Greenwich Park(39)

When I’d knocked on the door, it wasn’t Helen that answered. Or Daniel. It was her. That pale face, black hair, that strange smile showing off little pointed teeth, that sticky-out bump. For a mad moment, I wondered whether it was my body wash she had been using – the entire hallway smelled of rosemary.

‘Hello, Serena.’

She had one of Helen’s fluffy white towels twisted on her head like a turban. Another was tied around her like an indecently short dress. I’d glanced over her shoulder, hoping Helen or Daniel might arrive with an introduction, an explanation. Rachel had tilted her head to one side, shaken her wet hair free of the towel.

‘Are you here to see Helen?’

She asked it as if this was her house, too – as if it were equally possible I’d come over wanting to see her. She twisted her hair up with her finger, piling it onto the top of her head, revealing a pattern of angry purple marks around her pale throat. I winced. They looked painful. As I followed her into the kitchen, I saw that they spread all the way around the back of her neck.

Once we reached the kitchen, Rachel turned to look at me, as if she’d caught me staring, even though she couldn’t possibly have seen. The room smelled of bacon. Helen and Daniel were sitting at the table. When they saw me, they looked up as if they were being held hostage.

‘We’re all having breakfast,’ Rachel said. ‘Can I get you a coffee? I was just about to make one.’ I noticed the skin around her eyebrows was red, as if she’d been plucking them. They were pencil-thin.

Rachel flicked the coffee machine on and reached up into a cupboard for mugs. I sat down next to Helen. ‘Hi, darling.’ I had to raise my voice above the sound of Rachel grinding and banging at the coffee machine, the hiss of steam. ‘I just came to drop that book off.’

‘Thanks,’ Helen said. ‘That’s so nice of you.’ She paused, glanced sideways towards the coffee machine. ‘This is Rachel.’

‘We’ve met,’ Rachel trilled. She started placing coffees in front of us all. ‘Just now, I mean,’ she added quickly. ‘Sorry, there wasn’t much milk. Let me see if I can find some sugar.’ Helen took her cup and peered into it warily, before placing it back down on the table. While Helen was distracted, Rachel shot me a theatrical wink.

I took the book out of my bag, slid it across the table. ‘This is the one you wanted, isn’t it?’ Helen didn’t reply. She was staring at Rachel’s wet hair, which had fallen out of the twist and was now hanging lank over her shoulders, dripping puddles onto the kitchen tiles. I saw Helen’s eyes trace the line of watery footprints that had followed Rachel from the stairs, down the hallway and back into the kitchen. I tried a different subject.

‘I didn’t know your bathroom was finished, Helen.’

Helen opened her mouth to answer, but Rachel had got there first.

‘Oh my God, it’s a-ma-zing.’ She grinned at us both. ‘Best bath ever. It’s so comfy!’

This was odd. I tried to catch Helen’s eye again, but couldn’t. Daniel had picked up the sports pages, and was holding them out in front of him so that I couldn’t see his face, like a child attempting to hide.

‘Well.’ I eased myself off a stool, deciding that whatever was going on here, I’d be best off out of it. I smiled at Helen, as if this had all been lovely, rather than hideous. ‘I’ll see you at Rory’s birthday dinner tonight – right?’

‘Yes,’ she said, glancing nervously at Rachel. ‘Of course.’

Rachel’s head had popped up.

‘Oh, are you doing something tonight? Helen didn’t say.’

We both stared at Rachel. I tried not to react.

‘Just a dinner, for my husband’s – Helen’s brother’s – birthday.’

‘Oh,’ Rachel said. ‘I see. Quiet night in for me then, I suppose.’



I glanced at Helen. Her cheeks and neck had coloured, and she was staring down at her breakfast plate. The silence was too much to bear. It had felt unavoidable.

‘You’d be very welcome, Rachel. If you’re not doing anything.’

‘Great.’ Rachel said, grinning. ‘That sounds lovely. Thanks, Serena. Can’t wait.’ Helen looked up at me in horror. But by then, it was too late.

Now Helen has arrived, hours early, alone. She is lingering in the kitchen with me, nibbling at her thumbnail. I decide to give her a job. ‘Please could you set out some more champagne glasses?’

This is not really necessary, but it is the only thing I can think of for her to do. Helen always likes to come early and help when we are having a dinner. I always tell her there is no need, but she invariably insists. I am not entirely sure why she does this. Perhaps she believes it confers on her a special status, like a co-host.

‘Is Rachel coming later, then?’ I ask her.

Helen doesn’t reply. She seems to be unable to set out the glasses without clinking them together. Sooner or later, she is going to smash something.

‘Helen? What is it?’

I look at her in her maternity party dress, teetering on her uncomfortable heels. Her ankles are swollen, her belly enormous. She looks rather unhappy. In fact, she looks like she might be about to cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters. A single fat tear rolls down one cheek, and she paws at it miserably. There is the sound of a knock on the door.