‘So what happened?’ Matt said at last. ‘At – at the house? They said a shotgun went off but it just seems … why was he even there?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shut my eyes, and my hand goes to the hot, sweaty dressing over my forehead. ‘I never asked. When we heard him walking around we thought he was a burglar.’ I don’t go into the rest of it – the door swinging wide, our stupid hysteria. It seems like something out of a horror movie, clichéd, ridiculous. ‘I suppose it was a prank, the groom turning up to surprise his future bride in bed.’
‘No,’ Matt’s shaking his head. ‘I really don’t think – he wouldn’t have gone up there uninvited.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well first of all, you just don’t, do you? You don’t crash your girlfriend’s hen. It’s kind of … crass. It’s her last chance at being single, you’d have to be kind of a wanker to take that away from her.’
I guess. But I don’t say anything. I’m waiting for the second reason. Matt takes a breath.
‘And second … well … they weren’t getting along that great.’
‘What?’ I know as soon as I’ve said it that my voice is too loud, too emphatic, too shocked. Matt looks up, startled.
‘Look, I don’t want to overstate it but … yeah. Did Clare not say?’
‘No … at least … I don’t think so.’ I think back, trying to remember what we talked about. But I know Clare. She would never admit to any kind of problem. The facade always had to be perfect, the mask never slipped. ‘What kind of problems?’
‘I don’t know.’ He looks uncomfortable. ‘I don’t— We never really talked about it. I’m guessing it was just the usual pre-wedding jitters, right? I’ve seen enough mates down the aisle to know how it goes – perfectly normal girlfriend turns into bridezilla, everyone gets tense, families chip in, friends get involved, small stuff is suddenly blown up into major feuds and everyone takes sides.’
‘So why was he there?’ I say at last.
‘I don’t know. I can only guess … someone asked him to come.’
‘Someone asked him? But – but …’
But who? Clare? No. No way. She of all people knew what it would mean if James turned up at the house; there was no way she wanted me and him shut up together in the same place for two hours, let alone twenty-four. It would have resulted in me storming out, or an unholy row, and she knew it. That was why she hadn’t invited me to the wedding. One of the others might have done it out of ignorance, or malice. But there was no way Clare would purposely ruin her own hen weekend. Why would she?
Flo? Could she have done it as some kind of joke? She knew nothing about my past with James. She could have done it as a jolly jape to crown off her ‘perfect’ weekend. And, after all, Melanie had gone. There was a spare double room. And then that might explain her abrupt breakdown: not just guilt over waving a loaded gun around, but guilt over having set up the whole prank-gone-wrong in the first place. But then surely she would have known it was probably James coming up the stairs. Why would she have fired the gun – even supposing it was unloaded? I had seen her face as that shadowy figure rounded the corner of the stairs. She had looked genuinely frightened. Either she’s insane, or the most fantastic actress of all time.
Could it have been Tom? Had there been something about that row with Bruce, something that would have made him want to set James up for a fall? Or Nina, with her weird, twisted sense of humour, playing a practical joke? But why? Why would either of them do such a thing?
I shake my head. This is sending me crazy. No one in that house invited James. No one. There’s no way the shooting would have played out that way if they had.
‘You’re wrong,’ I say into the silence. ‘You must be. He must have just decided to come. If he and Clare had argued he might have wanted to patch it up, don’t you think? He was always …’
‘A bit of an idiot?’ Matt says. He gives a shaky laugh. ‘I guess maybe you’re right. He’s not known for his forethought. I mean—’ He stops and I see his fist on his knee is clenched ‘—I mean he was.’ He stops. There is another silence, both of us thinking of the James who lives in our heads, in our thoughts. ‘I remember,’ he says at last, ‘I remember one time at uni, he climbed the college walls and put Santa hats on all the gargoyles. Idiot. He could have been killed.’
As the last word drops from his lips I see him realise what he’s said, and flinch, and before I can stop myself I put out a hand.
‘I’d better go,’ he says. ‘I’m— I hope you’re better soon.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. And then, forcing myself on, because I know if I don’t say it I’ll regret it, ‘Will you – can you come back?’
‘I’m going back to London in the morning,’ he says. ‘But it’d be nice to keep in touch.’