Chapter 10
I can’t help myself; I walk downstairs like I’m the heroine in some film.
It’s that kind of staircase – meant to be descended slowly and gracefully, with one hand gently trailing the polished mahogany balustrade.
It reminds me of the stairs in Titanic, but there’s no hero waiting for me at the bottom.
Luckily no one is watching me sashay my way down.
I’ve changed into my favourite jeans and a grey jumper that ties with a ribbon at the nape of my neck.
My hair is twisted into a hasty up-do and grabbed in a claw-clip.
I refreshed my make-up – what little I wear (mostly just mascara and lip balm) – in the lavish en suite, and dabbed some of the Miss Dior perfume I found on the vanity unit onto my collar bones.
It’s the perfume I used to wear at university (Mum splurged on a bottle for my birthday at the start of our final summer together – it’s not like I could have afforded it on a student loan).
It’s an unbelievably nice touch that Becca has stocked the guest room with my favourite perfume.
All the products in the shower cubicle are brand new too – and pricey.
My socks make no sound on the carpet runner.
Passing beneath the sinister stag, I avert my eyes and scuttle the last few steps, dispelling any illusion of glamour.
The reception hall is dim now, lit only by a small globe lamp and the snow-light glimmering from the glazed cupola.
I love how when it snows it never seems truly dark.
I follow the faint sound of music to the cosy sitting room where Becca thawed me out before.
She’s curled up in a plump armchair with her wineglass in one hand and her phone in the other, her expression pensive.
She springs to her feet when she sees me, hugs me again.
There’s real affection there, a pleasing intimacy in the embrace that makes my throat swell.
I want to cry for our lost friendship, all the missed years – and the possibility of what we might reclaim.
A fresh start.
I had no idea how much I wanted another chance until now.
How much I need it.
I contemplate how Becca and I might have bonded in grief in the aftermath of Genevieve’s drowning if I hadn’t run away. How Jameson and I might have evolved – the searing heat of teenage attraction deepening into something solid and adult and … lasting?
But there’s no point wishing for things to be different. I have to concentrate on the here and now, think to the future.
A future I’m almost certain now that I want to share with these people again.
I should definitely pace myself on the alcohol front – no doubt there will be Champagne when the boys arrive, wine with dinner and likely something stronger as evening wears into night.
But when Becca offers me a large glass of red, I eagerly accept.
It’s delicious – dark fruits and pepper on my tongue.
One sip relaxes me. I feel a sense of overwhelming relief that I made it safely through the storm and am here in this incredible house ready to let my hair down and enjoy myself for the first time in …
Years.
A decade to be precise.
We sit opposite each other on the low-slung sofas. The fire warms my bones, and the wine heats my blood. Becca tosses her mane of chocolate hair, leans forward and says bluntly, ‘Honestly, I’m amazed you came, Eilish.’
I laugh. ‘Me too. I thought about not coming. I thought it might be … difficult.’
‘I understand, but we won’t let it be.’ Becca smiles and reaches across to squeeze my knee.
Her dark eyes sweep over me, taking in everything about me.
She is more exquisitely dressed than me, in a gorgeous cashmere top, and everything about her seems …
polished: perfect manicure, shiny hair, smooth skin – no trace of the acne she had to battle back then. ‘I’ve missed you. Truly.’
I take a big gulp of wine. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve missed Becca. I haven’t let myself miss any of them.
But now I’ve opened myself to old emotions, I feel a twang of longing.
Becca and I had little in common. I was always too aware of her status – the veneer of riches that coated her, although I can see now that she was actually quite awkward back then, rough around the edges. Not the sleek, confident creature before me now. But still, her wealth was obvious.
Leo had it too – the casual confidence of money. I guess I felt inferior to them.
My background was wholesome, simple by comparison.
I had more in common with Jameson and Alex.
Gen was hard to pigeonhole and never talked about her background.
Sometimes I’d hear a slip of vowels that gave a hint, but her accent was hard to place.
She said she’d spent time abroad in her gap year (a major clue right there, I suppose).
She didn’t speak of family, talk about luxury trips or flash cash around like Becca and Leo but I still had an inkling she came from money at some point.
She wore decent clothes, but she looked after them and rarely shopped for new ones.
