Nicci French - What to do When Someone Dies

‘Gwen?’

‘Johnny!’

‘Don’t look so surprised – you didn’t think I was just going to let you disappear, did you? You can’t get away as easily as that.’

‘But how did you know where I lived?’

‘Is it a problem?’

‘No – it’s just I don’t remember telling you.’

‘I heard you give your address to the taxi driver that night. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

‘Everything’s a mess. Maybe we should go out for a drink instead,’ I said wildly.

‘You’ve seen how I live. Now I’m going to see how you live,’ he said, and stepped over the threshold. ‘It doesn’t look that messy.’

‘I was about to go out.’

‘It looks to me,’ he said, entering the kitchen as if he owned it, ‘as if you were about to make a nice little supper for one. Shall I pour us some wine?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Or yes – yes. Why not? Just half a glass.’

‘So, you like jazz, do you?’

There were envelopes lying on the table with my name on them and I clutched them, crumpling them in my fist. And, oh, God, there was a photograph of me and Greg attached to the fridge by a magnet. I lurched across the room and stood in front of it. Or maybe it didn’t matter if Johnny saw it – did it? I couldn’t think. My brain fizzed and sweat prickled on my forehead. ‘Jazz?’ I said stupidly. ‘Yes.’

My eyes flicked nervously around. There were so many things in this room that could give me away. For instance, lying on the window-sill, and pushed into the frame, were several postcards bearing my name, or even my name and Greg’s. Lying on the floor, just beyond Johnny’s left foot, there was the bit of paper that had been pushed through my door: ‘Where are you, what are you doing and why aren’t you answering my calls? RING ME NOW! Gwenxxxx.’

And then, suddenly, there was the sound of the telephone ringing – and if the answering-machine picked it up someone would be saying loudly and insistently, ‘Ellie, Ellie? Pick up, Ellie.’

‘Just a minute,’ I croaked, and dashed into the hall to pick up the phone.

‘Yes?’ I said. From where I stood, I could see Johnny examining the photo of me and Greg on the fridge.

‘Ellie, it’s me, Gwen.’

‘Gwen,’ I said idiotically. Then, to cover up, I said it again, neutrally, as if I was explaining my identity to the caller: ‘Gwen here.’

‘What? This is Gwen.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Can I come over?’

‘What? Now?’

‘The thing is, it’s Daniel, and I wasn’t going to confide in you because of, you know, everything, but then I thought it wasn’t fair on you or me, because after all -’

‘Hang on. Sorry. Listen. You have to come over, of course you do, but give me half an hour.’

‘If it’s a problem…’

‘It’s not.’ Fuck, was he going to look at the postcards now? ‘Half an hour, my dearest friend. Got to go. ’Bye.’

I slammed down the phone, but picked it up again and left it off the hook so nobody else could call. Then I tore back to the kitchen.

‘I can’t be long,’ I said to Johnny, putting my hand on his shoulder so he turned away from the postcards on the window-sill. ‘Come and sit in the living room to finish your wine.’

‘Who’s the guy you were with in that photo?’ he asked, as we sat down – he on the sofa and me in the chair, and oh, no, no, no, the chart on the table just beyond him. Couldn’t he see? Even from here, Milena’s name, in capitals and neatly underlined, throbbed in my field of vision.

‘Someone I used to know.’

‘He looks familiar. Could I have met him?’

‘No.’

‘Is he why you’re so evasive?’

No point in beating round the bush. ‘Yes. I’m sorry, Johnny. The thing is – and I should have said this before – I’m not ready for another relationship.’

‘So that’s it?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You think you can behave like that and get away with it?’

‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

‘You’re all the same,’ he said, standing up. Now he was even nearer the chart. I willed him to look my way and he did, resentment burning in his eyes.

‘I’m not coming back to work,’ I said. ‘It was all a mistake. So you won’t have to see me again.’

‘I felt sorry for you. You seemed so sad.’

‘Johnny…’

‘I thought you liked me.’

‘I do.’

‘Women are so good at pretending. Like her. Milena.’

‘I don’t think I’m like Milena in any way,’ I said. ‘We’re opposites.’

‘That’s what I thought, too, when I met you,’ he said. ‘Maybe that’s why I liked you – you seemed calm and kind. But I was wrong. You’re both actresses. You take on roles.’ I stared at him, panic flowing through my veins. ‘I’ve seen the way you are with Frances – Ms Capable. You led her on and made her depend on you; she thinks you’re her friend. Milena could do that too, be all things to all people. Everything was a mask. You thought you’d got a glimpse of the real Milena and all of a sudden you understood it was just another mask. I’ve never forgotten one time when she was talking to a very nice Muslim man about Ramadan, which had begun that very evening, and he was explaining how he couldn’t eat after sunrise or before sunset. She was so sympathetic and intelligent about it that I thought I was seeing a new side to her. Then an hour or so later, when we were together at my flat, she went on this extraordinary rant against Islam and its believers. She was so witheringly contemptuous of the man she’d been so sweet to. It was like a window into her soul.’

‘Johnny…’

‘I said to myself then that I should kick her out, that she would only bring me grief. Of course I didn’t, though: she stayed all evening and all night and I made her eggs Benedict for brunch.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Never believe women. Especially when they’re being nice to you.’

‘That’s not fair,’ I began. But I didn’t have time to argue with him. Gwen was on her way, the real Gwen. ‘You should go,’ I said.

‘I haven’t finished my wine.’

‘I really think you should go.’

‘Let me cook that meal for you.’

‘No.’

‘You’re lonely and I’m lonely and at least we can give each other -’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been fair. We can’t give each other anything.’

‘Dumping me, dumping Frances, moving on. That it?’

‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘We weren’t married. We slept with each other twice. It was a mistake. I apologize. Now you have to go.’

He put his glass down on top of the chart. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Right.’ He stared at me. ‘You’re not how I thought you’d be.’

Three minutes after Johnny had left, Gwen arrived. She burst into tears on the doorstep and I pulled her into the house, shut the door and hugged her until her sobs subsided. ‘I’m such an idiot,’ she said.

‘What’s he done?’

‘Nothing.’ And she gave a long, disconsolate sniff.

‘Come and tell me about this nothing. I’ll make us supper, unless you’ve eaten already. Wine? I’ve got an open bottle.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Tell me, then.’

‘He was with this woman for ages and she went off with one of his mates. It took him ages to get over it. You’ve met him – he’s such a big softie. Anyway, she got in touch with him because that relationship’s over. He’s with her now, “comforting” her. I think she wants him back.’

‘He told you all this?’

‘Not the last bit.’

‘Does he want to go back to her?’

‘He swears it’s me he wants. But I don’t know whether to believe him. You know my luck with men. Can I have a tissue?’