Nicci French: The Memory Game

I looked over Claud’s shoulder at Barry who was looking bored. Obviously not a book lover.

‘But I wasn’t at the party, Claud.’

‘Yes, I know. Theo told me all about it when I came back from India. This is the bit that isn’t in the novel. It’s just too serendipitous to be credible in the tightly organised structure of the book I’m writing. As you say, you were not on hand at the party in order to provide the crucial alibi. Yet when Gerald Docherty walked across the bridge over the Col on Sunday the twenty-seventh of July on his way to help dismantle the marquee, you were there, resembling Natalie. Not only had you provided an even more effective distraction from Natalie’s resting place, you had given me an alibi so perfect that I could never have constructed it for myself. You were, quite unconsciously, my fellow-artist in creating a perfect deception.’

‘Why did you marry me, Claud? Why did you marry me and have children with me?’

For the first time Claud looked surprised.

‘Because I fell in love with you, my darling. I’ve never ever loved anyone else. I’ll always love you. You’re the one. And I wanted to make you love me. The only flaw in the plan was my inability to keep you in love with me. Everything proceeded from that failure.’

‘And you were prepared to sacrifice Alan for your own survival. Was the note you planted really by Natalie or did you fake it?’

‘It was a note Natalie sent me. I only had to tear the paper to remove the “Dear Claud” or words to that effect at the beginning. I wasn’t sacrificing Alan. You’ve always talked about his theatrical nature. I saw the way events were moving and gave them a small nudge. He embraced the role by confessing. And from what you tell me, I assume he has never been happier. I’m not proud of it, though, if that’s what you mean. I’m afraid I saw it as a way of getting you back and that may have blunted my powers of reasoning. That was the flaw, wasn’t it? You realised that if Alan was innocent then I must have planted Natalie’s note in his diary.’

Claud leant forward and his voice dropped to little more than a whisper.

‘Do you want to hear my one regret, Jane?’ I didn’t reply and made no movement. ‘If you had discovered this when we were still married…’ Claud frowned and shook his head. ‘I don’t mean married, I mean when we were together, really together, then you would have understood. No, don’t say anything. I know that you would. There’s just one more thing I want to say to you, because I know that you’ll never come to see me again. That’s all right, Jane. I don’t mind any of this. All that matters is that I still love you. You haven’t said what you think of me, and maybe that’s the best I can hope for from you. Just remember, Jane, the family and our two boys, that’s my gift to you. You will always live in the world I made for you.’

I touched my name tag. As Barry led me out, I avoided catching Claud’s eye. Neither of us spoke.

Griffith led me back through the corridors to the front door. He held out his broad hand.

‘Goodbye Mrs Martello. If it’s of any consolation to you, I…’

‘Goodbye. Thank you.’

I stepped outside, and the door swung shut behind me, closing with a muffled click. While I had been inside, the day had changed. The sun shone in a sky that between its strips of clouds was almost turquoise. The few dry leaves that still hung on the small trees fringing the path gleamed. I pushed my hair back with both hands, and tipped my face towards the light, and stood with my eyes closed in the warm air. After a few seconds the roaring in my head quietened. ‘That’s it, Natalie,’ I said out loud. ‘That’s finished.’ Then, ‘I wish you were still here with us. My sister. My friend.’

Slowly, I walked down the shallow paved steps, between the low hedges and neat, empty flowerbeds, then stopped again. In the car park a tiny figure in a bulky dufflecoat, with a pointed hood like a pixie’s, was twirling in a shaft of sunlight. She stopped, tipped, then sat down abruptly while her world went on spinning. A young man with shaggy blond hair and a thick sweater hanging down under his beaten-up leather jacket ran towards her, picked her up, and threw her high into the air. Fanny squealed with laughter, her hood falling back and a cloud of bright hair flying loose. Robert threw her up again, then lowered her gently onto the tarmac, and stood holding her by the shoulders.

Caspar and Jerome walked towards them; they were talking earnestly, and at one point Caspar stopped and put his hand on Jerome’s arm. They joined the other two, and Fanny slipped her hand into Caspar’s, tilting her pale solemn triangle of a face up to his, saying something. Jerome pulled her hood back over her wild hair.

Then they saw me and stopped talking. They turned towards me and waited: three tall men and a little girl. I took a deep breath, and I walked down the steps to join them.

Nicci Gerrard was born in June 1958 in Worcestershire. After graduating with a first class honours degree in English Literature from Oxford University, she began her first job, working with emotionally disturbed children in Sheffield.

In the early eighties she taught English Literature in Sheffield, London and Los Angeles, but moved into publishing in 1985 with the launch of Women’s Review , a magazine for women on art, literature and female issues. In 1987 Nicci had a son, Edgar, followed by a daughter, Anna, but by the time she became acting literary editor at the New Statesman her marriage had ended. She moved to the Observer in 1990, where she was deputy literary editor for five years, and then a feature writer and executive editor. It was while she was at the New Statesman that she met Sean French.

Sean French was born in May 1959 in Bristol, to a British father and Swedish mother. He too studied English Literature at Oxford University at the same time as Nicci, also graduating with a first class degree, but their paths didn’t cross until 1990. In 1981 he won Vogue magazine’s Writing Talent Contest, and from 1981 to 1986 he was their theatre critic. During that time he also worked at the Sunday Times as their deputy literary editor and television critic, and was the film critic for Marie Claire and deputy editor of New Society.

Sean and Nicci were married in Hackney in October 1990. Their daughters, Hadley and Molly, were born in 1991 and 1993.

By the mid nineties Sean had had two novels published, The Imaginary Monkey and The Dreamer of Dreams, as well as numerous non-fiction books, including biographies of Jane Fonda and Brigitte Bardot.

In 1995 Nicci and Sean began work on their first joint novel and adopted the pseudonym of Nicci French. The novel, The Memory Game, was published to great acclaim in 1997. The Safe House, Killing Me Softly, Beneath the Skin, The Red Room, Land of the Living, Secret Smile, Catch Me When I Fall, Losing You and Until It’s Over have since been added to the Nicci French CV. The Safe House, Beneath the Skin and Secret Smile have all been adapted for TV, and Killing Me Softly for the big screen.

But Nicci and Sean also continue to write separately. Nicci still works as a journalist for the Observer , covering high-profile trials including those of Fred and Rose West, and Ian Huntley and Maxine Carr. Her novels Things We Knew Were True, Solace and The Moment You Were Gone are also published by Penguin. Sean’s novel Start From Here came out in spring 2004.