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  ‘Are you trying to turn me on?’ she asked.

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘You don’t want any breakfast then?’

  Actually, I was very hungry.

  ‘Since you come to mention it,’ I said. ‘I do.’

  ‘Okay.’ She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘There are bound to be some croissants in the freezer.... Coffee?’

  ‘Mm – please!’

  ‘Okay. Give me twenty minutes or so... I’ll be back.’

  While she was gone, I took stock of my surroundings in daylight. The soft green walls were painted in matt emulsion, the white picture rail held a huge Hockney photo-montage above the chest of drawers to the left of the bed, and there was an original marble fireplace opposite that reminded me instantly of graveyards. I wasn’t all that keen on being alone there if I’m honest, so I strained my ears to listen for the comforting sound of the plumbing, tracing the sound to Turner, running a tap in some distant kitchen and told myself that it really wouldn’t be all that long before she was back.

  She made a surprisingly good breakfast out of things in cold storage.

  Then she was keen to show me round the house.

  I hesitated. ‘I think I’d better have a shower first,’ I said.

  I stared at my clothes from the day before. I was completely unprepared for a weekend. I’d already borrowed a toothbrush last night, but with no clean clothes this morning, shower or not, I was worried about how I was going to smell.

  Turner followed my train of thought.

  ‘Help yourself to any of my stuff,’ she said. ‘I never wear half of it anyway. The clothes are in the wardrobe – undies in the top drawer.’

  I guess I looked dubious. I’d always been much too shy to make friends of the clothes-sharing variety... even Michelle – even, if I’m honest, Corinne.

  Turner decided that I needed to be taken in hand.

  ‘Here.’ She delved around and bundled some stuff onto the bed for me. ‘Try these. You look good in black. I remember.’

  It was an amazing house. Four floors (not counting the cellars). Huge basement kitchens with some of the ranges still intact. An oak panelled dining room with an octagonal glass ceiling and massively plumed flower arrangements. And a drawing room with a magnificent Persian rug in eggshell blue, coral pink and white, where there were big cosy leather sofas and chairs, and a TV set with a screen not much smaller than a lot of art-house cinemas....

  But she didn’t show me the attic.

  ‘What about the loft?’ I asked.

  ‘The loft?... Oh, that’s Mum’s old studio. I haven’t been up there for years. She goes up sometimes when she’s around. She’s got paperwork and stuff up there. I think it’s locked. I don’t even know if I’ve got a key.’

  She opened a door to her left. ‘This is my favourite room,’ she said.

  It was a music room, painted Wedgwood blue and housing a Steinway grand piano so glossy, you could have fixed your make-up in it.

  ‘Hell’s bells!’ I gasped, staring at this elegant monster. ‘Who’s the pianist?’

  ‘Me now,’ said Turner. ‘I guess.’

  It was hardly the sort of instrument anyone would own just to dabble on. Not unless they were very wealthy... But then, of course, it was becoming increasingly clear to me that Turner, or at least her family, were very wealthy indeed.

  ‘It was my dad’s piano originally,’ she said. ‘He had dreams once of being a concert pianist.’

  ‘Did he teach you to play?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Show me,’ I challenged.

  She looked shy, for once. ‘I’m a bit rusty,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll make allowances.’

  ‘Well, okay. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.’

  She went over to the piano and heaved the lid open. Pensively, she sat down and ran her fingers over the keys, taking a deep breath. ‘Okay then...’ she said.

  And then she began to play.

  I wasn’t prepared for the beauty of it. My past acquaintance with pianos had never extended much beyond school assembly uprights and the occasional TV concert strained through a three inch speaker and my prejudices against any music played in evening dress. I hadn’t the foggiest idea what Turner was playing. I just knew that it moved me. I sank into a chair by the hi-fi cabinet and closed my eyes.

  When the last note faded away, I didn’t want to accept that it was over.

  Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and looked at Turner. She looked back at me, a little bashfully – flushed.

  My feeling for her deepened to another level, overawed at what I’d experienced.

