‘How is your relationship with alcohol?’
He’s starting to see me, she realised. He’s starting to see me.
‘I know that sounds loaded, but it’s a genuine question,’ he said. ‘I, for example, enjoy a drink with lunch or dinner. I consider myself a wine snob. I drink regularly but rarely more than one glass. As for you, a lot of the time you don’t drink. Some days you don’t intend to drink but then you change your mind. Last night, you were quite drunk. So . . . tell me.’
She heard the subtext of what he was saying. Stephen’s method was the right way. Drink good wine, and not much of it. Drinking too much, making commitments not to drink and then breaking them, flip-flopping from teetotal to drunk, was not the right way. She should have known this. She did know this. But it wasn’t in her blood. It wasn’t the real Heather.
‘Were your parents big drinkers?’ he asked. His expression was curious, concerned.
Heather’s ability to craft a coherent lie was subverted, she suspected, by the amount of alcohol still in her system.
‘I’m just trying to understand you better,’ he said. ‘We’re getting married – don’t you want to know more about me?’
No, she thought. I know everything about you that I need to know.
‘My dad,’ she heard herself say, ‘was a bit of a drinker.’
Stephen didn’t look surprised by this, nor did it appear to bother him.
‘He was probably an alcoholic, though no one ever used that word. He drank every day, and not just one.’ And it wasn’t just wine, she wanted to add. He drank beer, cider, spirits. He’d have drunk methylated spirits if he knew it was alcoholic.
‘That must have been hard,’ Stephen said. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
There was something about his acceptance. It undid something in her.
‘You know, I think my drinking has got a little much lately. I might take a break from it for a while.’
‘Don’t do it on my account,’ Stephen said. ‘But if that’s what you want to do, I’ll support you on one condition.’
‘What is it?’
‘You don’t stop wearing my tracksuit.’
She smiled. ‘You’re mad if you think you’re getting this back.’
‘Glad to hear it. Panadol and coffee?’
‘Please,’ she said.
Stephen leaned forward to kiss her forehead then stood up and headed for the kitchen. As Heather watched him go, another memory burst forth from her foggy brain. Specifically, a tightening around her ankle when she was halfway up the stairs, followed by a tug. And a sense that she didn’t lose her footing – she was pulled.
THE WEDDING
It’s clear the wedding isn’t going to go ahead. The mood is solemn. Someone has been seriously injured or killed. I should head home now – yet I find myself unable to leave.
Another police car pulls up. Another ambulance. More people spill out from the chapel as if from a strange, sombre concert. A few people start to walk towards their cars, but as they do they are stopped by a couple of young-looking police officers with notepads. The officers appear to be taking names. Witnesses? It makes me nervous.
I make my way determinedly in the other direction. But as I emerge at the other side of the crowd, I see another fresh-faced police officer standing there, notepad in hand.
‘Were you a guest of this wedding?’
It’s clear that I was. No is not going to be an acceptable answer.
I nod.
‘We’re advising guests that there will be no wedding reception today, so everyone can head home. We do need to take down everyone’s name and contact details before they leave, however.’
‘Why?’ I say, as both a delaying tactic and an attempt to get information. I know I have to leave, but it will drive me crazy wondering what happened. ‘Did someone die?’
‘All I know is that a crime has been committed here today. Everyone present is considered to be a witness and we may need to contact you in the future.’
‘Well, I didn’t see anything. I was right at the back. Behind a tall man,’ I add.
‘I understand. Still, I’m required to get everyone’s details.’ His pen is poised above the page. ‘Name?’
I feel a pinch in my heart. Stephen will know I was here. The idea makes me so nauseated I’m afraid to open my mouth to answer him.
‘Name?’ he repeats when I don’t respond.
‘My name is Fiona,’ I say. ‘Fiona Arthur.’