Too Close For Comfort (2 page)

The words still felt like a splashy headline. I couldn’t quite connect with the emotion yet – but maybe that was a choice.

‘That’s terrible, Mia,’ said Roger, sincere, and I chided myself for my internal sniping. Real things were at play here. ‘Of course you must.’

‘I’ll be back on Tuesday,’ I told him, already rising from my seat. ‘Then we can really get started.’

‘Keep me posted,’ he said, his eyes continuing to track me. ‘Let me know if you need any support.’

I barely even heard him.

*

I dawdled. I stuffed my small, wheeled suitcase – standing upright in the corner of our bedroom like a leathery brown Dalek – with summer clothes, before panicking
about the countryside being cold and starting over. I shoved the fat tube of Colgate Total in my washbag then worried about Patrick being forced to go to work with breath like Satan, and walked to
the chemist halfway down the Holloway Road.

He must’ve sensed my nervousness, despite my insistence that I could handle it – that if anyone could handle this situation it was me. He’d barely left the police station
before nine at night these last few weeks, a fact I’d been increasingly grumpy about, but now he was bounding up the internal stairs, taking them two at a time. I could hear him from the
kitchen, his feet reverberating like thundering hooves through the cheap plasterboard wall of the new-build flat.

‘I caught you,’ he said, encircling my waist.

I put down the scalding herbal-tea bag I was dunking in a mug, and allowed myself the comfort of feeling his long arms wrapped around me. He’s lanky, Patrick, ankles and wrists bony
postscripts to his long limbs, constantly bursting forth from sleeves and trouser legs. It suits him, adds to the sense of him being perpetually in motion. I pulled myself closer to his lean chest,
liking the way my ear landed flush against his heart. I listened to its steady rhythm, the tattoo it was beating out just for me. Then I reluctantly pulled away. I reached up and pushed the floppy
cowlick of red hair out of his large brown eyes, seeing stress glimmering in them and wishing I had longer.

‘I’ve got to go in a sec,’ I told him, my feet not moving.

‘I know,’ he said, pulling out his car keys from the breast pocket of his crumpled suit jacket with a flourish. ‘I’m driving you to the station.’

I was touched by the gesture: workaholic didn’t even cover it with Patrick. It was work that had brought us together a couple of years before – that very same Christopher Vine case
I’d been dodging discussing with Roger. Gemma Vine was the last person to see her dad before he went on the run, taking down Patrick’s whole case against his evil paymasters in the
process. Patrick had wheedled his way into my trust, gradually convincing me that we needed to join forces to protect her and find out what it was she really knew. Christopher had ended up being
shot dead in front of her eyes, a memory that still haunted me, but we had done the best we could for Gemma. And not just that – somehow along the way we’d fallen in love.

‘I can take the tube,’ I told him. ‘The traffic’ll be terrible.’

He stroked my face. ‘Have you spoken to her again?’

‘She still sounds awful,’ I said, instantly guilty about the dawdling. ‘I would’ve waited until the weekend, but I feel like she was sounding down even before this
happened.’

‘It’s a lovely thing you’re doing,’ he said, looking down at me. ‘If the cavalry were coming, you’d definitely be my top choice.’

‘I have to. She’s my best friend. She needs me.’

I’d known Lysette since we were thirteen-year-old convent girls, giggling in the back of maths class over a copy of
Smash Hits
. Our lives had branched out in very
different directions, but she still felt more like the sister I’d always longed for than a mere friend.

‘Will he be there?’ he said, keeping his voice deliberately light. ‘If she’s in such a state.’

‘I don’t think so.’ I didn’t need to ask who he meant. He’d never met Lysette’s half-brother Jim – I myself hadn’t seen him for more than twenty
years, apart from via a few grainy images on Facebook I’d been ashamed of calling up – but the fact that he was my first love, that he’d hurt me so badly, made him some kind of
spectre for Patrick. ‘And even if he was . . .’ I leant upwards to kiss him. ‘He’s an irrelevance.’ I kissed him again. ‘A porky
irrelevance.’ I regretted the words immediately – they spoke of online stalking – but what person with functioning eyes hasn’t succumbed to that modern temptation?

‘I know,’ he said, nonchalant. ‘I just wondered.’

The truth was, I had, too. He’d moved close to Lysette a few years ago, but my visits had always been fleeting enough to avoid any danger of us bumping into each other. I’d pushed
the thought away as soon as I’d had it, and now I repeated the process.