She loved a charity shop bargain and had a student loan like me.
If anyone spoke about home, or their families, she’d get this look – distant, wistful.
She’d either slip away or change the subject.
I thought maybe there’d been some falling out. Or they’d fallen on hard times, or were boring and she was ashamed, dreaming of a better origin story.
She only once mentioned her mother, and there was something in her tone that told me it was a taboo subject, that their relationship was less than harmonious.
She went to a great-aunt in Peterhead for Christmas when we all went our separate ways for the festive season, although there had been some talk of her coming to the farm with me (Dad wasn’t keen).
She never talked about siblings, or reminisced about school.
It was like her life didn’t begin until she pitched up at St Andrews.
For all her openness, she could be secretive.
Sometimes I glimpsed ghosts in her eyes, but she never confided.
She was an enigma, a mystery. I liked that about her.
‘I feel like there is so much about you I don’t know,’ Becca says now, taking a sip of her wine and watching me from beneath long lashes.
‘What do you want to know?’ Nerves flutter in my stomach – what if I disappoint her?
She laughs. ‘Everything! I know my life has changed drastically since we were innocent kids running around St Andrews thinking it all belonged to us. I’ve changed so much. I’m sure we all have.’
I manage a tight smile. I never thought I owned the place – except, I suppose it might have seemed that way, when I was with Gen and the crowd. ‘I guess.’
‘I mean, who’d have thought I’d end up back here?’
I would actually have predicted that. She was always deeply attached to Tarnmore and her family.
‘Alex said you’re an influencer …? Tell me more about that.’ I am eager to deflect attention from me.
‘You don’t follow me?’ Becca looks frankly appalled.
‘I mean I don’t follow anyone. I’m not really into social media.’
Her eyes widen with something akin to horror. ‘Like at all?’
‘I don’t use it much.’ If she’s checked out my Instagram she’ll know that – I even bore myself. ‘I mainly use the internet for work. I work a lot.’
‘You’re some sort of … psychologist?’ She makes it sound as incomprehensible as if I’d become an astronaut. I suppose it must seem that way – far removed from the Eilish she knew. Back then I was always destined for a career in books; me and Gen both.
I nod. ‘A forensic psychologist, yes. I switched courses when I moved to Edinburgh.’
I couldn’t bear to keep studying literature without her.
‘With an unholy interest in murder, I hear. What’s that like?’ Becca’s dark eyes gleam. So, Alex has been talking.
‘Criminology,’ I say, but she’s not entirely wrong given the cases I choose to study.
‘I teach and write papers, conduct research …’ I don’t mention the book I’m writing – it’s still in its infancy, and the subject is infamous in a way that might make people uncomfortable if they knew I’d been in a room with him.
‘And you work for the police too?’
‘With the police. Sometimes, yes.’
I see the gleam in her eyes. It’s a common reaction to what I do for a living. Murder holds such fascination for people.
‘You know, I always associate the police with that night,’ Becca says, her voice dropping. She shakes her head. ‘Silly, really.’
Something about her voice against the crackle of flames takes me back. Another time slip. The beach, the bonfire, Becca explaining to the police as the rest of us fell apart.
Gen lying on the sand. Jameson burying his head in his hands as the paramedics take over chest compressions and tape defibrillator pads to her chest. Alex and Leo shoring each other up, both in a state, and Becca speaking so calmly as the police officer jots notes.
She says, ‘I don’t know what she was thinking.
We were together. She must have wandered off, but I don’t remember her leaving …
Suddenly we realised she was gone. Leo went to look, and the next second he screamed … ’
There it is: her lie. Fleshed out now. Alex was right; being here is unlocking doors in my mind.
I remember her earnest expression, how utterly believable she sounded. I remember sitting splayed in the sand staring up at her and wondering how she could sound so normal.
The memories aren’t gone for good. They’re there, somewhere.
Just waiting to be unlocked. What more might I remember if I stay here?
I meet Becca’s eyes across the opulent living room at Tarnmore, the fire soothing and the storm raging. Something unspoken passes between us – a queasy acknowledgement of the lie, perhaps. I’ve never understood what prompted it; equally unfathomable is why we all perpetuated it.
Surely, we’d only have lied if there was a deeper truth to protect?
One I have forgotten … or was never party to.