Page 9 of Wanting Daisy Dead

Dan

I’m standing in the doorway of the cubicle that, as students, we used to call an en-suite bathroom. Being back here with all the memories of carefree student sex is making me quite hard. I push against Georgie from behind as she applies mysterious creams and potions.

‘Da-aan, stop it!’ she hisses. ‘Sounds like someone else has arrived.’

‘Remember when we made love in here? You said it was like a toilet on a plane. We reckoned we’d joined the Mile High Club.’ I chuckle at the memory.

‘Well, it wasn’t , was it?’

‘No, but we did join, a few years later, on that flight to Amsterdam.’

‘Ugh, it was cramped and the floor was wet with piss.’

‘Don’t spoil a beautiful memory for me.’ I can’t help but smile, remembering the rushed lust against the tiny stainless-steel sink.

‘Dan, move – I want to do my eyeliner.’

‘No you don’t, you want me to take you from behind over this tight little sink,’ I murmur in her ear as I push harder.

‘Dan, just fuck off ,’ she says into the mirror.

I step aside, defeated. ‘I hoped coming back here might remind you of the good times.’

At this, she bothers to turn her head and look at me. ‘No, darling, being here just reminds me of how the good times were outweighed by the bad times.’

‘Why are you so angry, Georgie?’

‘Because I don’t want to be here, but for some reason, which I’m sure will become apparent, you do !’

I walk away, back into the little room where we both used to sleep, squeezed into her single student bed.

I don’t want to be here either, and I’m not convinced I can brazen it out.

And talking of brazening it out, if Georgie spots me even talking to her this weekend, I’m in trouble.

I thought having a fling with an old flame from university would be safe, but I never expected to be invited to what feels like a bloody reunion – with my wife watching!

I’m also trying to hide the fact that the podcast that’s hosting this weekend knows I wanted Daisy dead.

So, to put Georgie off the scent, I’ve pretended to be happy about coming back here because I don’t want her to think I have anything to hide regarding Daisy’s murder.

But it seems to have had the opposite effect – she thinks I want to be here to meet up with one of the girls from uni and rekindle something.

Little does she know that happened months ago.

I watch her now. She looks gorgeous tonight: her shiny dark bob is perfect, her make-up beautiful, and her body looks fabulous in that fitted dress.

I wonder why I have this compulsion to be with other women.

I know it’s self-destructive, and I’m on my last chance with her.

One more, and she says she’s leaving and taking the kids.

What she doesn’t realise is the thrill for me is about getting caught, and by threatening this she’s just upping the stakes.

She leaves the bathroom and wanders into the bedroom looking for her shoes.

‘I’m going to see who’s out there,’ she says, unsmiling. I nod, feigning indifference so she doesn’t think I want to see who’s out there too.

The door slams, and I wish things could be turned around, but it might be too late.

Georgie’s asked me to sleep in my old room, and she’ll stay here in hers.

It’s a punishment for the affair I had last summer, and a metaphor for our marriage.

She told me she needs her sleep, and I snore, ‘and we can’t possibly both fit into a single bed’ – as according to my wife I’ve got ‘too fat’.

I weigh the same now as I did when I was eighteen – I am not overweight, it’s just classic Georgie.

She’s insecure, and wants me to feel the same.

I sometimes wish I could tell her that the other woman says I never snore, and she’s never complained about my apparent weight issue.

I wonder fleetingly if we’ll have any chance to be together while we’re here this weekend, or will Georgie be watching me like a hawk?

Joke is, I know my wife had a thing for Alex. I don’t mind, but I’d hate to think of her flirting with him when I’m not around. Perhaps Georgie and I are more alike than we might seem?

I go back to my own room, pull on my trousers, fasten my shirt, and go out into the common area, a small kitchen where the six of us used to socialise.

‘Hey,’ I call as I walk into the kitchen. ‘Hello, gorgeous!’ I say to Maddie, who I think is sitting alone, but as I turn I see my wife sitting next to her. Awkward.

