Page 48 of You Lied First

C eline’s parents, I discover from continuing news coverage, live in a picturesque house in the country.

Even their floof of a cat is cute. All emotion aside, it’s a story the media, currently starved of anything more interesting to report on, is salivating over.

I’m staring into space catastrophising about where it’ll all end when my phone rings: Margot. She has never, ever phoned me.

‘Are you free to meet this evening? For a chat?’ she says after the preliminary pleasantries. ‘It’ll be good to see you.’

‘Sure.’ My stomach clenches with nerves. Has something happened? The phone? ‘What sort of time are you thinking?’

‘About seven? I’ll come to yours if that’s okay? I’ll bring nibbles.’ I notice the ‘I’ rather than ‘we’. If I was less anxious, I’d smile at the nibbles.

‘Okay. Seven. Sure,’ I say. ‘See you then.’

‘Looking forward to it.’

As seven o’clock approaches, I rattle around the house trying to see my humble home through Margot’s discerning eyes.

I clear all of the dishes from the rack and hide the washing-up liquid under the sink along with the dishcloth – as if the Forrests don’t use such things.

Then I pre-boil the kettle in case she wants tea with whatever ‘nibbles’ she’s bringing, though I’m rather hoping it’s wine o’clock not tea time.

The fact that she wants to see me alone makes me nervous – we’re all in this together, so why is she coming without Guy?

Does she have something to tell me about him?

She’s prompt. When I open the door and see Margot standing in the rain, her jacket hood pulled over her hair, the first thing I notice is that she’s lost even more weight off her face, and that does little to put me at ease.

‘Hey,’ she says, with an uncharacteristically nervous smile as she proffers a Waitrose insulated bag. ‘Forgive the wrapping, but I bring sustenance.’

She’s brought a chilled bottle of Sancerre, a tub of olives, a tub of tiny red peppers stuffed with soft cheese and a box of biscuits actually called Cheese Nibbles.

‘Well, I did promise nibbles!’ she says, and we laugh fragile laughs. I arrange everything on a platter, get out my best wine glasses and clumsily open the wine, then we move into the living room.

‘Lovely home,’ she says, and I shrivel inside myself. You could fit my entire house in the entertaining space of theirs.

‘Thanks. It’s enough for me. Anyway – listen – how’s Flynn? Mocks going well?’

‘Yeah. He’s okay,’ she says. ‘Obviously shocked about Celine, but he hasn’t questioned the timeline of when she actually went missing.’

‘Same with Liv.’

‘Good. It’s good we didn’t tell them.’

‘I agree. That was a good call of Guy’s. One thing we did do right in this whole sorry mess.’

I perch on the edge of the sofa with my wine glass and wish she would come out with whatever it is she’s come to tell me.

But she doesn’t reply. She picks up her phone and switches it off, rather theatrically.

Then she points to mine and mouths, ‘Sorry.’ I widen my eyes and cock my head at her – what on earth does she have to tell me?

But I do as I’m told, and only then do her shoulders relax.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Guy’s drilled it into me not to talk about anything with the phones on. I suppose we can’t be too careful. I was going to suggest we meet outdoors but …’ she nods to the rain sliding down the windowpanes.

‘Mmm,’ I agree. ‘Bit wet. Not to mention dark.’

‘The day ran away with me. As Guy takes great joy in reminding me, I’m on a tight deadline at work.’ She lets out a sigh. ‘So, look, I just wanted to come and see how you really are. Sometimes it’s hard for us to talk in front of Guy.’

I know what she means. When it comes to what happened, he’s all business, all action. Everything is done to his agenda; no time for the emotion of the situation.

‘I’m okay, thanks,’ I say. ‘I can’t believe Celine’s phone hasn’t turned up yet. I’m so sorry about that, Margot. I just … I don’t know what happened.’

She waves a hand. ‘Nothing we can do about it now.’

‘I’m on tenterhooks every day, though. Did you tell Guy?’

She snorts a laugh. ‘No. I’m not a masochist. But I agree – someone’s going to find it at some point. The question is, what’s on it? I never messaged her – did you?’

