Chapter 14
We huddle around the fire with our cocktails.
Becca is curled up against Euan on one sofa and Kimmy mirrors her with Leo on the other.
Jameson is on a beanbag and Alex is lounging on the floor basking in the heat of the flames.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the rug, sipping my drink.
Jameson’s legs are centimetres from my shoulder and Alex’s flung out arm drapes my knee.
It reminds me of how we used to sprawl in the quad, or in each other’s dorm rooms. At ease with each other, casually affectionate.
Everyone seems to have reached a solid plateau of drunk – the hearty meal probably helped soak up some of the alcohol – and everyone seems in a good mood now.
There are tells of course – Leo’s being sloppily affectionate with Kimmy and Alex’s voice is low and loose.
My head spun a little the last time I stood up, but now I’m sitting down, leaning against Jameson’s knees – wait, when did that happen?
– I feel okay. I’m no longer desperate to escape to bed.
It’s Alex who invites Gen back into the room. ‘I think we should talk about her,’ he says, in a lull in the conversation. ‘It’s like she’s here, but not … you know?’
‘She’s here,’ Becca says softly.
I concur. I can still feel Gen in the shadows, lurking.
‘Let’s each share something we loved about her,’ Leo says. He doesn’t seem to notice the dagger-filled look Kimmy flings at him. Of course, she didn’t love anything about Genevieve and will hardly want to hear us all extol the virtues of her fiancé’s dead ex.
Becca rests her head against Euan’s chest. ‘Yes, let’s.’ Her eyes are bright and I suspect she’s trying too hard – she didn’t have anything positive to say about Gen earlier.
She could be cruel sometimes.
We take turns, painting a picture of a girl larger than life.
In this delayed obituary Gen rises to Goddess-like proportions, infused with fresh life by the power of our best reflections.
She was the one who united us – she had a skill for bringing people together.
She was charming and when her attention was on you, it was intense, intoxicating.
She becomes once more the Genevieve of summer-sweet beach nights and starlit walks, of rapt poetry recitals and dancing anywhere and everywhere that took her fancy.
Always on the brink of laughter, always plotting some new adventure.
She was the one who came up with the ideas for what we would do, where we would go.
She was spontaneous and fun. Joyous and chaotic.
The construction of her we project around the drawing room of Tarnmore is one version of her, but not, I am coming to realise, the only one.
She was also the screaming banshee who tore strips off Leo, the schemer who plotted her rival’s downfall, exacting revenge in a way that now, looking back, I find it impossible to justify, and apparently Becca’s persecutor too.
But to me, she was only ever her own perfect self. She saved me, from mediocrity, from sinking deep into grief. She showed me my worth when I couldn’t see it for myself.
Our voices split with emotion. Leo and I are both crying before we’re done, and Kimmy, give her her due, does her best not to mind.
Alex is staring into the fire and Jameson is – holy shit – he’s holding my hand!
His thumb makes slow circles against my palm and my head spins again, but it’s nothing to do with the alcohol now.
Then I make the mistake of looking at Becca, still curled against Euan’s side, his arm slung round her shoulder as he stares into the flames with a bored expression. Becca’s lips press tightly together. Her eyes are glittering too, but not with tears.
With rage.
So much for pretending. She’s not over the wrong she believes Gen did her all those years ago.
Not at all.
*
Past and present blur as the hour grows later.
If not for the extra years etched on the faces around the fire, the life experiences studding our conversation, the ensorcelling swirl of snow outside rather than a warm spring dusk, it might be ten years ago.
I could be that gauche teenager again, partying with my friends in an April heatwave.
Any moment Gen might skip through the door, Champagne bottle in hand and announce we’re going skinny-dipping in the loch.
And of course, none of us would argue with her, because we never did.
We have fallen into familiar grooves in our conversation, like actors reprising old roles.
Leo is the self-appointed authority on most things; Becca’s preferred subject is herself; and Alex likes to play the fool, though his mind is far sharper than he lets on.
Jameson is thoughtful, careful with his words, contributing to the discussion only when he has something important to say.
When Alex’s jokes threaten to cut too close to the bone, it is Jameson who plays peacemaker.
He was always the one of us with the strongest moral compass.
The one most likely to stand up against some of Gen’s more outlandish ideas.
