The Girls Who Disappeared(14)

Olivia shakes her head and places her hands over her ears, without thinking or caring that she might look infantile or rude. ‘No. No. No. NO.’

Jenna stops speaking, her features softening. She lifts a hand towards Olivia and then, seeming to think better of it, lowers it. Her eyes are very green, Olivia notices. The colour of the gooseberries that grow in her mother’s garden. The gooseberries that she hasn’t touched since they made her vomit all night when she was five.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Jenna, gently, and Olivia notices a blush to the other woman’s cheeks. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. It must be so traumatic still, never knowing what happened.’

‘And yet you decided to come and speak to me anyway?’ Olivia pushes her shoulders back, although it doesn’t matter how straight she stands: she’ll never be as tall or as elegant or as self-assured as this woman. This Jenna Halliday, who has probably gone through life getting exactly what – and who – she wants.

Jenna looks down at the floor and when she lifts her head Olivia is surprised to see her expression is open. Authentic. ‘I felt it was only right to give you a chance to tell your side of the story. Considering the podcast is about your friends’ disappearance.’

‘My side of the story?’ Olivia can feel a whoosh of heat to her throat, rising to her face. ‘It’s not a story. It’s not fodder for the entertainment of others. This …’ she inhales deeply, trying to control her emotions ‘… this is my life.’

‘I understand.’

‘How?’ Olivia tries to stare down this woman, this intruder. ‘Since when do journalists ever truly understand? Has this happened to you?’

‘Well, no, but –’

‘Well, then, don’t talk crap. It’s insincere.’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine what you’ve been going through.’

Olivia feels tears prick her eyes. How to even begin?

Jenna assesses her calmly but with compassion and it makes Olivia feel conflicted. She wants to hate this woman. She wants to blame her for all of it. For the accident and the years afterwards, her ongoing pain both physical and emotional. How she feels alienated in her own town because of what happened. How people still regard her with suspicion, gossip about her, or are openly hostile so that all she wants to do is hide away. Yet this woman doesn’t seem like all the other journalists she’s met in the past. She seems warmer, almost empathetic, actually willing to listen to Olivia. But no. She promised Wesley. She can’t go back on that.

Jenna reaches into her bag and extracts a card. ‘I’ll go now but if you change your mind here are my details.’ She hands the card to Olivia, who takes it and tosses it onto the desk as though it were a piece of litter. ‘I’m in town until Friday.’

There are a few beats of awkward silence. And then, at last, Jenna gives a small smile before she turns and walks out of the office, with a swish of her fine copper mane, reminding Olivia of the chestnut stallion they used to have at the stables.

Olivia breathes a sigh of relief, her legs shaking. She slumps down onto a wheely-chair, a burning sensation at the back of her throat.

Wesley is right. There is no way she can talk to this woman. No way.

Because she knows if she starts to talk, she might never stop.





9



Jenna


I’m not surprised Olivia has decided against being interviewed. It’s what I’d expected. But I won’t give up. There has to be a way to break down her barriers. I just need to find it. What I am surprised about, however, is how small and sad she seemed. She spoke to me with such passion and feeling, as though her emotions were just below the surface, like a swimmer about to break through the waves. The opposite of me, the scuba-diving variety, who will do anything to hide how I’m truly feeling.

Like when Gavin told me late one night as we were getting ready for bed that he was moving out. I’d been sitting at my dressing-table, taking off my makeup, and I could see his reflection in my mirror, bare-chested as he hung up his shirt, and it had crossed my mind that we hadn’t had sex for a few months, which was unusual for us. But we’d both been so busy, me with my new job at the BBC and him as CFO, that we hadn’t had much time for each other. So I had gone to him, shedding my pyjamas as I walked suggestively over to him and reached up to kiss him. But to my horror he pushed me away. ‘I’m sorry, Jenna, I can’t do this.’ Jenna. Not Beauty, his pet name for me. In that moment I felt anything but. Then he broke it to me that he needed space from our marriage. And the whole time I sat on the edge of the bed, humiliation washing over me while he packed a bag, fighting back tears, trying to remain calm when I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. I wanted to howl and beg him to stay. If I’d shown half the passion Olivia just had, would I have saved my marriage?

As I’m getting into the car an old Land Rover with Stafferbury Riding School and Livery Yard emblazoned down the side pulls up beside me and a woman in her early sixties steps out. She’s tall and strong-looking. Attractive, in a weather-worn, outdoorsy kind of way. I can tell straight away she’s Olivia’s mum. The similarity is startling: the same deep-set grey eyes, the same sharp nose, pointed chin and high cheekbones. The same defensive expression. She strides in front of my car carrying a large bag of horse feed, turning in my direction, her eyes glinting. I’m expecting her to come to my window, and my heart quickens in anticipation, my mind turning over the well-worn phrases I usually use. Instead she walks away from me towards the five-bar gate. I consider getting out of the car to talk to her, but I sense she’ll be even more closed than her daughter.