‘Hey.’ Maddie blows me a kiss. She knows Georgie well enough to know that anything more would not go down well.

Both women are silent. Either they shut up the moment I walked in, or they hate each other. I’ve always found women’s friendships to be a mystery; they appear to like each other even when they don’t. I ask Maddie how she is and we do a small-talk catch-up.

I open the fridge and whistle at the sight of about ten bottles of champagne. ‘What the ...’

‘I know!’ Maddie says excitedly. ‘And there are canapés on a platter just under the champagne.’ She points to a huge plate covered in film.

‘So, champagne, ladies?’ I pick out a cold bottle of Moet from the fridge.

‘Did someone say champagne?’ Lauren appears in the doorway, running her fingers through her wavy chestnut hair. Georgie prickles at the sight of her.

Still holding the bottle, I edge towards Lauren and we half-embrace.

‘I thought you’d be in Hollywood making your next film,’ I say.

‘She isn’t a film-maker , she’s a writer ,’ Georgie snaps at me, then rolls her eyes in Lauren’s direction in an attempt to pretend she’s on her side. She stands up to hug her, when I know she’d rather slap her across the face.

They both tell each other how great the other one looks, with lots of smiles and fake compliments. Women are so fucking strange .

‘So, champagne?’ I reach for a glass.

Georgie looks doubtful.

‘What?’

‘I think we should wait.’

‘For what?’

‘You know what I mean,’ she replies tightly. ‘I feel uncomfortable. I mean, champagne? What are we celebrating, exactly?’

I put the bottle and glass back down on the counter, disappointed. ‘Mummy’ says I can’t have the nice food and drink. ‘The celebration is Daisy’s life, isn’t it?’ I offer, hoping she’ll buy this and I can drink the champagne without her disapproval.

‘We’re celebrating the life of a murder victim.’ I think Georgie is trying to frown, but the fresh Botox is kicking in so it’s hard to tell. ‘You have to admit it’s weird, Dan,’ she adds, wrapping her arms around herself.

‘No one is celebrating , Georgie,’ Lauren says, in a sanctimonious schoolteacher voice I know will grate on my wife’s every nerve.

‘We are all here because a podcast is trying to leech off old headlines by trying to prove Professor Montgomery didn’t kill Daisy.

It’s all about increasing listeners and making money. ’

‘Well, they’ve got their work cut out trying to prove his innocence,’ I say. ‘A bloodied hammer with his prints on, found next to Daisy’s body, in his beach hut?’ I shake my head. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but they haven’t a hope in hell of clearing his name.’

‘Exactly,’ Lauren replies. ‘And they must know that. It’s just a ruse to get listeners and make money.

Where can they even go with this, and apart from the damning forensic and circumstantial evidence, he was the only one with a motive.

Who else other than Professor Montgomery had any reason to want Daisy dead? ’

We all look at each other.

‘We all may have said it. People say it, don’t they?

“I wish you were dead” or “I could kill you”.

But no one here had a reason to go through with it,’ Maddie says, in that charming, slightly jumbled, childlike way of hers.

‘None of us really wanted her dead, did we?’ She’s staring at me.

Why do I feel like she’s looking right into my soul?

‘I agree, Maddie,’ I say, trying to shake off the idea that she’s smoking me out. ‘She wasn’t always perfect, but who is? And just because she could sometimes be a bit selfish, or thoughtless, doesn’t mean anyone would want to kill her.’

Lauren backs me up. ‘I agree. None of us would even think in those terms.’

‘Unless they were a psycho?’ Georgie offers, sliding her eyes over to Lauren. After all these years, I’d hoped Georgie had forgiven her and moved on, but there’s nothing my wife enjoys more than a long-held grudge.

‘I can’t stay here,’ Maddie suddenly announces into the silence. She’s standing up now, a determined expression on her face.

‘You can’t go. It’s late, and the weather’s getting worse. Wait until tomorrow?’ Lauren suggests.