I busied myself with the kettle. ‘It still hasn’t come,’ I said, matching Patrick’s nonchalance.

‘So are you going to do a test?’

‘Don’t want to tempt fate,’ I said, not turning round. I couldn’t face seeing exasperation or, even worse, pity. I poured more boiling water into my mug. ‘Do you
want a cup of something?’

I swung open the cupboard door, struck by how incongruous my overpriced bits of pottery still looked next to his chipped, caffeine-ringed bachelor mugs. I’d sold my South London flat nine
months ago and we were saving for a house. I’d tried to restrain myself from staging a coup, but the charity shop wouldn’t know what had hit it when we finally moved.

‘We should get going, shouldn’t we?’ he said. ‘I’ll drop you and then I’ve got to go back.’ I could see now that he didn’t have the bulging
leather man bag I got him for his birthday – a lawyer shouldn’t hump round their papers in a tatty rucksack the way he had been – which was a dead giveaway that this was no more
than a pit stop. He saw the irritation in my face. ‘You won’t be here anyway. Tonight’s not Blue Bloods and a takeaway.’

‘I would’ve cooked,’ I said.

‘Would’ve, could’ve. Hypothetical, darling. We’ll go out for dinner when you get back. Will you be here for Sunday?’

‘For Father Dracula?’ I said. Unsurprisingly, Patrick O’Leary wanted a Catholic wedding. Even though I’m baptised, lapsed didn’t even cover it – the thought
of all the fire and brimstone made me shudder. That’s probably why I’d come up with such a childish nickname for our priest, with his oiled black hair, which he insisted on slicking
into a widow’s peak. ‘No, I’m going to stay until Tuesday morning. I really need to spend some proper time with her.’

I could see Patrick’s disappointment writ large. His face was like a cinema screen, the truth projected straight onto it. He was four years younger than me, which in my more paranoid
moments makes me feel like a wrinkly Mrs Robinson. But his youth is about more than calendar years. He’s got a lovely innocence to him, the part of him which makes him fight tirelessly for
justice, even when the odds are laughable.

‘It’s important, Mia.’

‘I know, but so’s this. Next Sunday I’ll be first in the pew, I promise.’

‘Fine. And I’ll cook for you Tuesday night.’

‘I’d love that, but Cup-a-Soup doesn’t count as dinner.’

‘You underestimate me. My cheezy beanz win prizes.’ He fished his car key out of the pocket of his crumpled suit jacket.

‘I can’t wait,’ I said.

All I did that day was make promises I would never keep.

I swayed and stumbled down the fast-moving train, suitcase trailing in my wake, feeling every twist and turn of the track. Seats were in short supply; when I eventually
squeezed my way onto a square of four, my knees were virtually knocking into the skirt-suited woman opposite me. She barely registered my smiled apology, her eyes glued to her phone. I found myself
mirroring her, a Pavlovian hand reaching into my bag, but I stopped myself, pushing it back underneath the bulging client files I’d brought to work on during my impromptu absence. I would do
what I so often advised those clients to do: come off autopilot and be in the moment. The calmer I could be, the more calm I’d have to offer Lysette.

We passed through a thick ribbon of high-rise blocks and factories belching smoke, but then the urban sprawl gave way to something sparse and beautiful. Trees and fields, buildings as mere
punctuation – I even spotted a field of munching cows. I felt myself exhale from deep in my belly, then reminded myself I’d go mad if I couldn’t walk five minutes from my front
door and find a decent cup of coffee. I changed trains at Peterborough, swapping the long commuter express for a tiny local service. It was just four carriages long; a grey-haired guard walked the
length of it, chatting companionably to the smattering of passengers, all of whom he seemed to know.

When I got off, Lysette’s husband Ged was on the platform, his hand raised in a weary salute. Ged’s handsome, but in a way that would never work for me. A carpenter by trade,
he’s scruffy and crumpled, with a broad chest and kind eyes. He’s a stoner, a chronic under-achiever, but he loves Lysette and the three kids passionately – the fact that the
eldest two aren’t his has never been any kind of obstacle. He gave me a warm hug, the kind which smelt of rolling tobacco and eau de perspiration.

Eventually he released me. ‘You’re a complete star, coming down for her like this.’

‘Of course.’

