White Bodies(80)

I don’t sleep. Not for a minute. And when I drag myself out of bed at 7:00 a.m. and get dressed, Wilf’s still dead to the world, lying on his back with one arm down the side of the bed. I can’t bear to see that sickening pose, and I pull his arm back up, while he snuffles and mutters “Morning?” like he’s not sure where he is.

I kiss him lightly on the forehead and say I’m leaving now, and that I’ll see him again after I’ve sorted everything out, after I’ve been to Los Angeles and found Tilda. He grabs me and pulls me down onto the bed to kiss me properly, but he’s not trying to keep me there, he knows that it’s time for me to go, and I bury my face in his chest, briefly, before I grab my laptop, the bee bag and my coat. I have a busy morning ahead, I need to go back to Tilda’s agent, Felicity Shore, and then buy my air ticket.

I walk to Soho. The rain has gone, and it’s a bright morning, filled with silvery light, the sort of weather for making strides, getting things done, and I walk briskly up to the reception desk, asking to see Felicity, boldly, as though I have an appointment.

“Tell her that it’s Callie Farrow, and I’m going to LA tonight, so I’d like to see her urgently about Tilda.”

Five minutes later, Felicity escorts me into her office. She’s wearing batwinged clothes again, and heaps of her jangly jewelry, and she has her hair up in a messy bun, a silky scarf tied turban-like around it. Her style, I figure, is supposed to exude a tone of creativity and friendliness—but the look on her face is one of pure annoyance.

“I have only a few minutes . . . ,” she says. “But I’d like you to take this message to your sister—tell her to get in touch with me. She’s still not returning my calls or my emails. Frankly, Callie, I don’t have much to offer her right now. It’s thin pickings. But she does need to stay in touch. It’s the professional thing.”

“Absolutely,” I say, trying to think of some appropriate small talk, before I get to my real reason for being here. “I’m going to LA tonight, and I thought you might want to give me a message for her, that’s why I’ve stopped by.”

“What is she saying about her UK work? Is she even available at the minute?”

“Oh, definitely . . .” I’m improvising. The truth is Tilda hasn’t been returning my calls either. “And she’ll be back for Envy, of course.”

“But I’ve had the producers on the phone telling me she’s backing out.”

I don’t show how shocked I am by this news. “Oh, she hasn’t totally made her mind up yet.”

“It’s unacceptable, Callie.”

“I’ll tell her.” I get up, saying, “Do you mind, I just want to look at this photo again.” And I stand, staring at it, my heart beating against my ribs.

“Who’s this girl, standing next to Tilda?”

“Why do you ask? What’s this got to do with anything?”

“I need to know . . . I think Tilda’s back in touch with her.”

“That’s Lottie Watts. She was on my books once. . . . I don’t know what happened to her.”

Lottie, Charlotte. Charlotte, Lottie. “My girl crush.” That’s all I need to know. I leave in a hurry; Felicity Shore making no secret of her irritation at my visit.





47


I should have gone straight home and bought my air ticket. But I didn’t. I lost my nerve. I knew the truth now, but I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t face Scarlet, and I dreaded seeing Tilda again. It hit me as I was sitting there, staring at the British Airways website and its pictures of sunny Santa Monica beaches, of turquoise swimming pools belonging to whitewashed hotels. All that brightness seemed like an impossible choice.

Instead I felt stuck in dark, wintery London; and I opened up the dossier and started to write everything down. That pitiless, penetrating insight from Liam, and the confirmation from Felicity Shore that Scarlet was Lottie from Tilda’s drama school days. Everything was explained, all the loose ends tied up neatly, just like Strangers on a Train. It took me more than an hour to think it through, and type it up—and when I’d finished I transferred the dossier to a memory stick and then, with Tilda in mind, I hid the memory stick in the corner of a pillowcase, and put it at the bottom of a pile in the linen cupboard. And that’s where it stayed, month after month, as I worked on suppressing all thoughts of Tilda and Felix and Scarlet and Luke. Belle was the only one I allowed myself to remember, the only one who made me feel better inside.

I distracted myself by concentrating on my new life with Wilf—who was relieved by my inaction, and moved himself back into Curzon Street. I worked hard as his manager at Wilf Baker Gardens, booking new business, making sure that we were paid on time, checking that the crew were in the right place. And often I’d go along at lunchtime to see Wilf at work, bringing ham sandwiches and a flask of strong tea, and sitting with him while he explained his planting ideas—“a perennial meadow, blocks of color, that’s the idea, with gravel paths.” Or “white roses and raspberry bushes—purity and blood—it’s what Catholics used to plant hundreds of years ago.” Sometimes I’d lend a hand, under Wilf’s guidance, and dig and plant, like I did on our first proper date, thinking of long ago when I was seven, and I ran down through the blue sky, into the bush and the earth, where the skull was.