Maddie’s standing against the table in a strappy party dress that shows off every curve of her body. I think about her full, naked breasts, the way they sway when she moves, and have to distract myself.

‘I don’t like it, I’m not used to being away from home. I miss my cat ...’ She looks almost tearful.

‘Come on,’ soothes Lauren, putting an arm around her. ‘Let’s make the best of it. It’s a chance to catch up over nice dinners and some drinks. Some people would give their right arm for a weekend like this.’

Maddie’s about to protest, but I’m bored of waiting and need a drink, so I open the champagne.

It pops and Maddie does that cute little squeal that she does, and I try so hard not to think about her lying on her bed, groaning with pleasure, as I take the champagne flute from the counter to catch the fizz.

‘They’ve thought of everything,’ I say, trying to focus on pouring the bubbles into the glass, and hand the first to Maddie with a wink.

‘Champagne is a nice touch, but I feel like I’m in an Agatha Christie play,’ Lauren says, then her face goes dark. ‘It’s just us, isn’t it – the housemates?’

‘The killer question,’ I joke weakly, handing her a glass of fizz.

‘I won’t stick around to find out the answer .’ Maddie takes the weak joke and runs with it. At least this time she got the joke.

‘I think Georgie and I will stick around, won’t we?’ I glance over at my wife.

Maddie and Lauren both give me an enquiring look. Her confused act is a bravura performance.

‘Oh ... I just realised, you two probably don’t know – Georgie and I are married. Yeah, we got back together, about ten years ago.’

‘Shit, that’s freaked me out, but it’s really great!’ Maddie enthuses, giving me a little smile.

‘Belated congratulations.’ Lauren looks Georgie up and down. ‘ Lovely news.’ She so doesn’t mean it.

‘Sorry we didn’t invite any of you to the wedding,’ Georgie replies, embarrassed. ‘But we never stayed in touch, did we?’

‘Under the circumstances, it was probably best we all went our separate ways,’ Lauren replies, always the voice of reason.

‘It feels odd getting together to celebrate Daisy’s birthday,’ Maddie mutters.

‘I agree. After all these years, we meet again for this.’ Lauren sighs.

‘But what is this ?’ I ask. ‘Have we walked into some kind of trap?’

‘I think it’s obvious,’ Lauren replies. ‘David Montgomery’s suicide has reawakened all the savvy armchair detectives desperate to find a scapegoat.’

‘I need a drink.’ I pour champagne into another two flutes, and the four of us move from the kitchen area towards the battered old leather sofa and chairs. ‘I feel like an intruder from the past coming back here,’ I say. ‘I wonder if students still live in this apartment?’

‘No, I saw on the website that some old halls are now used for visitors, which explains why they’re empty and so clean,’ Georgie remarks, circling the sofa like it’s a dangerous beast.

‘Is this the same sofa we had twenty years ago?’ I ask.

‘Ugh, wipe-clean pleather.’ She recoils, perching on the edge.

‘A prerequisite for any student accommodation,’ I joke. ‘These sofas have seen life.’

‘Ugh, revolting.’ Maddie almost mimics Georgie’s face, which I find amusing.

People are chameleons; they adapt quickly to the places and people around them.

And now Maddie’s back in her old habitat she’s doing the same thing she did twenty years ago: trying desperately to fit in.

‘So, what about Alex?’ she asks. ‘He told me he was definitely coming this weekend. Where is he?’

‘Alex is tied up with company business,’ Georgie says. ‘He’s flying in from San Jose tomorrow.’

I’m shocked. How does she know? ‘How do you know?’ I try to cover my irritation with a smile.

‘I know because he told me.’

This makes my hackles rise. I have to leave it, or we could end up having a full-blown row in front of the other two. Is that who she’s been speaking to on the phone, at night, in the garden? It would tie in with the time difference over in California.

I watch her as she sips her champagne neatly, like butter wouldn’t melt. What I’d give to know my wife’s deepest, darkest secrets.