my parents affectionately referred to her as their second daughter. When she’d left school at sixteen to begin working so her mother would be able to work less, she’d made a point of coming over for dinner once a week.
She was especially close to Dad and had mourned him
28
b a paris
almost as much as I had when he died, knocked down
by a car outside our house. And when Mum had become
ill and couldn’t be left alone, she would sit with her once a week so that I could go shopping.
‘Thirsty?’ I try to joke, nodding at the two cups on
the table but my words sound fake. I feel conspicuous,
as if everyone somehow knows that I saw the murdered
woman last night and didn’t do anything to help her.
She jumps up and gives me a hug. ‘There was such a
queue that I decided to go ahead and order,’ she says. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be long.’
‘Sorry, the traffic was bad. Thanks for coming, I really
appreciate it.’
Her eyes dance. ‘You know I’ll do anything for lunch
at Costello’s.’
I sit down opposite her and take a welcome sip of
coffee.
‘Did you have a wild time last night?’
I smile and a tiny bit of pressure lifts. ‘Not wild, but
it was good fun.’
‘Was gorgeous John there?’
‘Of course he was. All the teachers were.’
She grins. ‘I should have dropped in.’
‘He’s far too young for you,’ I say, laughing. ‘Anyway,
he has a girlfriend.’
‘And to think that you could have had him,’ she sighs,
and I shake my head in mock despair, because she’s never
quite got over the fact that I chose Matthew over John.
The Breakdown
29
After Mum died, Rachel had been brilliant.
Determined to get me out of the house, she began taking
me out with her. Most of her friends were people she
worked with, or knew from her yoga class, and when
I first met them, they would ask me where I worked.
After a couple of months of telling them that I’d given
up my job as a teacher to look after Mum, someone asked
why I wasn’t going back to work now that I could. And
suddenly, I wanted to, more than anything. I was no
longer content to sit at home day after day, enjoying a
freedom I hadn’t experienced in years. I wanted a life,
the life of a 33-year-old woman.
I was lucky. A shortage of teachers in our area meant I
was sent on a refresher course before being offered a job at a school in Castle Wells teaching History to Year 9
students. I enjoyed being back in work and when John,
the resident heart-throb of both teachers and students,
asked me out, it was ridiculously flattering. If he hadn’t been a colleague, I would probably have accepted. But I refused, which made him ask me out even more. He was so persistent that I was glad when I eventually met
Matthew.
I take another sip of coffee. ‘How was America?’
‘Exhausting. Too many meetings, too much food.’
She takes a flat package from her bag and pushes it
across the table.
‘My tea towel!’ I say, taking it out and unfolding it.
There’s a map of New York on the front. It’s a joke
between us – whenever Rachel goes away, on a business
30
b a paris
trip or on holiday, she always brings back two identical
tea towels, one for me and one for her. ‘Thank you, you
have the same one, I hope?’
‘Of course.’ Her face becomes suddenly serious. ‘Did
you hear about the woman who was found dead in her
car last night, on that road that goes through the woods
between here and Castle Wells?’
I swallow quickly, fold the tea towel in half, then in
quarters and bend to put it in my bag. ‘Yes, Matthew
told me, it was on the news,’ I say, my head beneath
the table.
She waits until I’m sitting straight again, then gives
a shudder. ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it? The police think she broke down.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yeah.’ She pulls a face. ‘How awful – imagine
breaking down in the middle of a storm, in the middle
of nowhere. I don’t even want to think about it.’
It takes everything I’ve got not to blurt out that I was
there, that I saw the woman in the car. But something
stops me. This place is too crowded and Rachel is already emotionally invested in the story. I’m afraid she’ll judge me, be horrified that I did nothing to help. ‘Me neither,’
I say.
‘You sometimes use that road, don’t you? You didn’t
take it last night, did you?’
‘No, I’d never take that road, not when I’m by myself.’
I feel my skin reddening and I’m sure she’ll know that
I’ve just lied.
The Breakdown
31
But she carries on, unaware. ‘Just as well. It could
have been you.’
‘Except that I wouldn’t have broken down,’ I say.
She laughs, breaking the tension. ‘You don’t know
that! She might not have broken down. It’s only suppo—
sition. Maybe somebody flagged her down, pretending
they were in trouble. Anybody would stop if they saw
someone in trouble, wouldn’t they?’
‘Would they, though? On a lonely road and in a
storm?’ I desperately want the answer to be no.
‘Well, not unless they didn’t have a conscience. Nobody