Deep Blue Sea Page 19

  ‘Wait, wait, wait,’ said Ross, putting up a hand. ‘Stop getting emotional and listen to yourself.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked irritably.

  ‘Madison could have been pregnant with Julian’s child,’ said Ross, holding up a finger. ‘We don’t even know if they were in a relationship, and as Pam herself said, Madison had lots of admirers.’

  ‘But how many of those admirers bought her two plane tickets – from his personal account – in the weeks just before her death?’

  ‘Have you sent Maddie’s picture over to Greg Willets yet? Asked him if it’s the same girl he saw Julian with in Washington?’

  ‘I emailed it over to him yesterday. He hasn’t got back to me yet.’

  ‘Then it’s a good thing your uncle Ross is here, isn’t it?’ he grinned, pulling out the notebook he had been writing in at Pamela’s. ‘The names and addresses of three of Madison’s closest friends. Let’s track them down in the morning, because mothers don’t always know best.’

  21

  Diana had known it might come. She had read about widows so paralysed by grief that they found it impossible to move or function, and in the two weeks since Julian’s death she had felt some small comfort that this terrible fate had escaped her. But after her argument with Rachel, she had gone to her bedroom, closed the curtains, climbed into bed and not got out of it for thirty-six hours. For some of that time she had slept, but for most of it she had lain in the darkness, unable to move or speak. Grief had consumed her, seeped into every molecule of her being like a creeping fog, suffocated her with its loneliness. The worst was not over, she realised. It was just beginning. This was her new life, and it was oppressive, empty and cold. There was nowhere to run from it, nowhere to hide. She couldn’t pack a bag and move somewhere different, because wherever she went, however hot and beautiful that place might be, it would follow and haunt her.

  Diana wasn’t sure that she wanted to die, but she wasn’t sure if she could carry on living, and for now, she was happy to stay in this bedroom limbo, between a crisp sheet and a warm duvet, waiting for something, someone to tell her what direction to take when she stepped out of bed once more. She lay on her back and exhaled slowly, listening to her breath escape her body. She knew that she was no longer just mourning her husband; she was mourning the contented life she had once had, or thought she had had. It was the lies that were the most difficult thing to accept. There was the lie about her sister. Julian had insisted that he hated Rachel after her newspaper had exposed his affair. He hated her, but it was only because he had tried to sleep with her.

  Madison Kopek was even more painful to think about. Diana had known her marriage wasn’t perfect, but she had thought that Julian had loved her and Charlie deeply. The truth, as Rachel had so painfully revealed to her, was that he had clearly loved someone else more. Madison Kopek, with her youth and her American cheerleader beauty. The realisation that Julian had killed himself two days after Madison had died had been almost too much to take on board. The understanding that the pain of losing Madison had been greater than Julian’s own love of life, his love of his family. He must have adored her so much that life wasn’t worth living without her, and that made Diana feel worthless and wretched.

  She heard the door open and managed to turn her head to the side to see who it was. Sylvia walked into Somerfold’s master bedroom, whipped back the curtains, flooding the room with sunlight, and with equal ruthlessness pulled back the duvet, making Diana curl up into a ball.

  ‘Mum, what are you doing?’ she croaked, raising one hand to shield her eyes from the light.

  ‘Getting you moving, darling,’ said her mother breezily. ‘I thought we’d walk down to the village.’

  ‘But I need to sleep,’ she said, struggling to get the words out.

  ‘And you have slept. Since Saturday. It is now three o’clock on Monday afternoon, and it’s time to get up.’

  ‘I don’t want to go out. I can’t.’

  But her mother wasn’t listening. She had gone to the en suite, turned on the shower and returned to throw Diana’s bathrobe on the bed.

  ‘I expect you downstairs in fifteen minutes,’ she said, in a voice that not even Diana’s grief-stricken body dared defy.

