White Bodies(85)

“I’m so clever, don’t you think?”

“Then you introduced Felix to Charlotte—you told him she was a medic who could administer your vitamin injections. And, what? She came round to Curzon Street a couple of times—in my imagination she’s wearing a white cotton coat and has her hair pulled back in a ponytail, looking so professional—and you both had harmless injections, it didn’t matter what was in them. . . . You were simply getting Felix accustomed to the idea that Charlotte was authorized to inject him. And when he said he was going to attend a conference at that hotel, you seized your chance. You told him that Charlotte was nearby, that she could come round for his injection, that it would be good for him, keep him at the top of his game.”

“You’re right. I even used that cliché—you’ll stay at the top of your game, darling.”

I pull my head up from her breast, and rest it on the pillow so that we are face-to-face, so close that our lips are nearly touching, our eyelashes almost brushing each other.

“It was all so perfect,” she says. “When Felix died, the police suspected nothing. That stupid Melody Sykes woman called me up and asked me about the marks from the injection, and I told her—vitamins, both of us had vitamin injections. And she accepted it—I could scarcely believe it. Then it turned out that Felix did have some sort of heart condition. Sykes told me that they do cause of death on a balance of probabilities—nothing more. I thought that was utterly hilarious.”

I think of her playing the grieving widow, gray with suffering, scarcely able to stand, struggling to formulate words. I remember her bearing at the funeral, the melancholy bride, the excruciating sorrow. Tilda is a brilliant actress, I have to give her that.

We are so close now that I feel her breaths on my face, and I realize that this moment is rare, special, because for once she isn’t acting, she’s being honest.

“It’s such a relief,” she says, “to be with you . . . I could fall asleep in your arms I feel so relaxed and happy.”

But I’m not going to let her get away with that, and I ask, “What happened with Charlotte? Did you hold her down under the water . . . was it difficult?”

She kisses my lips, whispers, “It was so, so easy, Callie. She was out of her head, drugged and drunk, and I think she wanted me to do it. Deep down, she knew we couldn’t be together, that she’d always be inferior . . . that’d she’d feel forever bitter, betrayed even. And I didn’t want her around, reminding me of our dirty little secret.”

I move in closer still, holding her so tightly that she gasps, then I release her and turn onto my back, staring at the wooden ceiling as I think about what to do.

“What about me?” I don’t look at her as I speak. “Don’t I remind you of your secret? Won’t you resent me for that?”

“No, little one. Of course not. You’re an extension of me . . . you know that.”

“I’m wondering whether I should go to the police. If I call Melody Sykes and tell her everything, all the detail of it . . . she’d have to believe me.”

“Really? You think so?” She’s getting out of the bed now and is walking towards the open doors, saying, “Watch this—this will tell you what you need to know.”

She doesn’t pick up anything to cover herself up, walking outside, onto the balcony—it’s dark out there now, just a faint silvery light, unnatural, like it’s from a lamp in the garden; I get out of bed too, following her. In the corner a thin pole connects the side of the balcony to an overhanging roof—and Tilda climbs up onto a chair, holds the pole, and then steps up onto the metal rail that runs the breadth of the balcony. Holding on with one hand, she swings herself outwards, towards the black trees and the foliage, and she’s balanced precariously there. I automatically step forward to look down, and see that the drop is a long one, that there’s concrete below, and nothing to break a fall.

“I’d rather you pushed me,” she says, “than go to the police. You see, I’m not afraid—I’m exhilarated when I think of death—I do like to flirt with it, just as I told you on the memory stick. . . . That bit is true.” She’s swinging back and forth now, recklessly, seeming not to mind that the slightest slip would kill her.

I don’t feel alarmed as I watch her wild movements, her rocking white body; instead I feel comforted. This is the Tilda I recognize, so deeply, like I recognize night or grass or sky, something that would make you die if it was taken away. This is the impulsive, crazy girl, who can mesmerize you whenever she wishes, who will switch from ethereal to intense in a second, who believes that she has a God-given right to be a star.

She laughs as she pulls herself back to safety, clambers back down onto the chair, and the floor, saying, “Well, that’s enough of that! I think you get the point. Now, scoot, Callie, the makeup person will be here soon. Go and chat to Lucas.” She picks up her cotton robe and covers herself, saying again, “Go on!” So I do. I leave her alone so that she can preen and beautify, create the person she so admires.





50


I’m standing on a pavement, squashed in a crowd, straining to see the stars who parade the red carpet, pausing for the cameras, lit and sanctified by white flashing lights. Knowing poses, shining eyes, a flick of hair and a backward glance, again and again, a parade of goddesses in flimsy gowns and impossible shoes. Tilda appears and, like the rest, she has that entitled, self-regarding smile, always for the cameras, scarcely registering the fans crammed behind the metal barrier, the contemptible civilians.