I Know Who You Are(58)

No wonder she hates me so much.

“She said she has an audition for the new Fincher movie tomorrow.”

“Ha! See what I mean! Now, Alicia is someone who knows how to spin! From now on, in any given situation, I want you to think, ‘What would Alicia do?’ Then you should at least consider doing that, instead of being so nice all the time. Nice wins in the movies, but rarely in real life. There is no Fincher audition; rumor has it he’s already decided on the female lead and the deal is practically signed off.”

I feel a moment of pure joy rush through me but say nothing. I’ve learned to keep quiet about everything in this business until contracts have been signed and exchanged. Promises and hearsay are worthless. But I can still feel people staring at me and I want them to stop.

“I need to go home.” The words come out of my mouth wrapped in a whisper, but Jack hears them.

“Let me help you.” He takes my hand, and I let him lead me through the crowds and different-colored rooms towards the exit.

A waiter carrying a tray with a single glass of champagne blocks our path in the middle of the red room.

“No, thank you,” I say, avoiding eye contact.

“It’s Dom Pérignon, not house,” the waiter says. “We don’t normally serve it by the glass, but this was paid for by the gentleman at the bar. He also wanted me to tell you that he likes your shoes,” he adds, looking more than a little embarrassed. I peer behind him, but don’t see anyone I recognize. Everyone I do see seems to be staring in my direction; I don’t think I’m imagining it anymore. My phone beeps inside my handbag, and I let go of Jack’s hand, my fingers franticly searching for it, scared of what it might say—some news alert about what the police think I have done, or Jennifer Jones’s latest online article. But it’s just a text, albeit from a number I don’t recognize. At first, I think it must be a mistake when I read the two words on the screen accompanied by a link. Then I feel my body turn icy cold.

“What date is it?” I ask Jack.

He twists his wrist to consult his Apple Watch. More people seem to be filling the room with every second that passes.

“September sixteenth. Why?”

I read the two words on the screen again, blinking, unsure whether I can trust my own eyes.

Happy Birthday!

I have celebrated my birthday in April for most of my life. Nobody knows that I was really born in September. Except Maggie. But she’s been dead for years.

I watched her die.

I look wildly around the room.

Who bought me this drink?

Who sent me that text?

Who is it that knows who I really am?

It isn’t her that I see, it’s him. Just a glimpse of his eyes watching me from the corner of the red room. My not-so-missing husband finally found. He raises a glass in my direction, but then someone walks right in front of him, and when I look again, he’s gone. Like a ghost.

Did I imagine it?

More and more people are staring at me, I’m not imagining that.

I turn to Jack, but he is busy looking at his phone, and when he looks up, his expression is not unlike all the others being worn by the faces in the room. He looks at me as though he were staring at a monster. I look back at the text message and click the link. It redirects me to the TBN news app, and I see my face on the screen and read my name in the headline.

The sensation is disorienting.

It’s like thinking you were sitting in the audience, only to discover you were actually on center stage the whole time. Surrounded by expectant eyes, but unable to remember your character, let alone your lines. I feel dizzy. I think I might be sick right here in front of them all. The crowd is almost completely silent as I see the now-familiar shape of Detective Alex Croft walking towards me, the sea of expectant faces parting to allow her through.

“Well, isn’t this a nice party,” she says. “Aimee Sinclair, I am arresting you on suspicion of murdering Ben Bailey. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Each one of her words seems to be punctuated with a further loss of hope, until I have none left.

She smiles her crooked smile, then leans forward and whispers in my ear, before cuffing my wrists, “I always knew you were a killer actress.”





Forty-seven


Essex, 2017

Maggie O’Neil sits in her flat reading the Sunday newspapers. She wears cotton gloves on her hands because the flat is cold, and because she hates the sight of them; they are hands that have spent a lifetime working for a living, not acting. Her hands have worked hard because her life has been hard, and nothing about any of it is fair, because life just isn’t. Maggie has been waiting a long time to tell her side of the story, and now that her turn has finally come, she’s enjoying every minute.

She removes her gloves temporarily, to look at the picture of Aimee as a child she keeps on the little side table next to the telephone. The frame is covered in a thin layer of dust, the wood a little chipped and scratched in places. The photo inside the frame is old now, and a little faded. Maggie shakes her head, unaware that she is doing so, and narrows her eyes at the smiling face of the child in the picture. After all I did for you, she thinks, and tuts. Maggie believes that she is responsible for Aimee’s success; she helped raise her as a child after all, taught her things, gave her opportunities that Maggie herself never had. And what did the child ever do for her in return? Nothing, that’s what. Doesn’t even acknowledge her existence.