So who am I? In the old days I was the chameleon – different things to different people. I used to worry I was dull but I was the one you could turn to for a chat, a sympathetic smile or listening ear over a cup of tea. I was quieter than the rest, in danger of slipping into the backdrop.
Now I have no idea who I am supposed to be.
Kimmy’s place is equally unclear. She was the common enemy we were all supposed to hate, a pantomime villain. But we can’t hate her now. I wonder if she wishes she hadn’t come, and if Leo regrets bringing her. She’s part of his future now, but she has a substantial hold on his past too.
Euan dislodges Becca and moves to a seat by the door, nursing a whisky and staring at his phone.
He seems thoroughly bored with us now, and I don’t know why he doesn’t just head off to bed, back to the cottage he and Becca share on the estate.
Becca has already announced that she’s planning to sleep in the big house tonight and Euan made it clear he won’t be joining her; he needs a bit of space from us I think, and I can scarcely blame him.
‘Shall we have another Martini?’ Becca sits up, pushing her now dishevelled hair off her face. ‘Eilish?’
‘No, no more to drink. I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea …’
Becca looks disappointed. ‘Help yourself, you know where the kitchen is.’
I stand up, pins and needles prickling my legs. I didn’t want to move while Jameson was holding my hand. But he excused himself to the bathroom a while ago and hasn’t touched me since he returned. The moment has passed – I’m sure he was just comforting me since I was crying, nothing more than that.
Kimmy surprises me by rising to her feet. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’
In the kitchen she admires the sleek appliances and dove-grey tiles. I peruse a startling array of teas and put the kettle on the hotplate on the Aga. ‘They have lovely taste, don’t they?’ Kimmy says.
‘Oh … yeah. They do.’
Kimmy leans against the Aga rail and eyes me curiously. ‘Doesn’t it give you the ick, all this hypocrisy?’
I frown, confused – are we still talking about the decor?
‘All this wasn’t-she-perfect bullshit,’ Kimmy goes on.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I lie.
She purses her lips. ‘It’s so false, all these happy memories. Like Gen is somehow immune to criticism because she’s dead.’
The alcohol and exertion of the day are definitely catching up with me now. I want to sink into the fat pillows and puffy duvet upstairs and close my eyes. I don’t want to deal with any not-so-hidden agenda of Kimmy’s.
She studies polished, sharp nails. ‘I mean, if we’re being honest, she was something of a bitch, wasn’t she?’ She regards me innocently, waiting for my response.
She’s drunk too. And bitter – watching her fiancé crying over the memory of his dead girlfriend can’t have been easy … so why did she choose to come?
Besides, Gen really did a number on her after the affair.
I’m not condoning how Gen reacted. I did then, buying into the narrative that Kimmy had been asking for trouble.
Gen was young – barely more than a kid with feelings she didn’t know how to process or parcel up.
So she let loose and Kimmy took the brunt of it.
‘We haven’t seen each other in a long time,’ I say. ‘We never had the opportunity to talk about her like this. Of course we focus on the good. That’s what you do, isn’t it? We miss her.’
She regards me curiously. ‘Do you though? You, of all people, Eilish?’
What does that mean?
‘Of course.’
Kimmy’s voice quavers. ‘Do you know what she did to me – do you?’
I squirm. ‘Well, yeah …’
Her black eyes hold mine and there’s nowhere to hide. ‘You defended her then, and you’re still defending her now. She ruined my life, Eilish. Ruined it.’
It was never outright proved that Gen made those images of Kimmy – her face superimposed over the pornographic pictures that were hung around campus like hideous bunting.
It was never proved that she filled Kimmy’s locker with pig’s blood either, or took the pictures of Kimmy running screaming through the halls covered in blood and seeming completely unhinged that appeared all over social media.
Gen never admitted any of it, but who else had reason to hate Kimmy like that? Kimmy had just slept with Gen’s boyfriend, after all.
‘I’m sure it was a moment of madness. She was hurting and she lashed out. It doesn’t excuse it …’
‘She sent those pictures to my mother,’ Kimmy says, fierce. ‘Can you imagine how that felt? And you’re condoning it.’
I hold up my hands. ‘I’m not condoning anything.’
I’m really not. In hindsight, I can see it was a truly egregious thing that Gen did. Over the top as well as cruel. Not the normal actions of a girl scorned …