‘It’s not your fault, darling. Why are you sorry?’
My jaw tightens, my mouth feels dry. She is being kind. She knows exactly. I am responsible for all this, I think. Rachel was my doing. I brought her here.
Serena plucks the card from the mantelpiece, turns it over. ‘Rory said something about Charlie,’ she says. ‘Did you and him have some sort of row?’
‘He’s not speaking to me,’ I confess. ‘Or at least, he’s not returning my calls.’ I realise I’ve been fiddling with one of her Mongolian hair cushions, the strands knotted around my fingers.
‘Why not?’
I sigh. I’m sure she’ll find out sooner or later. ‘You won’t believe this. But Charlie knew Rachel from before I met her.’
Serena’s eyes widen. ‘Charlie knew her?’
I bite my lip and nod. I tell her about the photo of Charlie and Rachel that Katie found at the club.
‘Christ. Did you ask Charlie why he never told any of us that he knew her?’
‘I did more than that. I made him go to the police.’
As soon as Charlie admitted he’d known Rachel from before, I’d called Maja, asked her to pick Ruby up, so Charlie and I could go to the police. Maja and Bruce arrived within twenty minutes. It was obvious they’d been out for dinner; Maja’s hair was pinned up at the back of her neck, a woody perfume on her coat. Ruby’s eyelids barely flickered as Bruce gently lifted her from her bed, carried her down to their car.
‘Thanks,’ I said to Maja at the door. I hadn’t seen Maja in years. She looked great, her clothes more grown-up-looking, expensive. A few strands of grey in her hair. She’s not the sort to dye it.
Maja stared at me coldly, as if I was an idiot. ‘She’s my daughter, Helen,’ she said. Then she turned and followed Bruce down the steps, holding Ruby’s bunny by the neck.
It was only when I got Charlie to the police station that it occurred to me we’d picked the worst possible time. The plastic chairs in the waiting room were packed with Friday-night drunks, blokes with cuts on their heads, skeleton-faced drug addicts. I had to shout to be heard by the woman on the other side of the glass case. I assumed they’d be able to pick up the details, that the case would be on file somewhere. It had been on the news. Surely they knew what I was talking about? Instead, we were met with blank faces, shaking heads, flickering computer screens that yielded no information. We were told to wait.
So we waited. I sat down next to a homeless man who kept falling asleep, a balled-up coat wedged between him and the radiator. Charlie stood, pacing round the room, his fists clenched, pretending to read the crime prevention posters and look out of the window. Anything rather than speak to me.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, someone turned up, a brisk young detective with shiny shoes, and showed Charlie into a room. He held the door open for him with one hand, pressing his tie flat to his chest with the other, his spine soldier-straight. I was asked to wait outside. The door was closed before I could object.
I felt in desperate need of sugar. I dug out a pound, keyed in the hot chocolate option at the drinks machine. The machine squirted a hot brown stream into a beige cup. I took the drink and slumped back into my chair. When I’d finished it, I massaged my bump, hoping to feel the reassuring shift of movement in response to the sugar, a kick or an elbow. Nothing. I stared at my shoes, tried not to make eye contact with the drunks.
When Charlie and the detective emerged they were laughing like best mates. He was told he could go home. The detective even shook his hand, glanced at me wryly, as if they were all boys together, and I’d caused a whole load of unnecessary fuss.
I called a cab, waited outside the station. Charlie stood with me, but refused to meet my eye.
‘Just tell me, Charlie. Were you together?’
‘Of course not! For fuck’s sake, Helen. Why can you never just leave things alone?’
When the taxi pulled up, Charlie walked off. I haven’t heard from him since. It’s all such a mess.
When I finish telling Serena the story she sits down and picks up her mug again, takes another sip. It covers her face, so I can’t see her expression.
‘I can’t believe he knew her,’ Serena murmurs. ‘Do you think it’s possible that the baby is his?’
So the police haven’t said anything to them about Rachel’s pregnancy.
‘Well, for one thing … it turns out she might not actually have been pregnant.’
A vertical crease forms between the arches of Serena’s eyebrows. ‘What? How?’