Page 70 of We Live Here Now

69

Emily

“I’m not sure we should stay out too long,” Paul says to our small gathering at a corner table in the quiet pub. “No one wants to be driving the lanes in a blizzard.” It’s quiet in the pub, and outside, while the snow isn’t falling heavily yet, the flakes are getting thicker, sticking to the windows, creating an oppressive claustrophobia. There’s a claustrophobic atmosphere around this table too. The only people who’ve showed up are the vicar and Sally and Joe, and I couldn’t feel more uncomfortable if I tried.

I take a large sip of my red wine and watch Sally and Joe over the top of my glass. One of the girls he was painting at the studio is behind the bar, and she glances over at him occasionally with such longing I’m sure he must have slept with her. If Sally notices, she doesn’t mind. They’re sitting side by side, his hand on her thigh. His is a guest appearance, not a normal book group member, but he decided to stay when he saw I was here. Despite what he said at the party, is he thinking I’ll be his next conquest?

“I didn’t really enjoy the story.” I break the silence. “It was a bit grim.” I’d quickly finished “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” while Freddie had got his overnight bag together earlier. I wanted to see Sally, and the book club was the perfect excuse. She’s funny and charming and beautiful and has no idea that the man beside her murdered her. No wonder she was getting headaches in the house. She’s been separated from herself for a long time now and perhaps her body could feel it.

“And a bloody monkey,” Paul adds. “All very clever, but really? Not exactly satisfying.”

He hasn’t said a word about what happened at the party, and I’m glad. I’m trying my best to appear perfectly normal, and he seems to be believing it.

“It’s a classic though,” Sally adds. “First of its kind and all that. Although I’m not sure those ‘best twist you’ll read all year’ book blurbs on Amazon could get away with the killer being an escaped gorilla.”

“We should try something lighter next. Perhaps a rom-com. Cleanse the palate.” Paul glances sideways at me, clearly worrying that all the talk of murder might send me back to my paranoid suggestions. I was premature in thinking he’d forgotten what I’d said. Still. We’ll be moving soon and I’ll never see these people again.

“Good idea,” Sally says. “Murder stories stop me sleeping.”

“Are you okay, Emily?” Joe’s studying me, concerned. “You’re a bit pale.”

“Sorry, I do have a bit of a headache.” It’s surreal sitting opposite them. Perhaps he’s even persuaded himself that killing his wife was all a dream. They’re happy, anyone can see that. Happier than they were when she was constantly jealous back in the days Merrily Watkins described. That part of Sally Freemantle is stuck in my third-floor bedroom.

“Maybe it’s something in the house,” Sally says quietly, her brow furrowed. “I got a terrible headache there.” Joe leans across and kisses her, soft and sweet, and she looks so joyful and so does he. A quiet, perfect love, if unconventional. And all it took was a little murder. It’s hard to believe when I’m out of the house and she’s so clearly alive and well. Maybe the book is the rambling of a madman, and maybe Mrs. Tucker found it and read it and then dreamed Gerald’s death. Maybe Fortuna never killed him at all.

Too many maybes. Joe’s still looking at me thoughtfully as I pull my coat on and say my goodbyes, and I have a moment of panic that he can see right into my head.

You will die here. A warning.

Would he kill me too if he knew I knew? No. Because no one would believe me. There isn’t even a victim.

“I’ll drop you back now,” Paul cuts in just as I think Joe is about to suggest he do the same thing. “The weather’s getting worse.”

“I’m sorry about what I said at the party.” It’s freezing in Paul’s old car, the heater blasting out air that’s barely above the temperature outside, and the snow is turning to ice on the windshield. We’ve made small talk about the weather and Poe, but there’s been the elephant of my talk of Georgina’s murder between us. “Obviously I’d got carried away with my imagination. It was stupid and I’d had some wine and… well.” I shrug as if that’s enough of an explanation.

“Oh good.” The gears grunt as he speeds up along the road. “Freddie’s been very worried about you.”

“Freddie?” I look across at the old man, surprised. “What’s he said to you?”

“Nothing very much. He was talking to me at the party. Said you’d still been having some unusual experiences in the house.”

“He shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m a vicar, Emily, people talk to me. That’s the main part of my job, hearing the problems of others and trying to help them.”

“We don’t need your help. I’m fine.” I’m quietly seething, part anger and part embarrassment that they’ve been whispering in corners about me. “And it’s not like he’s perfect himself. Not by a long shot.”

“In the words of Billy Wilder, nobody’s perfect.” He looks across at me. “But he loves you. And I think you’re a lovely person who’s been through a lot, and we are both concerned for you, that’s all. He’s worried you may have some anxiety and depression after your accident.”

“What is it you’re all so worried I’m going to do?” I stare at him as he pulls into the drive. “Kill myself maybe?” He looks sheepish in the gloomy light as the car comes to a halt and I realize that’s exactly what he was worrying about. The last part anyway.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter and get out of the car, slamming the door behind me, ignoring his pleas to listen. What does he know about me and Freddie? Nothing. Maybe I should tell him how Freddie hasn’t exactly helped any of my anxieties by getting back into gambling. But I won’t do that because I do my best to be loyal. Because I’m the better person. I hobble toward the house and don’t look back.