  Boughton was a thirty-minute stroll away from the house – most of it taken up by the long, winding gravel drive that snaked through Somerfold’s grounds. Diana and Sylvia walked slowly. It had been hard not to think of Rachel as they had gone past the Lake House, but Sylvia hadn’t mentioned her, instead chatting quite distractingly about a new opera that was coming to the ROH, a news item she had read on the Daily Mail online, an oil painting she was working on. Diana hadn’t spoken, only listened. Her interest in anything seemed to have been sapped out of her, but she was grateful that her mother seemed to intuitively understand that all she wanted was background noise to stop her sinking into the quicksand of her own emotions.

  The village always looked loveliest in the sun. It was one of the most picturesque places in England, with rows of red-brick cottages, an old church, a duck pond and a collection of lively pubs that competed for the local custom with a series of quiz nights, ale festivals and curry evenings.

  ‘So where are we going?’ Diana asked, watching the sun break through the overhanging trees.

  ‘To the café by the green.’

  Diana knew the one. She used to pop in occasionally when she first moved here, for bread and pastries for Charlie and Julian, and had been charmed by the couple who owned it, but her visits had dwindled, and anyway, Mrs Bills had reported that the place had gone downhill.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said honestly.

  She hadn’t felt hungry since Julian died. Her clothes were falling off her, her wedding ring felt looser, and she didn’t need to step on the scales to know that she could do with a thick wedge of chocolate cake to fatten her up.

  ‘Well, we’re not exactly going there to eat,’ said Sylvia, quickening her pace.

  ‘What are we going there for?’ Diana asked anxiously.

  ‘There’s a meeting about the village fair. I thought it might be fun if we got involved.’

  Diana turned on her heel and held up her hand.

  ‘No. Absolutely not,’ she said, feeling her pulse flutter in panic. ‘I can’t. I’m not up to it.’

  Sylvia put a firm hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Of course you can do it. It’s good for you. It will help distract you.’

  ‘Mum, please. It’s the last thing I feel like.’

  Sylvia placed her other hand on the other shoulder, so that she looked at her directly. It was a firm grip, like a vice, and Diana wasn’t sure she could run away even if she tried.

  ‘I get that all you want to do is hide away. When your father died, I felt the same, and we weren’t even married any more. I didn’t love him; in fact you know I probably even still hated him for leaving us like he did. But I mourned him,’ she said, and for one moment Diana saw her mother’s vulnerability. ‘I was sad for a life lost, a father gone; sad to lose the man I once loved and still had some happy memories of. But you have to stay strong, and even when you don’t feel as if you can take another step, take a deep breath and do it. Because you can. Life goes on, perhaps a different life, but you have to keep going.’

  Diana found strength in her mother’s words and suddenly didn’t feel quite so alone. In the spirit of solidarity she wondered if she should tell Sylvia about her showdown with Rachel, what her sister had said and what it all meant, but perhaps her mother was right. It was better to look forward, not back. Throw yourself into jam-making and brass-band judging and all the things the village fair committee no doubt had in store.

  The meeting had started by the time they got there. The owner of the Blue Ribbon café – Diana couldn’t remember her name; Dot or Doreen, perhaps – was filling
mugs from a white china teapot. The two of them managed to slip in at the back, with only a few people twisting their necks to send sympathetic looks in their direction.

  Diana had received many letters of condolence from the villagers, although not many people had stopped by or approached her to say that they were sorry for her loss. Death did that. It embarrassed people. If they didn’t know what to say, they would say nothing at all. They would cross the street, or look the other way to avoid you, and Diana had no doubt that as soon as the meeting was finished, most would scuttle away to avert a conversation with the recently widowed lady of the manor.

  She sat back and listened as the committee debated the merits of putting bunting on the bandstand and discussed the budget available for the Punch and Judy man. In many ways it was rather soothing seeing all these people getting so involved in such small details, almost as if they were completely unaware of how easily their familiar, cosy world could unravel. Perhaps they were; Diana wished she shared their ignorance.

