White Bodies(43)

“Was there ever a Mr. Nearly Right?” I’ve never before asked her such a personal question, but an intimate space has opened up for us, because of my grief.

“Well, yes.” She’s looking down at her coffee. “A long time ago—but he’s my publisher now and married to the daughter of a lord; she has perfect taste, perfect teeth, perfect hair.”

“Grim.”

“How’s it going with Wilf?”

I don’t want an inquest, so I don’t say I think we’ve broken up, just: “Not so well . . . I don’t think I trust him.”

“Really? That surprises me. . . . I would say he’s a trustworthy boy.”

“Not a boy! Let’s change the subject.”

“Ah,” says Daphne. “I do have something I need to ask you about. I’ve been invited to a literary festival in Denmark. It’s a last-minute thing, someone dropped out. Anyhow it’s next week—can I leave you in charge of the shop?”

She leans forward and, with her big, manly fingers, moves a strand of hair that’s fallen across my face and tucks it behind my ear.

“Of course—my pleasure.” It happens occasionally—that Daphne goes away—and I like being in charge: the ritual of “opening up,” turning the three locks on the door, the feeling of being in command when the customers come in. But then I remember—Monday.

“When are you going?”

“Tuesday. So you’d have to do Tuesday to Friday, is that okay?”

“I’ll enjoy it.”

“I hate the bloody things,” she says, “but my publisher—Mr. Nearly Right—likes me to do them, and I’ll enjoy Denmark.”

“Scandinavia—crime capital of the literary world.”

“Yes, of course. At least I’ll be with my people. . . .”

Because we’ve been talking, I’ve forgotten the mail that I’d put into my bag, and when Daphne returns to her desk I take out the brown parcel and unwrap it, and as I realize what’s inside, I almost start crying again. It’s Belle’s bee bag, with a note from Tricia saying “her mother gave it to me, along with much else. I thought you might like to have it.”

The white envelope is still in my bag—and I know I’m avoiding it, the thought of it making me feel cold inside. Reluctantly I reach down, but before I pick it up, I’m distracted by Wilf coming into the shop. He ignores Daphne, and the books, and makes no effort to pretend he’s looking for something to read. Instead he comes straight to the counter, where I am, and he’s ruffled and bleary as though he’s just got out of bed. We’re eye to eye.

“Three things,” he says. “One—I can’t stand all this moodiness. Something’s going on, and you’re not being straight with me. Two—I’m angry with you. Angry. Because you don’t trust me. Three . . . No, I’ve changed my mind about three. I’m sticking with two.” Then he walks out, with a brief “Hi, Daphne,” as he reaches the door.

“Bloody hell,” she says. “You’d better find out what three was, sweetness. If you don’t, it will kill me.”

But I sense a horrible finality. “I’m not sure I will . . . I think that was Wilf’s way of saying he won’t be coming back for another Jo Nesb?.”

“We’ll see.”

I bite my lip painfully, trying to suppress my emotions, and pick the envelope out of my bag. I don’t want to open it, and when I do, it’s with a ghastly sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, partly reflecting my bad night, partly my row with Wilf, but mainly my anticipation of the contents. Tilda Farrow and Felix Nordberg, I read, will be married on the twenty-second of July at a church in Berkshire. I’m invited to the ceremony and the celebration afterwards at a country-house hotel.





21


I’m folding my orange scarf around my head, trying to make it look authentically Islamic. It takes a few attempts, and I only get it right after watching a hijab how-to video on YouTube. I put on aviator sunglasses and look at myself from all angles. Scarlet’s a genius—it really works—I’ve become a different person, and I’m attracted to the idea of playing a role, walking down the street in disguise. I dress in a loose-fitting blue shirt, and jeans with trainers. And, as I leave the flat, I pick up the bee bag to take with me.

I feel self-conscious as I wait for the bus, even though nobody is giving me a second glance. And I’m worried that Wilf might come by—although the bus stop is several roads away from Willesden Estates and it’s possible that, if I keep my head down, he wouldn’t recognize me anyway. I’m nervous too, about Muslim girls spotting that I’m a fake. Maybe I did something wrong when I folded the scarf, or there’s some detail about my clothes that jars with them. On the bus a woman wearing a hijab sits next to me and I half expect that we’ll exchange a look, a moment of recognition, but there’s nothing, and I sit perfectly still, my arm lightly touching hers, reading my book.

I walk the last part of the journey, and when I reach the heath, a path takes me through a wooded area, dappled with pools of shade, dry leaves and twigs crackling underfoot; and I pass people walking their dogs, couples arm in arm, mothers with young children; it almost feels as though I’m one of them—an innocent person taking an afternoon stroll. Then I emerge into the open and see Kenwood House, a white mansion on a hill, spread wide with an orangery to the west and a long, low library to the east. I’ve been here many times, coming with my book to sit and read, and as I walk up the hill, across the wide lawn, I look at the familiar benches in front of the house, hoping to see Scarlet’s red head scarf.