  ‘That was beautiful!’ Words were quite inadequate to describe how I felt.

  ‘Brahms,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?...’ I swallowed back the automatic Cockney rhyming addition of Liszt. I was starting to realise that I was going to need to keep a tight rein on the working class North/East Londoner chip on my shoulder here. ‘I don’t remember seeing a piano at your place in London.’

  ‘No. Adam didn’t like to be disturbed by my practising.’ She smiled grimly. ‘Thankfully, that isn’t going to be a problem anymore, is it?’

  I persuaded her to play something else for me.

  At 11am, she glanced at her watch.

  ‘I have to see our estate manager,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some papers to sign. Mum still trusts me with that... for the time being at least. I’ll be about an hour. You can come over there with me if you like.’

  I shook my head uncertainly. I guessed she wouldn’t want me tagging along on business with her. And anyway, I wanted to keep up the independent image I’d managed to project so far. I had the feeling she might despise me if I got too clingy.

  ‘I’ll be fine here,’ I said, keeping the doubt firmly out of my mind.

  Her eyes searched mine until she was assured that I meant it. Then she rewarded me with an approving smile.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘If you’re sure... Make yourself at home – Music – TV – coffee – Anything you fancy, just help yourself.’

  ‘I will – thank you.’

  She fascinated me; the way she could shift in an instant, from business woman to vamp to vulnerable little girl. There were so many personalities in one woman and all so different. Maybe we’re all like that to some extent, but Turner made a fine art of it. Pulling on a light grey plaid jacket now, she looked every inch the Lady of the Manor. She even felt respectable as she kissed me – a soft, gentle, but very hasty brush of her lips against my cheek as she headed for the door.

  ‘There are some keys here if you want to go out,’ she said over her shoulder as she left, pointing to a rather ornate looking hook beside the door where a mortice and Yale key dangled together from a single shared key ring.

  I strained my ears for the last sounds of her leaving – the creak of the door – the Yale lock clicking to.

  I didn’t hear the car engine starting, so I guessed that wherever she was going, she must be walking.

  Alone, I took myself into the silent drawing room and told myself I had nothing to fear.

  I was scared though, almost instantly. I went to the window to look out. It was a grey day, but brighter than yesterday. The clouds were breaking up a little and there were patches of watery blue in the sky. In daylight, I could appreciate the design of the garden at the front of the house. The drive swept into a large gravel circle by the front steps, sodden deep grey from the rain, and bordered with mature shrubs and trees and white and silver ground-cover plants, leading to a long lawn stretching to the boundary wall. It all looked pretty much as if it would look after itself, though I imagined there would be more grounds behind the house, and gardeners to tend them – probably some ancient retainer and a young lad or two to help with the heavy lifting.

  I realised as I pictured this that my image of British Upper Class life was stuck in some time-warp, based almost entirely on TV and films like ‘Brideshead Revisited’ and ‘The Go-Between.
’

  I felt completely out of my depth and suddenly, I really wanted to talk to someone back home.

  I’d seen the telephone in the study on my guided tour. I tried to get my bearings... out of the door, turn left, then right by the stairs opposite the music room.

  It was exactly the kind of study you would expect to find in a house like that – oak panelled and book lined, with a big fireplace to read by. There was a huge cosy looking armchair by the fire and an open copy of ‘The Flora and Fauna of East Anglia’ on the small table beside it. The desk was inset with leather and had an ancient swivel chair to match. The colour scheme inhabited the russet end of the spectrum and there was the lingering, faintly sulphurous smell of coal from the last time the fire had been lit.

  It all looked like a carefully laid out room in a National Trust property, though on closer inspection there were some paperbacks on the shelves – Susan Howatch, Anita Brookner, even some Ian Fleming. They’d been read too, I could tell by the faint creases down their spines.

  The phone was a modern enough model from British Telecom as well. It didn’t look as if I’d have to crank any strange knobs or shout too loud to get through.

  I tried Mum first, but she still wasn’t in.

