Then She Vanishes(14)

It’s beginning to wear thin. There’s only so much front she can put up. They’re getting in the way of her business, spooking the horses when she takes them for a ride or preventing would-be campers from enquiring about a caravan or a pitch. She knows it’s a quiet time of year but they still get business some weekends leading up to the Easter holidays.

She’s necking a Valium that her doctor kindly prescribed when she hears someone calling through the letterbox. Of all the nerve! She strides to the front door, ready to give them a ticking-off, when she recognizes Jessica’s voice.

‘… if you let me in the others will go. I promise.’

Her hand falters on the doorknob. Surely she’s just saying that. Another ploy to get her to speak. Oh, she’s heard them all: ‘A chance to tell your side of the story, Mrs Powell’ ‘You can defend your daughter by putting your side across’ ‘Don’t you want the public to see that your daughter is a person? Not just a killer?’

Despite her reservations she pulls back the door to see Jessica standing there with an apprehensive look on her face. If she didn’t know better she’d think the girl was nervous. But that lasts only a millisecond as Jessica’s expression changes to its usual assertive response. Margot notices the girl is still wearing the hideous llama coat.

‘Margot,’ she says, in an urgent tone. ‘I’ve told the other reporters you’ve agreed to talk exclusively to me.’ She holds up a hand when Margot opens her mouth to object. ‘I know it’s a lie but if they think it’s true they won’t bother to stay. There’ll be no point. So please. Just let me in.’

Margot glares at Jessica, then over her shoulder at the other journalists all waiting at the end of the driveway. There’s something about the way they’re standing – the six or seven of them who have congregated – that puts her in mind of a pack of beagles about to go on a hunt.

Silently Margot steps aside to allow Jessica over the threshold. ‘It had better work,’ she mutters, as Jessica walks past.

‘It will,’ says Jessica, confidently.

‘Go through.’

Jessica does as she’s told, then stands awkwardly in the farmhouse kitchen, which hasn’t changed since she was last there eighteen years ago. She notices Jessica’s eyes sweeping the room and landing on a photograph of Flora and Heather as teenagers. ‘Sit down,’ instructs Margot, turning away to fill the kettle. She hears the scraping of chair legs on tiles.

Margot replaces the kettle on the Aga. It hasn’t long since boiled. She has no clue as to whether Jessica’s plan has worked because the kitchen is at the back of the house, overlooking the garden and the fields beyond. In the distance she can see the tree they planted in Flora’s memory – a stunning beech that has now grown tall in the intervening years – and beyond that her own black stallion, Orion, with Heather’s pony, Lucky, grazing. Oh, how Heather loves that little grey, even though she outgrew him years ago. She swallows a lump in her throat when she thinks of her daughter lying so still in that hospital bed.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Jessica, in a small voice from the table behind her. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Heather.’

Margot’s shoulders tighten. How can she tell if Jessica is genuine? She wants to reply with a caustic retort but she doesn’t have the energy. Instead her shoulders sag under the weight of her worry. ‘Tea?’ she says instead, as the kettle starts to whistle.

Jessica nods. ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’ She looks wistful as she stares out of the window. ‘I regret how our friendship ended,’ she says. ‘Me and Heather, I mean.’

‘You dumped her when she needed you most.’ Margot’s jaw hurts with all the vitriol she’s tried hard to suppress. She places a cup in front of Jessica too roughly, so that the tea spills over the top and gathers in the saucer. She doesn’t apologize.

Jessica fiddles with her saucer, her eyes downcast. ‘I know. And I regret it. It was a tough lesson. I don’t have many …’ she sighs, still not looking at Margot ‘… female friends.’

This doesn’t surprise Margot in the least.

Margot takes her teacup and sits opposite Jessica. The girl looks worn out. There are dark circles under her eyes and her face is drawn. Margot takes a sip of her tea, then asks after Jessica’s mother. She’s surprised to see Jessica’s face fall at the mention of Simone. Has she put her foot in it? Did Simone die?

But then Jessica says quietly, ‘Mum remarried and moved to Spain about ten years ago. I see her once or twice a year.’

Only once or twice a year. Margot can’t imagine that. Since losing Flora she’s made sure to see Heather as often as she can, which is easy as they all live in such close proximity, although she tries to give them their space. When Heather and Adam married they moved into the stone cottage on the edge of the caravan site and did it up, decorating the walls with pale pastel colours, Heather sanding down furniture in the shabby-chic style she loves so much. She can still remember Heather’s excitement when she painted the nursery while heavily pregnant with Ethan. She’d been too scared to do it before she got to thirty-five weeks, worried about jinxing it.

‘I can’t imagine that,’ Margot mumbles. To her shame she feels her eyes well with tears, thinking of life without Heather. If she gains consciousness she’ll be incarcerated for murder. She’ll lose her either way. No. That’s not true. Because at least in prison they’d see each other weekly, sitting across a table from each other in a sterile visitors’ room. They’d still be able to talk and confide, maybe even laugh. She’d still have her funny, sensitive, beautiful daughter.