She knew there was something off about Ed! Hadn’t she glimpsed an edge to him? It was impossible not to feel a thrilling burst of pleasure at being right, a sort of quickening of her heart rate at the shock and drama of the discovery.
Then she immediately thought of Lexi. Oh God, poor Lexi! She’d be devastated.
Eleanor had said that Ed wanted to tell Lexi the truth when she returned from the hen weekend, but fuck that! Bella wasn’t going to let the family close ranks, slime their way out of the betrayal. Absolutely not. Bella would be the one to tell Lexi. She was her best friend. Her maid of honour!
Her fingers reached for the door handle – then she paused.
Was it right to wake Lexi in the middle of the night? Best to have the conversation in the morning, when Lexi was rested, fully awake. Perhaps Bella would suggest the two of them take a walk. She’d break the news gently. But then Lexi would be stuck in Greece, on her hen weekend, with nowhere to put this knowledge. She’d be distraught. All she’d want would be to go home, speak to Ed.
No, perhaps she should wait. It would be better for Lexi to hear this from Ed. It was his mess, after all. Instead, Bella would be there, ready for when Lexi needed her.
Lexi could move back to Bournemouth and crash in Bella’s flat. It’d be just like old times, the two of them together. Lexi could even have the baby there. Bella would give them her room, and she’d sleep on the sofa. It’d be a squeeze, but it could work.
A wave of anger seized her as she thought about Ana. The bitch. All that controlled energy; the forthright, uncompromising tone. She wouldn’t have known real friendship if it smacked her in the face. In fact, Bella would have quite liked to smack her in the face right now. Although she suspected Ana would hit back. There was a strength about Ana that was a little threatening, if she were honest. Still, Bella didn’t grow up with three older brothers without learning how to throw a good punch.
Anyway. No one was going to get punched.
She stood in the dark, scratching a fresh mosquito bite. Let Ana and Eleanor keep their secret for another twenty-four hours. Then she’d be ready to support Lexi when the time was right.
There, Ana, she thought. Who’s the good friend now?
SATURDAY
The strangest thing about the night of the beach fire was how ordinarily the day began. The bright blue sky, clean of clouds, and the whitewashed walls reflecting the heat back into the startlingly clear day.
The atmosphere felt holiday-ish, bright and shiny as a freshly minted coin.
Too good to be true.
Perhaps that should’ve been the clue. But we missed it.
For all the mistakes we made, we couldn’t have known then – in the blazing heat of morning – that hours later, one of us would kill.
49
Eleanor
Eleanor sliced the tops and bottoms from the blood oranges, releasing their deliciously sweet citrus scent. They glistened like jewels as she peeled off the rest of the skin with a sharp vegetable knife, slicing through the segments. She laid each carefully on a platter.
A final segment remained on the chopping board. She could pick it up, drop it into her mouth, taste the nectar-like sweetness – but there was pleasure in waiting. Anticipation was so undervalued these days. The wait, the build up. People wanted immediate gratification, and it bored her, that tireless appetite for the next thing, for more.
She speared the segment of orange and placed it on the platter with the rest of the fruit. She, Eleanor Tollock, was a woman who could wait.
From the fridge she removed a tub of thick Greek yoghurt and began spooning it into a stoneware bowl. If she lived here, she could eat like this all week long – fresh fruit with creamy yoghurt and a swirl of honey for breakfast, and in the evenings a big salad with tomatoes so ripe and sweet they balanced the salty tang of the feta. At home in winter, when it had rained all afternoon and was dark by four o’clock, who wanted a salad, no matter how plump the tomatoes? You needed a pie, or a stew with dumplings, or a thick bowl of soup with crusty bread warm from the oven. It wasn’t only about eating with the seasons, but eating with the climate, that’s what Eleanor thought.
And she thought about food a lot. Even though she was cooking for one at home, she never cut corners. She wouldn’t buy the curry paste, she would rather make it fresh. （Once you had a spice cabinet, all it took was a little measuring and a pestle and mortar. Why not invest an extra five minutes and have a curry that tasted fresh and honest, rather than overly salted with the lingering aftertaste of preservatives? Again, this obsession with speed!） One of the things she disliked most about grief was it dulled her tastebuds. Honestly. Nothing tasted quite as good as it once had. It was like Sam had gone to his grave – well, urn technically – and hauled half her tastebuds with him.