Good Girl, Bad Girl(87)

Aiden pushes Tasmin out of the way, opening the door wider. He’s wearing track pants and a football shirt that hangs loosely on his slim frame. They don’t look like brother and sister. It’s as though Aiden was given first dibs at the beauty buffet, getting the eyelashes, cheekbones, and clear skin, while Tasmin had to make do with the leftovers.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“I was hoping I could talk to Tasmin.”

“I thought you did that already.”

“I have a few more questions.”

Aiden seems to pounce on the statement. “You can’t talk to her without an adult present.”

“It’s not a formal interview,” I reply, “but you seem to know the rules.”

“I’m reading law at Cambridge.”

“I thought that was next year.”

“Yeah, well, I know my shit,” he says defiantly.

“Yes, you do,” I say. “You’ll make a great lawyer.”

Aiden isn’t sure if I’m teasing him. Tasmin steps in between us. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I could talk to both of you,” I say.

Aiden agrees grudgingly and the door shuts behind me with a ragged click. We choose the sitting room because the kitchen table is covered in scraps of yellow fabric and a sewing machine.

“Mum is decorating my coat for the memorial service,” explains Tasmin. “Yellow was Jodie’s favorite color.”

“When is the memorial?”

“The day after tomorrow. Do you want a cup of tea?” She sounds like her mother.

“No, I’m fine.”

Aiden checks his phone before sitting next to his sister, who is perched on the edge of the sofa, as though I’m interviewing her for a job. She’s holding a small stuffed monkey in her lap that makes her look younger.

“Is that one special?” I ask.

“Jodie won it for me at the Goose Fair. You had to get five balls through the hoop. I couldn’t get one.”

“You two were friends for a long time?”

“We went to the same primary school and to Forsyth Academy and dance classes and skating and we went on holidays together and other stuff.”

“Do you skate?”

“No. Daddy says I skate like a baby hippo.” There’s no hint of regret in her voice.

“How often did Jodie come here?” I ask, motioning around me.

“All the time. We were like sisters.” Again it’s her mother talking.

“After school?”

“Yeah. Aiden used to help her with her homework.”

I glance at Aiden for confirmation. “She was missing a lot of school,” he explains, not bothering to look up from his phone. “I helped her with her maths.”

“How often?”

“Twice a week.”

“Who arranged that?”

“Aunt Maggie asked Mum and she asked me.”

“Were you paid?”

“What?”

“Were . . . you . . . paid?”

“Yeah.”

Another silence. Tasmin is growing bored because it’s not about her. She’s playing with the monkey in her lap, twisting its arms into a knot and undoing them again.

“I talked to some of Jodie’s skating friends who mentioned that she wanted to quit figure skating because of her injuries and headaches. Did she ever say anything to you?”

“Dad would have had a fit,” says Aiden.

I’m waiting for Tasmin, who is looking at the scuffed toes of her school shoes, swinging them back and forth.

“No,” she whispers, but I suspect she’s lying.

“Did you ever feel jealous of Jodie?”

The question seems to surprise her but she doesn’t hesitate. “All the time.”

“Why?”

“It was always Jodie this and Jodie that. Every time she sneezed or sniffled or fell over, people would be fussing over her, calling the doctor, handing her tissues. Isn’t she wonderful, isn’t she beautiful, isn’t she talented . . .”

“It wasn’t like that,” says Aiden.

“How would you know?” snaps Tasmin. “They said the same things about you. You’re the golden child and I’m the golden retriever.”

“Shut up, Tas.”

“You shut up!”

I interrupt. “Did Jodie have a secret boyfriend? Someone older.”

“What difference does that make?” asks Aiden.

“I’m just trying to understand her.”

Tasmin scratches at the bridge of her nose, but her eyes betray something other than jealousy or boredom.

“Sometimes she’d tell Aunt Maggie that she was staying with me, but then she’d go off and do other stuff.”

“What other stuff?”

“You shouldn’t be telling tales,” says Aiden.

“They’re not tales. Jodie used to sneak out at night and come back before we all woke up. I used to worry that she’d be late for practice, but she never got caught.”

“Do you know where she went?” I ask.

Tasmin shakes her head.

“When did this start?”

“During the summer holidays.”