‘Yeah, but we know how busy you are,’ he said, and I glowed a little.

His ancient estate car was parked right outside the quaint-looking station. He threw my bags in the boot and started the engine. As we drove towards Little Copping, the landscape was bathed in
the kind of ostentatious orangey-pink sunset that could have been a Hollywood special effect. The fields were village lush and green, the big houses that fringed the town built from that
reassuringly old, mellow grey stone that perfectly reflects the light. We passed one that was protected by tall wrought-iron gates. Even through the bars, I could see it was in another league. It
was huge and sprawling, an artful architect’s take on the classical houses that surrounded it.

‘Fancy,’ I said, trying not to think about the shaky plasterboard and dingy communal entrance that defined my new abode.

‘That’s the Farthings’ place.’

Lysette had told me she’d made friends with MP Nigel Farthing’s wife a couple of years ago, apologising for the blatant name dropping, but unable to hide her excitement at the
frisson of fame. Their kids had been hastily pulled out of private school as his star had risen, and she’d swiftly become a mover and shaker in the local community, a permanent fixture on the
PTA. He was a Conservative, a rising star in the Cabinet with pretensions to future leadership. He had movie star good looks, and had become a camera-friendly fixture on the news, constantly laying
out his case for compassionate capitalism with a heartfelt sincerity which gave even the haters a grudging respect. Now I could see he was the kind of MP with bulging family coffers: even the most
optimistic expenses claim wouldn’t give you the means for that pile.

I couldn’t help but gawp. ‘Is it even fancier inside?’

‘You betcha,’ confirmed Ged, with a certain ruefulness.

We were coming into the village proper now – there was the pretty Victorian church, its tall spire puncturing the burnt orange sky. I stared at it, feeling a jolt go through my body at the
thought of Sarah’s funeral. I still only knew the barest bones of what had happened, but we were so near the house that it felt unseemly to launch into a round of questions. We skirted the
cobbled square, then passed the whitewashed exterior of the local pub, The Black Bull. A few drinkers were spilling out across its outside lawn, enjoying the dying embers of the sun. Ged sped up
now, tearing down the country lanes with the terrifying confidence of someone who lived there.

The lights of their little cottage were blazing when we pulled up: I could see the pots of herbs that Lysette and Saffron nurtured obsessively lined up on the windowsill of the kitchen. I
thought that Lysette would rip the door off its hinges, throw herself into my arms, but there was no immediate sign of her. I stepped into the messy hallway, a jumble of coats of varying sizes
hanging off the pegs.

‘Is she upstairs?’ I asked Ged.

He put my bags down, nodded.

‘Tea? Water? Something stronger?’

‘Cup of something herbal. I’ll just say hello to the kids quickly. Is Saffron in bed?’

‘She is,’ he told me, busying himself with the kettle. Now we were here, I could see how muted he was, his movements slow and careful.

It was gone eight, so it was hardly surprising my god-daughter was in bed. Still, I couldn’t help missing her version of a welcome, which always made me feel like I was roughly as
magnificent as Beyoncé. Lysette’s two hulking teenagers, Finn and Barney, were lying on the floor of the low-ceilinged living room, hands firmly wrapped around their games consoles.
Their size always shocked me anew, like we’d wandered into a fairy story and they’d downed a wizard’s growth potion. The truth was that it gave me a jolt of failure, a visible
reminder of my age. The idea that I too was old enough for this – that by now I could have made an almost-man – still seemed ridiculous to me. Looking at them, I couldn’t deny
that forty was in spitting distance – that I’d already made some of life’s big choices without even noticing.

‘Hello there,’ I said, unexpectedly awkward, giving them a gauche little wave from the doorway.

It was sweet the way they broke away from their game, leaping up to hug me with genuine warmth. Lysette had done a great job. I hugged them back a little too fiercely, then stepped out.

It was time to go and find her.

*

She was a hump in the middle of the bed, encased in a tangle of duvet and pillows, tissues strewn around the periphery like lifeboats approaching a disaster. I made a pretence
of knocking on the open door, and she slowly emerged from the mess. She sat up, grabbed the box of tissues, scrubbing at her wet, swollen face as if it was betraying her. She looked raw and
unformed, as if her edges were light pencil lines, attacked by a rubber. I tried to control my expression, protect her from my shock. In twenty-five years of friendship I’d never seen her
like this. She was the rock, not the wreck.