‘My side of the story?’ Olivia can feel a whoosh of heat to her throat, rising to her face. ‘It’s not a story. It’s not fodder for the entertainment of others. This …’ she inhales deeply, trying to control her emotions ‘… this is my life.’
‘I understand.’
‘How?’ Olivia tries to stare down this woman, this intruder. ‘Since when do journalists ever truly understand? Has this happened to you?’
‘Well, no, but –’
‘Well, then, don’t talk crap. It’s insincere.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine what you’ve been going through.’
Olivia feels tears prick her eyes. How to even begin?
Jenna assesses her calmly but with compassion and it makes Olivia feel conflicted. She wants to hate this woman. She wants to blame her for all of it. For the accident and the years afterwards, her ongoing pain both physical and emotional. How she feels alienated in her own town because of what happened. How people still regard her with suspicion, gossip about her, or are openly hostile so that all she wants to do is hide away. Yet this woman doesn’t seem like all the other journalists she’s met in the past. She seems warmer, almost empathetic, actually willing to listen to Olivia. But no. She promised Wesley. She can’t go back on that.
Jenna reaches into her bag and extracts a card. ‘I’ll go now but if you change your mind here are my details.’ She hands the card to Olivia, who takes it and tosses it onto the desk as though it were a piece of litter. ‘I’m in town until Friday.’
There are a few beats of awkward silence. And then, at last, Jenna gives a small smile before she turns and walks out of the office, with a swish of her fine copper mane, reminding Olivia of the chestnut stallion they used to have at the stables.
Olivia breathes a sigh of relief, her legs shaking. She slumps down onto a wheely-chair, a burning sensation at the back of her throat.
Wesley is right. There is no way she can talk to this woman. No way.
Because she knows if she starts to talk, she might never stop.
9
Jenna
I’m not surprised Olivia has decided against being interviewed. It’s what I’d expected. But I won’t give up. There has to be a way to break down her barriers. I just need to find it. What I am surprised about, however, is how small and sad she seemed. She spoke to me with such passion and feeling, as though her emotions were just below the surface, like a swimmer about to break through the waves. The opposite of me, the scuba-diving variety, who will do anything to hide how I’m truly feeling.
Like when Gavin told me late one night as we were getting ready for bed that he was moving out. I’d been sitting at my dressing-table, taking off my makeup, and I could see his reflection in my mirror, bare-chested as he hung up his shirt, and it had crossed my mind that we hadn’t had sex for a few months, which was unusual for us. But we’d both been so busy, me with my new job at the BBC and him as CFO, that we hadn’t had much time for each other. So I had gone to him, shedding my pyjamas as I walked suggestively over to him and reached up to kiss him. But to my horror he pushed me away. ‘I’m sorry, Jenna, I can’t do this.’ Jenna. Not Beauty, his pet name for me. In that moment I felt anything but. Then he broke it to me that he needed space from our marriage. And the whole time I sat on the edge of the bed, humiliation washing over me while he packed a bag, fighting back tears, trying to remain calm when I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. I wanted to howl and beg him to stay. If I’d shown half the passion Olivia just had, would I have saved my marriage?
As I’m getting into the car an old Land Rover with Stafferbury Riding School and Livery Yard emblazoned down the side pulls up beside me and a woman in her early sixties steps out. She’s tall and strong-looking. Attractive, in a weather-worn, outdoorsy kind of way. I can tell straight away she’s Olivia’s mum. The similarity is startling: the same deep-set grey eyes, the same sharp nose, pointed chin and high cheekbones. The same defensive expression. She strides in front of my car carrying a large bag of horse feed, turning in my direction, her eyes glinting. I’m expecting her to come to my window, and my heart quickens in anticipation, my mind turning over the well-worn phrases I usually use. Instead she walks away from me towards the five-bar gate. I consider getting out of the car to talk to her, but I sense she’ll be even more closed than her daughter.
As I reverse, I notice Mrs Rutherford watching me, her hand on the gate latch, the bag at her feet. Maybe the rumour mill is already at full grind and she knows who I am. I can still see her in my rear-view mirror as I pull out onto a winding lane that leads me towards the high street. I’m distracted and take a hairpin bend too fast, nearly veering into a BMW coming the other way down the lane.
I apply the brakes, my breathing slowing along with the car. The BMW driver is around my age with a shock of dark hair and he mouths, ‘Fucking idiot,’ at me as he passes. I drive on towards the high street. Just before the field of standing stones a lane leads to a National Trust car park. I park, then head along the path that runs parallel to the stones and cross to the rank of shops and cafés, my breath fogging out in front of me. I tug my bobble hat further over my ears, coldness seeping into the fabric of my clothes. As I’m walking I ring the number Brenda gave me for DS Crawford. It goes straight to voicemail and I leave a short message, explaining who I am and where I got his number. I drop my mobile into my pocket and pause outside an attractive Tudor building with Bea’s Tearoom in white flowery writing hanging from an old-fashioned black sign. A chalk board on the pavement indicates that the tearoom is upstairs. It looks like a good place to get coffee and gather my thoughts. I also plan to write down some notes from Brenda’s interview that I’d like to follow up with DS Crawford.
I climb the narrow stairs and am out of breath by the time I reach the top. An open doorway leads into a cosy room with ceiling beams and a floor with a slight incline. The carpet is red and faded to rose pink in places and the waitresses （I note they are all women） are wearing old-fashioned black uniforms with white frilly aprons and matching hats. A tourist trap, I imagine. Two arched leaded windows look out over the high street and the standing stones in the distance.
‘Can I help you?’ says a young girl, who can’t be older than eighteen. She looks faintly embarrassed by her get-up, making me wonder if she’s new.
‘Do you have a table free?’ It’s a silly question when only one is occupied, by an older couple who aren’t speaking to each other. The woman is watching me and not even trying to hide it.
‘Just for yourself?’
‘Yes. Please.’ It doesn’t faze me, eating alone. My life as a journalist has always been solitary. Especially in the early days when I worked for a press agency and spent many hours door-stepping celebrities or politicians, then had to file the story over the phone. I’d huddle up on a kerb somewhere, or a hidden corner of the street, and furiously write out the first paragraph so that I didn’t stumble over my words when reciting them to the short-tempered editor at the other end of the line.
She leads me to a table next to the window and takes my order. When she’s gone I glance around the room. It’s not very big, with only half a dozen tables and, apart from me, just the older couple sipping tea from fine-boned china cups. The woman has platinum-blonde hair and a thin, anxious expression and she keeps glancing at me. I smile at her, but she averts her eyes, her face frosty. Charming. Word must have spread that I’m here. I open my notebook half-heartedly, trying my best not to feel uncomfortable. I survey the uneven walls with their thick paint, cracked in places, and the mahogany tables and chairs. Someone has put up bunting along the counter where pink and yellow iced cupcakes are piled high on pretty bone-china cake stands. I imagine this place is heaving during the summer months with tourists hoping to soak up the quaintness.