I feel winded again. I can’t remember Richard ever mentioning his wife before, not that I didn’t know he was married. And not that there is anything wrong with a man loving his wife and children. I suppose having a family does push some couples closer together, instead of pulling them apart. Right now, this all just feels like another reminder of what I don’t have.
“Well, goodnight,” I say, standing to leave. “For the record, a drink was all that was on offer.”
I manage a smile and he does too. Never good to leave things feeling awkward with a colleague, especially someone who gets to decide whether you look good or bad on-screen to an audience of millions.
I raid the excuse of a minibar alone when I get back to my room. It doesn’t have the biggest or best selection of nightcaps, but it will have to do. Then I sit on the bed, eating overpriced chocolate bars and drinking miniatures while wondering how I got here. Forty-eight hours ago, I was a BBC News anchor. My private life may have been in tatters but at least I still had my career. Now, I’m literally back where I started, in the village I grew up in, reporting on the murder of a girl I knew at school. A girl who hurt me, and who turned into a woman who tried to hurt me again, years after the night that ended our fragile friendship for good.
Rachel called me out of the blue quite recently; I still don’t even understand how she got my number. She said that her charity was in trouble, and asked if I would host an event to help. When I said no—suspecting that if the charity was in trouble, it was most likely the result of her being in charge—she turned up at the BBC. She sat in main reception waiting for me, then hinted that she had something that would damage my career if people ever saw it.
I still said no.
I go to get myself another drink, but the minibar is already empty, so I decide to get ready for bed. I need to be on-air again in a few hours; best to get some sleep if I can.
I take a shower. Sometimes, on stories like these, it can feel as though the stench of death gets on your skin and in your hair. I need to wash it all way, with water so hot, it burns. I don’t know how long I am in the bathroom, but when I come out, the empty bottles and chocolate bar wrappers have been put in the bin, and the bed covers have been pulled back, ready for me to get into.
It’s strange, because I genuinely don’t remember doing it, and this isn’t the kind of hotel to have a turn-down service.
I must be more drunk than I thought.
I climb beneath the sheets and turn off the lights, blacking out almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Him
Tuesday 23:55
The house is in complete darkness when I pull into the drive and I’m glad; the last thing I need after a day like today is to have to face an interrogation when I get home. I open the front door as quietly as I can, careful not to wake anyone, but it soon becomes apparent that I needn’t have bothered. The lights might be off, but the TV is on, and when I walk into the living room I find Zoe watching my ex-wife on the news. I drove past the woods on the way home, and the media had all packed up and left for the night, so I know it isn’t live. It’s just a rerun of her earlier package, but it still feels strange seeing Anna in my home.
“What the fuck is happening?” Zoe asks, without looking up.
She’s been texting and calling all day, but I didn’t have the time or inclination to get back to her.
“If you’ve been watching that, then I expect you already know,” I say, unable to stop myself from sighing.
“One of my best friends gets murdered, and you didn’t think to tell me about it?”
“You haven’t been friends with Rachel Hopkins since you left school. It must be twenty years since you even spoke to her.” Zoe’s face twists into a rather ugly pattern of fury and hurt, but I’m not in the mood for one of her tantrums tonight. “Not everything is about you, Zoe. I’ve had a really long day, and you know I can’t talk about my job, so please don’t ask.”
I’ve never wanted to pollute her world with my problems.
“You’re wrong about that. Rachel and I spoke quite recently,” she says, turning off the TV. Then she looks me up and down, as though making a formal assessment and reaching a negative conclusion. “Why is your ex-wife here, reporting on the murder of your latest girlfriend?”
I’m too shocked to find a suitable response, because I had no idea that she knew I was sleeping with Rachel. I thought nobody knew. I consider the possibility that she might not know for sure.
“I don’t know what you mean—”