White Bodies(73)

The look that Melody and Ramesh exchanged told me everything. The idiot witness had chucked the evidence. Or worse, she was, after all, a liar, a fantasist. Melody seemed to deflate into her crumpled, stained clothes.

“We have your contact details and you can expect to hear from me in a few days.” Her irritation was back, undisguised. “In the meantime, stop your own activity. You have a wild imagination—keep it in check and we’re more likely to get to the truth.”

“Thank you . . . Thank you. Will you see Charlotte today? Bring her in for an interview?”

“I can’t discuss that. But take it from me that we’re taking your claims seriously and will investigate them thoroughly.” Her weariness had returned.

“I’m grateful.” And I was. Despite my stupidity, it seemed possible that Melody Sykes was taking over. That I’d offloaded a great burden.





42


Daphne said, “You seem better, Callie. You’ve been looking knackered recently, but something’s changed.”

“I’m pulling myself together. After Felix’s death . . .”

“Good for you. Tell you what, I’m doing so well with The Lady Connoisseurs that I’ll print off the manuscript and get you to read it. I’d value your opinion.”

I was flattered, and I spent most of the morning reading, and enjoying, her novel. I liked her private detectives, Maisie Fothergill and Hermione Swift, and the quiet treacheries of their circle of friends. There were big country houses too, and steam trains and afternoon tea, and time passed quickly until, just before lunch, Tilda came into the shop. She hadn’t warned me that she was coming, and I was surprised that she looked different. More energized than recently. Eyes shining, rather unnaturally. Better clothes—not the big tweed coat or the hat. Just trendy jeans (XXOX, Paradise in the Park?) and a tailored jacket that looked expensive.

Daphne said, “Oh . . . I was so sorry to hear about Felix. You have my sympathy.”

Tilda was polite, but she talked too fast. “Thank you. That’s kind of you. We’d been married only a few weeks . . . it’s still sinking in.”

“Of course.”

“I was wondering if Callie could come out with me for half an hour or so.”

“Yes, yes . . . we’re not busy—that’s totally fine.”

We went back to the Albany—only for coffee (her) and hot chocolate (me) because it was 11:00 a.m., not lunchtime. I was bracing myself, preparing to come clean and admit to everything, to confess that I’d stolen the memory stick, read her letter to me. I didn’t know exactly how far I’d go—to tell her about Scarlet, and my fears that Felix had been murdered, seemed too much at this stage, while her grief was raw . . . I sipped my hot chocolate and was about to launch into my speech, when:

“Callie, I’ve been making decisions . . . I’ve been so low, crying and crying, even thinking about taking an overdose—killing myself.”

She was making a tremendous effort to get her words out fast, speaking with a hollow, breathy urgency, all the time tracing shapes on the table with her finger.

“I miss him so much.”

She was bent up, staring at me so hard.

“And it’s so much worse when I’m at Curzon Street. He made it his place—choosing everything—the colors of the walls and the floors, the art, the bed, even the crockery and the cutlery. I walk around the place and I see him everywhere—cooking that damned squid in the kitchen, watching movies with us, lying in bed, and I can scarcely breathe—his ghost is in the brickwork there. And I’m not consoled by his presence—like those people who keep dead relatives’ rooms just as they were left, like a shrine. I’m fucking tormented by it. . . . Everything that tells me that he was there, tells me also that he’s gone. Forever.”

She tried to pull herself upright but couldn’t manage it.

“Anyhow, Callie. Here’s the thing. I’ve decided to leave England. I’m going to LA, to see if I can break into movies there. I’ve spoken to an American agent who says I have a good chance, because of the scripts that are already being sent to me because of Rebecca, and also my role in Envy should help. You remember I told you about that? It’s the one that reminded me of Single White Female. And this American agent says he can also help find me a good place to live in LA!”

She sounded wasted and manic at the same time.

“It’s the best way forward for me . . . I need to move on. Not to forget Felix, of course. But to honor him by doing good work. Really honor him. Demanding roles in good films—the sort of thing that would have made him proud of me.”

I was so surprised that my brain felt numb. Eventually, I managed: “I don’t understand. . . . How long will you be gone?”

“Oh, as long as it takes!” She spoke in a way that suggested a long sweep into the far future.

My thoughts stumbled towards practical things, obstacles. “Don’t you need a green card?”

“It’s fine—Felix was American. And I’m his wife. Anyhow—it’s easy with acting, if you’re offered a good part. It’s international.”

“What about money?”

“I can sell Curzon Street if I need to. But, in the short term, you can move in there. It’s so much nicer than your flat.”