  It took a couple of seconds to register that Mrs Beatty, the vicar’s wife, was speaking to her.

  ‘Mrs Denver, we’re so pleased you could join us. We were wondering earlier if you would be so kind as to present the prizes for the flower and vegetable competitions this year, although I have to say the categories are getting a little out of control. Perhaps we can get that man from Top Gear to help out, the one who lives locally . . .’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’d love to,’ said Diana, feeling Sylvia squeeze her knee reassuringly.

  Mrs Beatty collared them on the way out, sheltering from the sun under a pink IKEA umbrella as the committee filed out without a word. ‘You should come round for tea to discuss the judging process,’ she said when the three of them were alone. ‘The weather’s been beautiful, hasn’t it? We can sit in the rectory garden and talk, and maybe sample my non-prize-winning chutney.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Diana, pasting on a smile.

  ‘We’re all thinking of you and praying for you, you know that, Diana,’ she added, making Diana feel a pang of guilt that she went to church so infrequently. The Reverend Beatty and his wife had written one of the most thoughtful pieces of correspondence, including a beautiful poem by Henry Scott Holland, a former canon of St Paul’s Cathedral, called ‘Death is Nothing At All’.

  She made a decision on the spot that she would take her up on her offer.

  ‘Can I come round next Friday?’ she asked, plucking a date from the air, knowing that her diary was filled with very little.

  ‘Looking forward to it,’ said Mrs Beatty, touching her on the arm and running across the green to catch up with her husband.

  ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ whispered Sylvia, linking her arm through her daughter’s.

  ‘No,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I’m going to have to bully you more often.’ Sylvia squeezed her arm. ‘In fact I’m returning to London tomorrow. There’s a piano recital at the Wigmore Hall. You should come, stay at the Bayswater flat. Perhaps arrange to meet friends. I think it would be good for you to see people.’

  It was easier to nod than resist.

  ‘Dammit,’ Diana said quietly. ‘I left my scarf in the café.’

  She turned and returned to the Blue Ribbon, where the owner was collecting mugs from the tables.

  ‘Just about to shut, love,’ she said without turning round.

  ‘I’ve only come to collect my scarf.’

  The old lady’s eyes opened wider when she saw Diana.

  ‘Ah, you came back for it. I was going to pop it up to the house later,’ she said, going round the counter and retrieving the scarf from behind the till. ‘It was good to see you here today. I know how hard that must have been.’

  ‘Thank you, er . . .’ she replied, scrabbling around for the woman’s name.

  ‘Dot.’ She smiled kindly. ‘He gave you the scarf, didn’t he?’

  ‘How did you know?’ replied Diana, still feeling embarrassed that Dot obviously knew all about her but she hadn’t even been able to remember the woman’s name.

  ‘Panic in your eyes about losing something sentimental. Felt it myself. I remember, a year after my Ron died, a friend came round and tidied away his fishing tackle in the hall. I went mad with her and she couldn’t understand why. Couldn’t explain it myself, but there are some things you just have to hold on to, you just have to keep around you.’

  Diana stroked the scarf absently. She hadn’t considered the sentimental attachment. After Rachel’s revelation about Madison Kopek, she had gone home and flung all Julian’s possessions from their bedroom – shirts, shoes, a bottle of aftershave – into three bin liners, and given them to a startled Mrs Bills to store out of sight.

  ‘You okay, love?’ asked Dot.

  She nodded. ‘I’m sorry about Ron,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t know. I remember him. He ran the café with you, didn’t he?’

  The old woman smiled nostalgically. ‘Married for fifty-two years, ran this place for fifteen of them when he retired from his job in London. He was a pastry chef at the Savoy in the sixties, you know. His macaroons got served to Liz Taylor, Brigitte Bardot, Frank Sinatra. You must remember Ron’s Chelsea buns,’ she added. ‘People came from far and wide for his Chelsea buns. In fact, I remember your husband liked them. He used to ride down from the big house on that beautiful horse of his. He’d tie the horse up and get a Chelsea bun for himself and a chocolate brownie for your son. Apparently you don’t eat carbohydrates,’ she teased.

