’ she said.
‘Of course I promise. Daniel’s … he’s somewhere else.’
This is the difficult bit. The bit which is so hard to say that the words choke my throat. But I have to. I’ve reached the end of the road. If I don’t do it now, I will never be able to do it.
Ross is holding my hand. I take a deep breath.
‘When I came back – early as it happens, as the date hadn’t been a great success – Mum was hysterical. They’d found a note from Daniel. It just said, Gone. Did I know anything? Had he run away? That’s when it came to me. He’d have gone to our place. Our special place.’
Ross squeezes my hand as the words stream out of my heart.
‘He was hanging in his red jacket from the stable rafters with Merlin nuzzling his feet. And do you know what was on the frozen ground?’
Ross shakes his head.
‘My doll. My old doll. The one I used to carry everywhere with me. Amelia. He must have gone back to the house to get it from my room and write the note. And I know why. Amelia would have made him feel I was with him at the end …’
As I speak, I get a glimpse of Carla as a child, questioning me about my doll in the taxi when I’d taken her home from the hospital. ‘Do you still have her?’ she’d asked.
‘No,’ I’d told her. It was true.
I’d asked them to put her in Daniel’s coffin.
Grief at allowing myself to remember is now overwhelming me. It chokes my throat. Makes my breath come out in small, desperate gasps. I see my father. Sobbing. Unable to believe what his eyes showed him all too clearly. I see my mother, clasping her arms around her body and rocking back and forth on the ground, repeating the same phrase over and over: There’s got to be a mistake …
I turn to Ross. ‘Don’t you see? It was my fault. If I hadn’t gone out with that boy from school, Daniel wouldn’t have killed himself. That’s why I never allowed myself to date anyone else. Not until the millennium when my father told me it was time to move on.’
‘When you met Ed,’ says Ross quietly.
‘Exactly. That’s why I became a lawyer too. Not just to put the world to rights. But to put myself to rights. I wanted to make sure I never made a mistake again.’
I stop.
‘And then,’ prompted Ross softly.
‘Then I met Joe Thomas.’
64
Lily
Dear Lily,
I am truly sorry for everything. I did things I should not have done. And I did not do things that they said I did. Either way, I am paying for them …
That’s right, there’s a postscript to this story.
No one knows how Carla survived. The extent of Joe Thomas’s wrath was horrific. One member of the jury had to be carried out when she saw the photographs.
One thing is sure. The Italian Girl will never look the same. Gone is the beautiful skin. Instead, it is a mass of scars. One eye will never open again. The mouth droops slightly on one side. Only the glossy dark hair remains.
Life is a long time. Especially when beauty is no longer on your side.
CRIME OF PASSION
EX-CON AND HIS LAWYER IN MURDER PUZZLE
ARTIST’S WIDOW EMBROILED IN KILLER SCANDAL
The headlines went on for days. There had to be two trials, of course. One for Joe. And one for Carla.
Luckily for her, Carla found a new white knight. Her real father. A man who had had nothing to do with Carla previously because he had a family of his own. But when his children left home and he got divorced, he hired an investigator to trace his daughter. By that point she was in Italy. He decided not to take it any further then, but he was sentimental enough to buy the portrait which his man had cleverly discovered in a small London gallery. The Italian Girl, it was called. But the accompanying paperwork had named the sitter.
Carla Cavoletti.
For a time, the portrait sufficed. But then, when he read about Carla’s first trial and heard about Francesca’s death, his conscience finally kicked in. He put up the bail money. Forced Carla’s grandfather to keep it a secret, to say it was his money.
Then, after she was convicted for assaulting me and for Ed’s murder, he had the guts to step in openly. To reveal himself. The papers had another field day.
ITALIAN GIRL’S FATHER PROMISES TO CARE FOR GRANDDAUGHTER
Glad as I was for Poppy with her little gummy smile, being looked after by family while her mother serves her time, I try not to think about any of this as I go about my daily life.
I’ve had enough of the law now. My new family counselling practice has boomed. Tom is years ahead with his mathematical skills, apparently, but still has toddler tantrums if his shoes are moved from their proper place. I have to remind myself that, according to the experts, I ought to use the word ‘melt-down’ rather than tantrum, because the latter denotes a certain wilfulness. I also have to remind myself that Tom honestly can’t help it.
But Alice, his new school friend, has helped. We all like Alice. She has similar issues to my son. She understands him. Perhaps one day they’ll be more than friends.
Meanwhile, there’s Mum and Dad, who are getting older and talking about selling the house. And Ross, of course. Ross, who has become a regular visitor to the house. Never imposing. Never pushing. But often there. Even after my confession.