  I tried home, hoping to speak to Kay but she wasn’t in either.

  Then I dialled Suzanne’s number, guiltily pre-fixing it with 141 so she wouldn’t know where I was phoning from.

  ‘Hi,’ said a weary voice, miles away in London.

  ‘Su?’

  ‘Oh, hi – Is that you Gill? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m just out of town.... got a rush job on....’ The lie came out so easily. I guess I’d prepared myself for it when I made a secret of my location. ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘I feel a bit weird. I think it’s the sleeping tablets. I’m okay though... well, you know... as okay as I can be, considering...’ I heard her voice tremble. ‘I thought you might be with Turner.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’ The relief in her voice was tangible. ‘How was she last night though? Is she mad at me?’

  ‘God no! Of course she isn’t! How could she be, after everything you’ve been through?’

  I don’t think Su believed me, and I wasn’t actually sure I believed myself.

  ‘Please, next time you see her, tell her I’m sorry about that answerphone stuff... I’m sure now that I must have imagined it, and I never meant to imply anything... Tell her I never said anything to the police, please... will you?’

  She sounded panicky, as if she was scared of Turner – a realistic fear maybe – if she thought her job was at stake.

  ‘Of course, I’ll tell her if you want me to,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure she’s not angry – truly.’

  Suddenly I was distracted. One of the numbers scribbled on the desk blotter was the one I’d just dialled. For a second I felt disorientated. I half wondered if I’d written it myself. In the twilight world I now inhabited, it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility. But I knew deep down that I hadn’t.

  ‘And anyway...’ I said, thinking on my feet. ‘Surely she’s phoned you today to see how you’re doing?’

  ‘No.’

  Maybe she’d meant to and got distracted.

  Or, more likely, she’d phoned Suzanne from here before, when she knew that Mary was out – as people do, when they’re conducting an affair.

  I stared at the number until it blurred and swam in front of my eyes.

  Suzanne was still talking. ‘If you see her... tell her...’ she said. ‘Tell her I’d love to hear from her, if she gets the chance.’

  ‘Sure. Yes, of course I will. You might see her before I do though.’ More bloody, pernicious lies. It just gets easier and easier the more you do it.

  But I’d never heard Suzanne sounding so anxious. All her super cool act was blown to ribbons. I felt very sorry for her.

  ‘Look love,’ I said. ‘See you on Monday, eh? We’ll talk then, okay?... Is Kay there?’

  ‘Yeah – I’ll put her on. Bye Gill – Thanks for ringing.’

  I heard her say ‘It’s Gill,’ as she handed the phone to Kay. Then I heard the sitting room door closing.

  Kay was furious with me. As I’d known she would be. The minute Su was out of earshot, she let me have it.

  ‘Where the fuck are you really?’ she demanded in a strange cross between a whisper and a shout.

  ‘In Suffolk, but please don’t tell Suzanne, I don’t want to upset her any more than she already is.’

  ‘Huh!’ she snorted. ‘And I suppose you’re with Turner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, well just forget all about your mates Gill, why don’t you? You just have a good time with your fancy woman while we get on with the grieving here, eh?’

  I don’t know why it still hurt when it was exactly what I was expecting. Criticism seemed to be all I’d heard from Kay ever since Turner came into my life.

  I felt guilty and angry in just about equal measures. It was an explosive combination.

  ‘Look Kay,’ I snapped. ‘Me being there wouldn’t bring Mary back, would it?’

  ‘No, but it might help people to know that you gave a shit.’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘Look, Kay, what is it with you these days?’

  ‘If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.’

  My patience was waning fast. ‘Oh, don’t be so bloody ridiculous,’ I snapped.

  ‘I’m serious Gill. If you can’t see what’s wrong with going off on a dirty weekend with that woman while Mary’s lying here in some mortuary, then you’re not the person you used to be.’

  Maybe I wasn’t – and maybe I was glad.

  ‘Not so much of a mug as I used to be, you mean,’ I retorted.