‘Nope. I had a quick look on her Instagram and she didn’t post anything that showed us, so there’s that at least.’

‘Well, let’s hope she wasn’t messaging my husband,’ Margot says, her lips pursed.

She catches my eye and I look away. ‘So, uh, how are you, otherwise?’

She takes a huge slug of her wine. ‘I’m surviving. It’s not easy, though, is it? I have moments when it hits me and I actually can’t believe what we did.’

‘I know! Same! I feel so bad for her, and for her family. They think she’s alive. They’re still hoping. That’s the worst bit.’

‘I know. I just can’t.’ She shakes her head and covers her face with her hand for a moment. ‘I mean, imagine it was Flynn or Liv missing. You’d be going insane.’

‘It was us or them, though, wasn’t it?’ I say. ‘Brutal choice, but – what was it Guy said?’

‘Collateral damage,’ Margot says bitterly.

‘It all feels like something I dreamed, or a horror movie I watched,’ I say.

Margot nods. ‘Yes, exactly! Speaking of which: do you dream about … it? Her?’

‘Oh my God. Every night! I dream that I’m burying her but she’s not dead.

She tries to get out of the grave and I push her back in and I’m throwing sand in her face and she’s blinking it away and she just keeps coming up at me.

’ I shudder. The feeling of throwing the sand onto Celine’s body is visceral.

‘I have one where she’s alive but we shove her in anyway and she’s begging us to stop.’ Margot pauses. ‘I hear her voice. It’s so real. And then I wake up and realise the real nightmare is actually my life. I can’t believe we did it, Sara. We buried a body. I just can’t process it.’

‘I’m here if you want to talk about it.’ I pause. ‘I mean, I have some experience. Mates’ rates!’

Margot smiles at my joke, then her face changes. ‘Really, though? Are there any techniques I can use? Because the memories are haunting me more than any ghost.’

‘Hmm. Well, the easiest one is reframing, I suppose. When negative thoughts pop into your head, like “we buried her”, try to reframe them as something like “she died of natural causes, and we gave her a decent burial”. Does that make sense? Try to tell yourself a more positive – kinder – story.’

‘Does it work for you?’

I laugh. ‘Not as much as I’d like.’

‘Well, thanks anyway. I’ll try anything.’ She looks around and lets out another sigh as her shoulders visibly drop and she sinks back into the sofa. ‘Thanks for letting me come over. There’s such a nice energy in your home.’

I look at her in surprise because my house is nothing if not humble, but then I understand what she’s really telling me: that the energy in her own house is not nice.

‘How’s Guy?’

Another huge sigh. I top up the wine she’s just finished and she nods her thanks.

‘He’s … Guy,’ she says.

‘I see.’

‘His coping strategy is staying busy and blustering through.’

‘Do you ever talk with him about how you feel?’

‘Guy Forrest? Talk about feelings?’ Margot’s laugh is tight.

‘No. He’s decided that we must put it behind us and move on, and so that’s what we do.

On we go: the Guy and Margot show! Oh, don’t get me wrong, he follows the news like a bloodhound – he’s in and out of my studio like a yo-yo, talking incessantly about the case.

But it’s as if it happened to someone else; as if we weren’t involved at all.

We sweep what actually happened under a great big carpet. Only …’

She shrugs then dips her head but not before I see her eyes shining with unshed tears. I think she’s going to pull herself together but then her face crumples and the tears start leaking through her hands. I scoot over and pat her back. I can feel the knobs of her spine through her top.

‘It’s okay. Let it out.’

I bite my lip, embarrassed that tears are gathering in my own eyes, too.

I’ve never seen Margot let emotion out like this, nor let herself be so vulnerable.

The back of my throat burns with the effort of holding back my tears.

After a few moments, she looks up, regaining control as she scrambles in her bag for a pack of printed tissues.

‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffs. ‘It’s just nice to be able to talk about it with someone who understands.’

‘I’m always here for you.’ I squeeze her hand and try to imagine what life’s like for Margot in that big house – with a husband like Guy.