Page 57

Chapter 56

Margot

My head is swimming. I can’t focus on any one thing at a time. I look at my watch to remind myself what day of the week it is. Wednesday, apparently. The last day of what has been a pretty shitty month. It feels so much longer than three days since Nicu left with the kids. My family, the three people closest to me but whom I have pushed away for so long, are now all I can think about.

I check my phone. None of them have messaged me today. Tommy and I have had the occasional Snapchat, but Frankie’s ignoring me. Nicu won’t answer my phone calls, insisting he only wants to communicate by text until he’s ready to talk. I’ve asked myself if I could forgive him for cheating and I don’t know if I could. Yet I’m hoping that’s what he’ll do for me. I need him to know I’m sorry. But each time I type those words in all their variations and press send, they go unacknowledged.

The three of them are staying at the home of Nicu’s dance partner Kristina and her wife in Milton Keynes, about forty minutes from here. He drives the kids to school each day before catching a train to London to rehearse for Strictly , and then he’s back in time to pick them up from school. I volunteered to help while we’re in this transitory period but he offered a firm ‘no thanks’.

As I lie on this empty bed I realise that, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I am completely alone. I didn’t understand how much I’d miss the chaos and mess that comes with having a family until I threw it away. Not even my double dose of antidepressants or alcohol is diluting the pain.

Anna has been in contact, which is kind of her, considering the way I left things. But I’ve not replied to her texts and voice notes and I didn’t answer the door when she called earlier. I’m not punishing her for taking Liv’s side, I’m just too ashamed to face her. So I remain hidden behind closed shutters like a modern-day Miss Havisham.

I’ve downed a bottle and a half of Pinot Grigio this afternoon, and the more I drink, the angrier I feel towards Liv. No matter what Anna says, I’m convinced it was Liv who made that video of me kissing her husband and sent it to Nicu. The number of ways she has screwed me over is as long as her hair extensions. She’s plagued me with hate mail, interfered in my relationship with Frankie, she’s driven subtle wedges between Anna and me, and now this.

Liv should have had the decency to confront me about coming on to Brandon, woman to woman, not break up me and Nicu. Yes, I’m partly responsible, but I will go to my grave convinced Brandon was leading me on.

I know I should sleep it off and tomorrow, with a sober head, come up with a plan to rescue my marriage. But the longer I wait, the harder fear grips me. What if tomorrow is too late? What if I’m giving Nicu too much time to dwell on what I’ve done? Perhaps if I turned up unannounced on Kristina’s doorstep today, I could persuade him to talk this through? I might just say the one thing that makes him realise we can resolve this. It’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it?

I sit up, wait for my head to stop spinning, shower, then throw open the wardrobe doors. I can’t arrive overdressed and have Nicu think his absence has had no effect on me. So I slip on a dark pair of trousers and top, apply a minimal amount of make-up and a handful of sprays from a bottle of Chanel Coco Mademoiselle, Nicu’s favourite. The orange, jasmine and bergamot notes cling to my neck. Then I head downstairs and guzzle two cups of industrial-strength black coffee to sharpen my mind. Finally, I’m ready.

Once inside my own car, I take a few swigs from a canister of water that’s been in here for days. It’s warm and musty but I need to dilute the wine still coursing through me. On Nicu’s insistence, we’ve had this electric vehicle for two years now and I still don’t have the first clue how to charge it. I think there’s enough power to get me to Milton Keynes and back. I wind the window down, fill my lungs with fresh air and set off to save my marriage.

I’ve only just passed a road sign informing me I’ve left the village when I spot a familiar figure running up ahead.

Liv.

There’s nobody else around here who runs in skintight outfits or who has the figure of a street light. So even from behind, I know it’s her. I gently press the brakes and glare at her. Her hair is tied back into a ponytail and she is wearing a pair of large over-the-ear headphones that I assume cancel outside noise. They, along with the whisper-quiet engine of this car, mean I doubt she knows there’s anyone behind her. There are no paths on either side of this road, only verges.

I’m drawing closer to her, the so-called friend who destroyed my life with one text. Everything has turned to shit because of her. I feel the rage gradually building inside me. And slowly, I accelerate.

I glance into the rearview mirror to check no one is following me. But it’s just Liv and me on this road. I apply a little more pressure upon the pedal and the car speeds up, then its sensors beep, warning me I’m too close to an object. I press a button to override the automatic braking system and pull wide so that a third of the car is on the other side of the road, close enough to brush up against her and scare the hell out of her. But before I get the chance to think twice, it happens. I clip her.

Liv flies off the road like a skittle hit by a ten-pin bowling ball. I’ve knocked her into a ditch.

It wasn’t the plan, but after the initial surprise, I burst into laughter. And the rush of adrenaline that soars through me is immeasurable.

I slow down, glancing again into my rearview mirror, waiting for her to appear, caked in mud, clambering to her feet and wiping herself down. There was a good rainfall last night, so I bet she’s soaked to the skin.

Only there’s no sign of her.

I slow the car to barely a crawl. Perhaps she’s a little dazed and is taking a minute before she rises to her feet like Lazarus in Adidas. Still, nothing.

So then I stop and wait. She is still nowhere to be seen. I hang around a little longer, and gradually, a sense of dread wells up inside me.

‘Get up you stupid cow!’ I shout aloud. ‘Come on! Stop being so dramatic.’

Two interminably long minutes pass in which a car appears ahead and I spread out across the passenger seat so as not to be spotted. When it passes, I manoeuvre my own car into a three-point turn and drive, stopping at where I clipped her. I look out from the driver’s window and spot a pink and silver trainer lying on its side on the verge.

Not even the strongest coffee will sober you up as quickly as the realisation you might have just killed someone. Instinct is telling me to get the hell out of there, but my controlling side warns me I can’t leave until I know for certain what’s happened. So I exit the car and walk slowly across the road.

And there I find her. Liv is lying face up, half her body in the watery ditch, half of it out. Her arm is unnaturally bent backwards and her head is resting against a wooden fence post. Blood seeps from a gash to her forehead.

‘Liv,’ I say. ‘Are you alright?’

There’s no response. I repeat her name. Then I say it again, waiting for a spark of life to ignite inside her. But there’s no flicker of animation.

All I know about first aid is what I’ve seen on TV, so I search for a pulse in her wrists, then her neck. There’s nothing. I even place my palm in the centre of her chest to find a heartbeat. But she is completely motionless.

I think I’ve killed her. I think I have bloody well killed her.

I steady myself against the fence post as the ground beneath me gives way. Then, when I’m able to, I hurry back to the car and drive.