Greenwich Park(102)

I probably went a little bit overboard on the dose. A bit in her water, a bit in a soft drink. A lot in that last cup of tea. It worked a treat. Her whole evening was wiped out. Everyone else at the party was smashed. Between the treatment I gave Helen and the bit I’d slipped into that sad-looking saucepan of mulled wine that only Katie was drinking from, I knew reliable witnesses would be pretty thin on the ground.

The next day, Daniel had jogged over to our side of the park. I’d seen him at the window, walked down to the park gates. Helen was getting agitated, he said. So we’d sent the message from that phone in its hideous plastic case. It seemed to work. Why wouldn’t Rachel go back to her mum’s? Helen thought it was over. We thought it was over. The holiday I booked was just a precaution, so I could keep myself out of the country if the police started asking questions. But Daniel seemed sure it was safe, that everything was leading in Rory’s direction, as planned. That no one was looking for me. We decided it would be safe enough for me to come back for the birth. We could make our escape after that.

As soon as Helen found that mark, though, the game was up. I told Daniel to ignore her message – to meet me at the studio, bring the passports, my doctor’s note lying about the due dates, whatever cash he could lay his hands on. We’d go abroad, get what we could out of the company, and take it from there. But instead, he let himself get drawn into a confrontation, messed everything up. Why couldn’t he just have left her there, told her he was on his way to get help? I mean, what was she really going to do, in full-on labour? That’s his problem, Daniel. No imagination.

Next thing, Katie appears, starts getting involved too. What possessed him to take her up to the roof I’ll never know. But of course, there was no getting out of that one, not for him. Not after her ridiculous detective turned up to save the day. It would have been crazy for my name to be drawn into it. Daniel didn’t take much convincing about keeping me out of it. Love is a powerful thing. Plus the promise of all this – this beach, this life, all this money, when he’s out.

We decided on our story, and we’ve stuck to it. Rory too. By that point, he was happy to say anything if it meant he wasn’t going to prison. He had worked out by then that he’d been played, in more ways than one. And of course, he was angry. But what choice did he have? The divorce went through quickly. Unsurprisingly, the terms were more than generous to me.

Before I leave, I pick up Daniel’s letter to Helen again. So what was this, in the end? I wonder. An attempt to shore up his story, make himself feel better, make Helen feel better about him? I’m not sure. I think there’s a part of him that believes the last part, that he loves his son. I hope she does let him see her son, one day. He won’t be seeing his daughter.

I’ll be long gone by the time he realises the truth. As long as he believes I’m waiting, he’ll stay quiet. But it’s not that much, what we got in the end. The fraud squad stopped the remortgage – that hopeless Brian called them in, at the last second. Helen held on to the house.

So now it’s just what we siphoned out of the company – not even a million, in addition to my divorce settlement from Rory, and the bits of cash I squirrelled away from my own job in those last few months. Not enough, Daniel, not enough. That sort of money won’t last forever. Sienna and I have got bigger plans.

I hover on the landing, pulling on one stiletto, then the other. In the kitchen, Vivienne is microwaving her dinner, preparing for a night in with The Bachelorette.

‘Have a lovely evening, Miss Serena.’ She smiles, wiping her hands on the tablecloth. I smile back.

‘You are an angel,’ I say. ‘Help yourself to everything. And don’t wait up for me.’

The tropical evening air is as warm as a kiss. I head down to the Bojangles, on the beachfront. A line of palm trees, a sweeping drive. The fans circle overhead, the scented candles on the tables glint. The polished bar is the colour of a shell.

I approach the bar, lean against it. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I’ve done a good job. I glance around. I know what I’m looking for. It is the details that give it away. The type of boat shoes, the logo on the car key. Mostly they are unbearable. But I only need one.

And then I spot him, the pale grey hair, cut short, the strong line of his shoulders. It’s the man from the beach. As he turns round, I see he’s obviously been playing golf. A green-and-purple-patterned sweater. I’ll have to sort the clothes out. But still.

‘Hello, you.’

‘Hello again.’ He smiles. He opens his wallet. Slides out a police badge.

‘It’s Serena, isn’t it?’





ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS



I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the novelist Sarah May, my tutor at the Faber Academy, for giving me permission to call myself a writer and helping me grow Greenwich Park from a half-formed idea into a real life book. To my talented Faber peers – especially Gill, Martin, Susie, Suzy, Nicky and Melissa: thank you for your unrelenting support and encouragement, and for reading more drafts of this book than I can bear to think about!

Thank you so much to my brilliant editor Alison Hennessey and the extraordinarily talented team at Raven. I could not have imagined a more perfect home for Greenwich Park; thank you so much for your commitment to it and for your boundless energy and enthusiasm. I feel so privileged to be working with you all. Thanks, too, to the wonderful Jackie Cantor and Nita Pronovost at Gallery, for having such an exciting vision for Greenwich Park.