  ‘Yeah, well I’m not sure I like the new you very much.’

  I felt all emotion draining out of me. I couldn’t believe that we were tearing at each other like this. I felt totally numb... Then the anger began to creep back in.

  And I lashed back. ‘Look,’ I snapped. ‘I know you feel fucking guilty for not being there when Mary needed you. But the truth is you were too busy with your own life... And that isn’t my fault, is it? So don’t take it out on me! I’ll deal with my conscience and you deal with yours! And in the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d just get off my back!’ I didn’t like the nasty way my voice sounded as I said it. I wanted to apologise instantly, but something stopped me. I let the silence hang like a chasm between us.

  Finally Kay spoke, and she sounded wrecked. ‘I have to go,’ she said.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. My knee-jerk need to say I was sorry was sapping all of the strength out of me. But for once, on a point of principle I felt I couldn’t give in to it.

  ‘Bye then,’ she was saying.

  ‘Yeah – ‘bye.’

  I felt sick as Kay put the phone down, and I stared at the purring receiver for a long time before I replaced it at my end. I knew what she meant about not liking the new me. If I’m perfectly honest with myself, I didn’t like the new me very much either. But then, as Turner had pointed out to me, people tend not to get all that many Brownie points for being nice.

  I stood up, rubbing my hands together, chilly despite the thick, black sweatshirt Turner had lent me. I had some sort of idea of making a coffee. It seemed like a comforting thing to do for myself, though I didn’t fancy going down to that big, lonely old kitchen alone.

  I wondered about getting a book to read before venturing down there, scanning the shelves and noticing that one slim paperback was sticking out at an angle, as if it had been hastily returned to the shelf and not yet straightened by the cleaner. Feeling it tugging at my interest, I pulled it out from its neighbours... It was ‘Bonjour Tristesse’ by Françoise Sagan - A 1959 British edition bearing the iconic orange and white cover of a traditional Penguin soft back. I turned it over in my hands, curious to know who had read it last and wondering if the Birthday
card slipped between the cover and the yellowing rough paper pages of the text would give me a clue.

  The card, with a Picasso Guitarist and ‘To My Sister’ on the front, looked so old it didn’t occur to me to think that I might be invading anyone’s privacy by reading it, though I guess, in retrospect, I was.

  I backed into the fireside armchair, put the book down on top of ‘The Flora and Fauna’, and opened the card. Two sheets of blue Basildon Bond writing paper were folded inside. I held onto them while I read the bold handwriting on the left inner-face of the card.

  ‘My Dear Big Sis,’

  ‘I found this at a bookshop on the Charing Cross Rd and remembered all those wonderful French writers you loved so much when you were going through your ‘European’ phase back in High School.

  It seems funny now how naughty we thought they all were back then.

  I hope that you mayn’t have read this already. I expect you read much more traditional books now that you’ve become an English Lady.

  Have a Perfect Birthday my Darling Joyce. And give my love to your sweet, shy, adorable Stephen.

  All my love, Sylvia xxx’

  I knew immediately that this must be from Turner’s dead aunt. I was struck by how young and bubbly she sounded and sadness flooded through me at the tragedy to come.

  I unfolded the first sheet of writing paper. I think it pre-dated the card, though there was no actual date on it.

  ‘Dearest Joyce,

  How wonderful it all is here! So grey and dreary in such a quaint, HISTORICAL kind of way.

  I’ve been making like a tourist all week and my feet are like raw burger, but now I know all about Jack the Ripper and The Queen and The Tower of London and all of the GRUESOME things they did there (remember you must never cross Stephen or he’ll have your head chopped off, quick as a flash!)

  The college is wonderful. Such a buzz here! Everyone’s talking about Warhol and this new English guy called David Hockney. He talks with this quaint Yorkshire accent. I guess you’ll know him.

  My digs are VERY grim but there’s so much to paint hereabouts. The girl next door’s a hooker, she comes round for cigarettes and she seems sweet and knows all the good cheap eating places.