The pair had left the Tabernacle a few minutes after Gemma had spoken to MacKenzie, Jess looking mulishly furious, MacKenzie distressed. Gemma hadn’t intruded, but now she wondered how the girl had died, and how ten-year-old Jess would take the news. And she was a little surprised at how much she’d hated seeing MacKenzie so shocked and upset.
Searching for a distraction, she sat down at her dusty piano and tried a tentative chord. The sound seemed unexpectedly loud in the quiet house, but she felt herself relaxing as the reverberation died away. Encouraged, she began to play, haltingly, working the stiffness from her fingers. After a while she thought only of the progression of notes, and without the dogs to bark, it took her a moment to recognize the chime of the doorbell.
Pushing back the piano bench, she hurried to the door and opened it. MacKenzie stood on the porch, looking unusually disheveled. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I thought I’d stop in before I went home.”
“Of course,” Gemma said, giving her friend a quick hug as she ushered her in. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. No.” MacKenzie’s voice shook. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t go home and face having to explain about Reagan to Oliver.”
“Come in the kitchen and I’ll make us a pot of tea.”
MacKenzie followed her obediently, but as Gemma reached for the kettle, she said, “Um, anything stronger on offer?”
“That bad?” Gemma turned to study her. MacKenzie wore one of her trademark Ollie printed skirts and a crisp white blouse, but she looked thoroughly wilted. Her dark, curly hair was pulled into a haphazard ponytail, and her lips looked bloodless.
Still, even in the worst of circumstances, MacKenzie Williams was stunning. MacKenzie had a model’s poise combined with the confidence of a born entrepreneur, and the money and the social status of the Notting Hill elite. But Gemma quickly discovered that there was no artifice to MacKenzie—she was as down to earth and as kind as anyone Gemma had ever met.
MacKenzie nodded. “Awful.”
“We’d better fortify you, then.” Gemma retrieved a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge and gave two wineglasses a quick swipe with a tea towel. “It’s stuffy in here,” she said when she had poured wine for them both. “Let’s go out on the patio.”
“Where is everyone?” MacKenzie asked as Gemma led her through the sitting room. “I’ve never seen the house so quiet.”
“Duncan’s taken the little ones and the dogs to the park. Not that you’d know it from the mess,” Gemma added, navigating through the litter of toys on the floor. “Kit’s at Starbucks with his mates. Supposedly studying.”
MacKenzie managed a smile. “Texting and watching videos on their phones, more likely.” She stopped to stroke the small furry bundle on the sofa back. The bundle moved, resolving itself into two kittens, black-and-white Jack and tortoiseshell-and-white Rose. They stretched and yawned, showing tiny needle-sharp teeth, then Jack gave MacKenzie’s finger an experimental nibble. “Ow.” She jerked her hand back. “Little bugger.”
“He is that,” Gemma said, laughing.
“At least you have two. They can keep each other entertained. Bouncer is climbing up my legs. Even when I’m not wearing trousers.”
Gemma was glad to hear MacKenzie’s voice sounding steadier.
The patio was still in the sun, but the air had cooled a bit from midafternoon and it felt pleasant. “It looks lovely,” MacKenzie said as they sat, and Gemma felt gratified to have her flower-potting efforts appreciated.
“I’m not much at gardening. But I thought with the fine weather, we should be enjoying . . .” She stopped, seeing MacKenzie’s expression.
MacKenzie waved a hand at her to go on and took a gulp of her wine. “Of course you should,” she said when the wine had gone down. It’s just . . . I can’t help thinking . . .”
“Would you rather go in?”
“No. Don’t mind me. I can’t go avoiding gardens just because of where they found her.”
“Cornwall Gardens, you said?” Gemma thought for a moment, trying to place it.
“Just north of Blenheim Crescent—”
“Up against Kensington Park Road,” Gemma finished. “I know where it is.” It was one of a string of communal gardens strung jewel-like through this part of Notting Hill, much like the one stretching before them in the afternoon light. Other than the two of them on the small gated patio, the space was deserted. “You’d think,” she said, wanting to ease MacKenzie’s tension, “that people would use these gardens more, as coveted as they are. Our children play in the communal area, but we hardly see anyone else, even out of term time.”
“The adults work all day, and the children are in boarding school or scheduled activities.” The disapproval in MacKenzie’s voice was clear. The Williamses were an anomaly in their social circle. They’d managed to build a successful business that included their child, and family remained their top priority.
“I have one in a scheduled activity now,” Gemma reminded her, teasing a little.
“Oh, that’s different.” MacKenzie waved her now half-empty wineglass, sloshing it. “Toby wants to do it. Most of these kids are shuttled from one activity to another because their parents can’t be bothered to spend time with them.”
Glad she’d had the forethought to bring the bottle, Gemma topped up MacKenzie’s glass. “What about Jess, then? He obviously does ballet because he wants to. I’ve never seen a more motivated child.”
MacKenzie looked surprised. “You know Jess?”
Earlier, Gemma had merely said that she thought she’d seen him outside the ballet class. “I interrupted his practicing. We chatted a bit.”
“I would never have described Jess as chatty,” MacKenzie said, raising her eyebrows.
“He’s remarkably gifted, isn’t he?”
“Yes. But he can be a bit surly with it. Not out of meanness, but because he’s so . . . driven.” MacKenzie gazed at her glass, her eyes filling. “And now . . . no child that age should have to deal with such a thing.” Glancing up at Gemma, she added, “This sounds absurd, but I’ve never known anyone who died before. I mean someone young. It just seems so . . . so wrong . . .”
“Yes. Of course it does. Tell me about Reagan,” she said, gently. “How did you come to know her?”
MacKenzie’s neck was long and slender—it was one of the things that made her photograph well—and Gemma saw the muscles in her throat move as she swallowed. “It was Nita. Jess’s mum. Bill used to play racquetball with Jess’s dad, Chris, before he and Nita divorced. I saw Nita in Kitchen and Pantry one day, and Reagan was with her.”
At the corner of Elgin Crescent and Kensington Park Road, the café was a well-established Notting Hill gathering spot, especially for yummy mummies, as the area’s trendy, well-off mothers were called. It was, in fact, where Duncan and Charlotte had met MacKenzie and Oliver.
“I had Oliver with me,” MacKenzie said, “and she was so good with him. So I wondered if she might look after him occasionally, if she had any time free from Jess.”