Elaine Bedell - About That Night

‘Yes. We had some of Culone’s food in the Green Room, where we entertain guests before the show. Ricky went in to say hello. I think he was trying to put Paolo at ease. To praise his food and sort of lull him into a false sense of comfort.’ Elizabeth shrugged apologetically as if to distance herself from the sheer cynicism of the move, although it had actually been her idea.

‘And so others might’ve eaten the food, in the Green Room?’

‘I’m not sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the team had some. We don’t pay our junior researchers much. They mostly live off scraps.’ Elizabeth pulled a face at Sergeant Rafik and was delighted to see him try to hide a smile. DI Watson’s expression was stony.

‘We’re running tests on all the food that’s been left over. We’ll have to interview everyone on your team as well.’

‘Really?’ Elizabeth sat up straight. ‘Is that honestly necessary?’

The DI put down her pen. ‘Yes, it is. But they don’t need to come in here. We’ll come to your offices this afternoon and talk to them individually.’

‘Well, I guess you’ll have to talk to Matthew about that…’ Elizabeth realised her boss’s attempts to keep the network out of this were hopelessly optimistic. ‘I guess he may want someone from Legal there.’ She looked at the DI anxiously. ‘Can I ask, do you know the results of Ricky’s hospital tests?’

The sergeant cleared his throat. The DI looked down at her pad, as if considering something, and then looked up at Elizabeth. ‘Not all of the results, no. But we’ve got reasonable cause for concern at this stage.’

Elizabeth felt sick. The colour drained from her face. ‘Concern about what?’

‘It would seem from all the tests so far that Ricky Clough did not die of natural causes. In fact, it appears that his seizure was the result of a highly toxic substance in his bloodstream.’

Elizabeth gripped the arms of her chair, her knuckles whitening.

DI Watson leaned back in her chair. ‘I’m afraid, Elizabeth, we have very good reason to believe that Ricky Clough was poisoned.’

When Elizabeth staggered out of the police station an hour later, the smoky purple sky was threatening rain. DI Watson had let her go after some very detailed questioning about the studio schedule and routine. She’d asked Elizabeth to produce an exhaustive list of all the people present, from the camera crews, the sound guys, the lighting team, to all the production staff – anyone who might have had direct access to Ricky Clough. Elizabeth supplied it all, her mind whirring with obscene possibilities: could it have been the cameraman who’d been shouted at by Ricky once too often? Was it the make-up girl who used to service Ricky on her knees in his dressing room? Was it a prank gone wrong from the sound guys, who every week had to clear the wax out of his earpiece? Who on earth would do such a thing, to Ricky Clough, the king of entertainment?

She walked slowly towards Café Cecile, her usual meeting place for lunch with Hutch. They’d been seeing each other for nine months now, but still in secrecy. Hutch was beginning to get increasing recognition on the street; his football show was becoming very popular. He was now getting invited to every celebrity party, gallery opening and first night. He was witty, he was tall, he wore mostly black, he suited a baseball cap, he stayed late and drank a lot – he’d won his place on the A-list. He also went to most of these events alone, which made him popular with every hostess, because although it was well-known that he was married – to a sports PR girl he’d met when he still lived in Manchester – her own work commitments seemed to entail her spending most weekdays up north.

Elizabeth was wearying of the subterfuge. She’d initially gone along with the secrecy, had even found it exciting: slipping into his flat through the car park’s side door, leaving restaurants minutes apart, walking in opposite directions. Only her sister Vic knew about the affair – she hadn’t even told Lola. She’d been swept up in the giddiness of being adored – it had been a great solace after the break-up with Jamie. Hutch seemed fascinated by her, it was very gratifying: she felt clever and self-confident in his company. He was interested in her job, asked lots of questions, watched all her shows, minutely observing. He’d told her from the beginning that his marriage was over, they were living separate lives – he was simply waiting for the right moment. But here they were, nine months later, apparently still waiting for his right moment, and in the last few weeks Elizabeth had begun to believe that his right moment might never come. She was fed up with hiding in the shadows. She wanted a relationship that could be public, open, lasting. She wanted to be loved, enough.

That was what Jamie had said inside Marylebone Town Hall a year ago: I don’t love you, enough.

He had been waiting for her as she came through the town hall doors, standing alone and apart, unfamiliar in his grey suit, his shaggy blond hair newly washed and combed. He looked very pale and grave. Elizabeth held out her arms to show off her ridiculous apricot dress and did an apologetic mock pirouette. But Jamie didn’t smile. Instead, he grabbed her hand and pulled her with him out of the nearest door and into a municipal corridor. Portraits of former councillors, all of them men, gazed sternly down at them with their heavy chains of office.

‘Jamie… I… I’m sorry.’ Elizabeth’s heart was pounding against her ribs.

Jamie looked at her, surprised. ‘You’re sorry? What…? Oh, for being late? It doesn’t matter.’ He now looked at his feet and she noticed he had new shiny shoes. ‘Elizabeth, I…’

She suddenly felt she couldn’t breathe. She leaned against the wall. He must know! Perhaps dishonesty was like a scent; it lingered around your ears, on your neck, so that when he kissed her, he could smell her treachery? Surely, now, she had to say something? What if Vic was wrong? Perhaps it would be better to confess.

‘Elizabeth, I’m so sorry.’ His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. Unconsciously, she leaned in to hear him. ‘I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think we should do this.’ His breath came in gasps. ‘I don’t want to marry you. I’m so, so, sorry. I… I don’t think I love you. Enough.’

Elizabeth reeled back as if struck and her knees buckled; she slid slowly down the wall to the floor, still clutching the stems of her disintegrating bouquet. Enough? What did ‘enough’ mean? Jamie knelt beside her.

‘Lizzie, listen to me. I know you hate me right now. But I think, once you’ve had time, you’ll realise I’m right… We’re just doing this because the alternative seems so scary. But it’s not the right thing to do, Lizzie. We don’t love each other enough, we’ve just got used to each other. And that’s not the same thing.’

Elizabeth’s head sank to her knees. Suddenly, she felt very tired. She realised she hadn’t eaten anything. She wanted to curl up in a ball on the municipal floor and make everything disappear. But Jamie was still talking, low and urgently, in her ear. She couldn’t make it stop; this torrent of words from him, they kept on coming.

‘I know this is all my fault. I know I suggested we got married. I thought we needed to change something and that marrying would do it. But I’ve been very unhappy for a long time, Lizzie. You’ve been too busy to notice it. We’ve stopped talking. But I’ve been feeling very lonely and confused. And stupidly, I thought we’d sort things out by getting married and having kids. But as the days went by, I realised it was just a sticking plaster. And that isn’t right – that’s not what marriage should be. I kept thinking I’d say something these last few weeks, but I wasn’t brave enough, I suppose. But I can’t do it. I can’t go through with it. I’m still unhappy. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.’