I expect Samira to have my back, too. But she’s frowning into space as though her mind is somewhere else completely.
Miranda smiles, blithely, and shakes her head. ‘The manager told me she swims in there most days, even in winter. Besides, we’ll be ready for you with a towel. You’ll be fine, Katie.’
I stare at her. I can’t believe she’s actually going to make me do this. But her eyes are blank, expressionless. ‘Go on,’ she says, with a little nod of encouragement. ‘Strip.’
So often, at school, Miranda was my vanquisher: belittling the girls who tried to have a go at me. But there was another side, too. Miranda, the bully. When she wanted to be she could be far crueller than any of the classroom bitches. It was rare, but it did happen. The flicking of a switch, the flexing of her muscles. Just to remind me who was in charge.
I have one particular memory – one of those you just can’t shake, however much you try. Year 9. In the changing room before hockey. One of the girls – Sarah – was complaining about the fact that Miss wouldn’t let her sit it out, despite it being the first day of her period. ‘She says it’s supposedly “good for” me. Says it will make it better. But I know it won’t. It’s not fair.’ The others: nodding and murmuring in sympathy.
I remembered the packet of paracetamol in my rucksack: dug it out and offered it to her. Sarah was one of the less terrible ones. Sometimes we sat together in class: the ones I didn’t have with Miranda, of course. She looked up at me and smiled as she took the pills. ‘Thanks, Katie.’ I felt a little warmth, spreading through my chest.
And then Miranda’s voice, clear as a bell. ‘But I suppose Katie wouldn’t understand. Seeing as she hasn’t even got hers yet.’ All the other girls turned to me in shock, in fascination. Looking at me as though I were exactly what I felt: a freak show. It had been a sign, I was sure of it – that there was something definitely, definitively wrong with me. Fourteen and no period to speak of. I had confided in Miranda in the strictest confidence. At the time she had reassured me, said she was certain fourteen wasn’t that late, in the grand scheme of things.
And then she had used it to humiliate me. As a way of keeping me in check.
She’s doing this now.
This is absurd. I’m thirty-three years old. I have people who respect and depend on me at work. I have responsibilities. I’m a brilliant lawyer, in fact – I know that – I never let the other side win. I will not allow myself to be humiliated like this.
Fine, I think, looking at Miranda. I see you. I raise you. As though it is nothing at all in the world, I wriggle out of my dress, so I’m standing in front of them all in my underwear. I’ve somehow managed to wear good underwear, in fact: yellow silk, lace trimmed. New. I see Miranda’s eyebrows rise a fraction. She was expecting some greige over-washed horrors, I suspect, in order to compound my humiliation. I wonder if they have noticed my belly. Perhaps it can be explained away by post-dinner bloat. I hunch over, all the same, as I walk across the room without a single look at any of them, open the front door.
Fuck. It is even colder than earlier, if that is possible. It’s so cold that it actually hurts. I can feel my skin shrinking. I can’t think about it, or I won’t be able to do it. I have to be steely, my best, strongest self. The water is only a few yards away, down the path. It looks black as ink. But I can see small pale fragments of ice, gossamer thin, on its surface. I walk towards it and simply keep going as the water covers my ankles, my calves, my stomach, then I plunge downwards, up to my neck. Unbelievable cold. It feels as if I’m drowning, though my head is above the surface. The cold is forcing all the air from my lungs; I’m breathing too quickly, but I can’t seem to draw any breath in. And then, finally, I get myself under control. I turn and look at them all, watching me now, from the bank. All of them cheering and whooping, except Miranda. She’s just watching me.
I look straight back at her, as I tread water. I hate you, I think. I hate you. I don’t feel bad any more. You deserve everything that is coming to you.
EMMA
I find Katie a towel from the loo in the Lodge. She’s so cold that her teeth are chattering with a sound like someone shaking dice. In the light of the living room her lips are bluish. But it’s her eyes that are most disturbing. I know this look, it is that of someone on the edge. I’ve seen it in Mark. I saw it that day at the racecourse.
‘I hate her,’ she says, in a hiss. ‘I actually hate her. I can’t believe she just made me do that. You don’t know her properly, Emma – so perhaps you can’t understand. You don’t know what she’s capable of.’
Actually, I think, I know her a lot better than you’re always trying to make out. Who has been there for her recently, when you’ve dropped off the planet? And I certainly know what you’re capable of, Katie Lewis.
I don’t say this, of course. Instead I grit my teeth and say, ‘How about a glass of champagne? That will warm you up, won’t it?’
‘No. I don’t want a glass of champagne. Besides, hasn’t your boyfriend drunk it all?’ She’s spitting the words out. I stare at her. I’ve never seen her like this. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually seen Katie angry.
‘Look, Katie, I’m sure she didn’t mean it. She’s just had a lot to drink, and she thought it would be funny.’
‘It was fucking dangerous,’ she growls. ‘Do you have any idea how cold that water is?’
‘Come on, Katie. It’s about to be a new year. 2019. A whole new year. Try and forget about it? I’m sure we’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, recently.’ I fix her with a look, just enough to give her pause. She swallows, and then bows her head, as though she is conceding something.
‘I just really want everyone to have a good time,’ I say. ‘I’ve been planning this for so long.’
‘Yes,’ she says, chastened. ‘I know. Sorry, Emma.’
I usher her into the loo, persuade her to change back into her clothes. Suddenly, she is obedient as a child.
I find a record at random and put it on the player, cranking it up to full volume. It’s Candi Staton, ‘You’ve Got the Love’. My favourite song. It’s like it was meant to be.
And it has the required effect. Everyone starts dancing. Even Katie – albeit somewhat half-heartedly.
Miranda is pretty drunk now. But she’s still a better dancer than anyone else here, swaying in the middle of the room, her gold dress incandescent with light. I stand up to dance with her, mirroring her moves, and she gives me a big grin. Then her smile wavers, falters.
‘What is it?’
‘Sho weird …’ (She’s slurring her words now, using Sean Connery ‘S’s.) She squints at me, ‘but I feel like this has all happened before. Do you ever get that? When you could swear that you remember this exact moment happening in the past?’
Typical of Miranda, bless her, to think déjà vu is an experience unique to herself. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘sometimes.’
‘It’s this song …’ She frowns. ‘I really mean it. I know we’ve danced to it somewhere before. Don’t you feel like this has all already happened?’ She’s looking at me, questioningly. I don’t know what to say, so I laugh. If I’m honest, she’s scaring me a little bit. I’m relieved when she spots Julien over my shoulder.
‘Julien,’ she says. ‘Dance with me.’ She reaches for him, her hands groping at his shoulders.
He humours her for a few minutes, swaying obediently to the music, his hands on her hips, but there is a curious lack of intimacy about the pose. He looks bored, if anything. But it all makes sense now, of course.