I slammed down the lid of the laptop, disgusted with Scarlet, disgusted with myself for having had anything to do with her. I felt like this terrible situation had only happened because my weak character had been taken in, and taken over, by Scarlet’s forceful, overbearing personality. Trying to calm down, I went into my kitchen and microwaved a chicken tikka masala, and as I returned to the bedroom and ate it, I tried to feel normal. Like an ordinary person having an ordinary supper. I gazed at the garden, a massive tangled mess of weeds, and at the train track beyond, thinking of the trains that ran so swiftly past my house, packed with commuters going to fluorescent-lit offices and home again. They seemed so remote, those thousands of traveling workers, and I envied them. As happened so often, my thoughts drifted to Wilf, and I wished I could tell him everything about Belle and Scarlet and Controlling Men and Felix’s death. I imagined, too, having him in my bed so that I could get totally lost in him, could forget about being me, and the horrors in my life. I was thinking of him warmly and regretfully as I finished the chicken, as I ate a banana, and then I did something I hadn’t intended—I turned the laptop on again, and typed Tilda’s name into the search engine.
An immediate bombardment. Pictures of tragic Tilda Farrow grieving for her husband of a few weeks, the American banker Felix Nordberg. Mainly of Tilda standing at the front door on Curzon Street, wearing Felix’s white shirt, her long hair falling half over her face, her pose weak and yet somehow beautiful, like the emaciated girls you see in fashion shoots. Some websites had found a photo of Felix that didn’t properly look like him—it was a head shot taken in a studio, and seemed too glossy, his smile too broad, like an advertisement for white teeth. The reports all said that he had died of a suspected heart attack, and some drew attention to the phenomenon of sudden death from heart disease in athletic young men. Others mentioned that Tilda hadn’t worked since Rebecca, that she had been considered for the role of Rachel in My Cousin Rachel. The Mail reported that “friends say that Tilda Farrow has her eyes on Hollywood.” And the Vanity Fair “A-List” website said, “Nobody would be surprised if she fled Britain for the States to make a fresh start after such a tragedy.”
I yelled at the screen, “Leave her alone! What on earth makes you write this crap?”
I returned to thinking about Scarlet, remembering the bent-up figure on the bench at Kenwood House. If I believed in auras, like Mum does, I would say her aura that day was an intense, burning red, signifying danger. I opened up the dossier and wrote: Scarlet claims she killed Felix. I don’t believe her. I think she’s telling a preposterous lie. To kill Felix she would somehow have had to get access to his room at the Ashleigh House Hotel; somehow have had to jab him in a vein with the syringe that Belle stole. It’s too outrageous. And yet, Scarlet is deadly serious. I know that. I can only hope that she is playing mind games, because I’m certain that she isn’t joking. She’s not the joking kind. I think she’s hoping to make Felix’s heart disease a means of making me murder Luke. If she thinks I’ll do such a thing, she must be deranged. For now, I’m trying to stay calm until we get the results of the postmortem.
The more I thought about it, the more I wanted immediate reassurance. So, when I was still up at three in the morning, tired and wired, I sent Scarlet my address. It was my way of challenging her, of saying—prove yourself, or go away forever.
At work the next day, I was ragged, on edge, and I kept doing things wrong. I was late, for a start, then I broke a coffee mug, and I snapped at Daphne even though she was trying to be nice. I was irritated that, while she was acting sorrowful and concerned, she found it impossible to disguise the fact that she was so happy about Douglas. She kept checking her phone for texts from him, and whenever she received one she smiled to herself, and typed really fast at her novel. I couldn’t stand it, and I told her I needed to go for a walk, to get some fresh air.
When I returned, she said, “You missed Wilf. He came in.” It was the first time since he’d come to tell me how angry he was, and I was pleased I’d been out. I didn’t want him seeing me like this, so low and helpless. I settled back behind the payments counter, and Daphne said, “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about things? Everything is so hard for you right now. Is Tilda desperately sad?”
“I’ve no idea,” I said, surprised at myself, because I knew she was distraught.
I was about to change the subject and make tea, when Wilf returned to the shop, striding in like he wanted to hack down a giant bramble. I braced myself. “Did you like that book that Amy bought you? Nemesis.”
“Haven’t read it. I guess it was chosen by you, right?”
“Yeah. How is she—Amy, I mean?”
“Amy’s fine. . . . I keep calling, but you never pick up. I wanted to see if you’re okay. I heard the news about Felix.”
“Yeah. Everything’s been bloody awful. There’s a postmortem today; they’re probably doing it right now. It’s too weird. . . .”
I wanted to tell Wilf how I was feeling, so scared about Scarlet, and the results of the postmortem. But I didn’t. Instead I mumbled, “Have you been seeing a lot of Amy? Have you come in here to buy her a present?”
“No, Callie. I came in here to see how you are. Try and believe in me, will you?” And then he turned and left.
He was scarcely out of the shop when my phone rang. Tilda, shaken and tearful. It took a while to realize that she was trying to tell me that the postmortem was over, and while the results weren’t yet official, Melody Sykes had called. “They said heart disease was the reason he died. . . . Something called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It could have killed him at any time. Imagine—since birth, he’d been living with a deadly weakness that he didn’t know was there. It’s so awful. It struck out of the blue. . . . The small things they found are so sad. Raisins in his stomach from breakfast. So he’d had his favorite, pain au raisin, that morning. And, guess what, there was some damage to his lungs from smoking. Felix, smoking! He never told me. He was always so disapproving about smokers. . . . There’s so much about him that I don’t know, that I’ll never know.”
“Would you like me to come round?” I was so relieved as I spoke. It was heart disease, hyper-something cardio-something, and Scarlet could go to hell.
“No. I’ll be okay. I have things to organize. His parents are coming back . . . and Lucas. I have to prepare for the funeral.”
“Have you spoken to Erik and Alana?”
Tilda paused. Then in a tight voice: “Briefly to Erik; Alana refused to come to the phone. It’s upsetting.”
“But understandable, I suppose.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Her parting words made me feel happy, and for the rest of the afternoon I was able to function better, to deal with the customers, even the woman who wanted her money back because the storyline in her book was “just sex with a bit of murder.” I had to explain that the publishing business didn’t work like that—“Books are always a risk,” I said. “That’s part of the excitement.” I was amazed when she saw my point of view, and on my advice she purchased a Harlan Coben.
When she left, Daphne said, “Go to the top of the class, young Callie.”
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