  Diana nodded, feeling a pang of regret for getting rid of his clothes. She could imagine him here, standing at the counter on those Saturday mornings he went for a ride, and wished with all her heart that she had gone with him more often. Laughed with him, eaten cake, galloped until the wind took their breath away, made him happy. Happy so that he didn’t have to go looking for it elsewhere said an after-thought.

  ‘It does get easier, you know,’ said Dot softly. ‘Grief doesn’t ever go away, but it shows itself less often.’

  She picked up a cloth and started rubbing down the surfaces.

  ‘This café certainly misses Ron. He’d have hated that I’ve let the place get like this.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Diana. ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘You think so?’ said Dot more sharply. ‘Try that lemon drizzle cake and tell me I don’t need to change my supplier. Bloody rotten it is, but there doesn’t seem much point when I’m just waiting for a buyer.’

  ‘You’re selling up?’

  Dot nodded. ‘I’ve had some good times here, but now? For the first couple of years it actually made things easier, because when I’m here I can still feel him around me. But now . . . let’s be honest, the café’s seen better days and so have I.’

  Diana looked around the room and had to agree with Dot. It was dark and tired, and that lemon drizzle cake didn’t look too appetising. It was a shame really, as it was a good space and perfectly placed to catch the passing tourist trade that flocked in at weekends. An image started forming in her mind. One in which the café was buzzing and full of life, the tables were covered in blue gingham and home-made cakes were tied up with brown paper and string.

  ‘Don’t know of a buyer, do you?’ asked Dot.

  ‘I’ll keep my ears open,’ mused Diana.

  The bell above the door tinkled behind them.

  ‘Are you coming?’ asked Sylvia, looking a little piqued.

  ‘We were just chatting, weren’t we?’ said Dot. ‘Come back whenever you fancy doing it again.’

  ‘I will,’ said Diana, suddenly feeling in the mood for cake.

  22

  From the coffee shop, Rachel and Ross had a perfect view of Chesapeake Beach. They could see cafés, ice-cream parlours and tackle shops; they could see the marina and the white charter fishi
ng boats chugging back to shore full of tourists and the big catches of the day. They could see the beautiful bay, with its silvery water glinting in the sun and holidaymakers milling around in T-shirts and shorts, holding wicker baskets and beach towels. They could pretty much see everything and everyone except Madison’s friend Laura Dale, who worked at the water park across the road from where they were sitting. Who was due to have finished her shift at least half an hour ago, but who had not yet revealed herself.

  Sighing impatiently, Rachel ordered another strawberry milkshake and a slice of key lime pie that was winking at her from under a big plastic dome. One of the perils of this sort of work was all the sitting around. In her first couple of years as a journalist, she had put on over a stone in weight from drinking in the pub and snacks and coffees whilst she was waiting around for leads. It was one of the reasons she had taken up swimming again in her mid twenties – her love of the sport had tailed off completely once she had discovered boys and gone to university, but getting back in the water had restored her slim, lean physique that was easy to pour into skinny jeans.

  ‘Come on, come on, there she is,’ hissed Ross, hauling Rachel to her feet just as she was spooning some cake into her mouth.

  Across the road, a tall, twenty-ish woman with a dark brown ponytail was leaving the water park. It had taken Rachel less than a minute to find half a dozen photographs of Laura Dale on Facebook so they didn’t have to debate whether they had the right person.

  Rachel had tried the direct approach, of course, calling Laura to try and arrange a meeting, but the girl had been evasive, hostile even. And so she had decided that if the mountain wouldn’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain – or whatever that quote was.

  They pushed out on to the street, sidestepping a moped, and crossed to the other side. Rachel had been worried they would lose the girl, but she was still there, bending over a bicycle, unlocking it from some railings.