I don’t know why Saskia would think these flowers were an appropriate gift.
I hadn’t looked at them properly outside. Now I am staring down at them on my kitchen table and I can see they aren’t at all the sort of thing I would buy.
Everything is ugly and alien-looking. There are ornamental cabbages, which I hate, plus white pom-pom things, and orchids with thick purple petals and long red tongues that seem to leer. The worst ones though are almost black; with their spiky tendrils, they look like those fascination hats women wear to the races.
Black flowers! What an idiotic idea.
The entire bouquet makes me think about death. I rush to my bin and thrust the whole thing in there, head first. What on earth would have been wrong with some nice gerbera or some tulips?
I remember now that Saskia had another bouquet, which must surely have been meant for Melissa.
I had also been intending to go round with flowers, albeit from Tesco, rather than Petal and Vine. So those ghastly people have effectively scuppered my own apology.
Damn them.
A tear slides down my cheek again and I angrily swipe it away.
None of it was my fault. But I can’t imagine what Melissa must think of me. Getting drunk like some kind of teenager and being sick like that. Another hot burst of shame washes over me now.
I’ve never been someone who drinks very much. Growing up, we only had sherry in the house for occasional guests, so when I met Terry it didn’t occur to me that he would expect to go to pubs all the time and have wine with dinner. I hated when his face would get all red. He’d start talking too loudly and drape a heavy arm around my shoulders when we were out, as though I belonged to him. I never much liked his friends either. They were all a bit loud for my taste. Plus they all liked pubs just a little too much. In the end, I told him to go out on his own.
So I am the last person in the world who would ever drink too much and behave like that. It makes the cruel joke that was played on me even more savage.
I wipe another tear that slips down my face and look across at Bertie, who is fast asleep in his bed. Such a carefree existence. I envy him sometimes.
It’s then, out of the blue, that I have an idea. Instead of flowers, I’ll make my lemon drizzle cake. It was her favourite, after all. Who can resist a warm slice of lemon drizzle? She may not have needed my help with the catering yesterday, but this is different; a peace offering.
As I’m pulling on my pinny, my still-tender stomach gives a little ripple of protest. But I ignore it and set to work.
Before too long the kitchen is filled with comforting smells, but today the meditative nature of baking doesn’t work its usual magic. I still feel unsettled, ill-fitting in my own skin, and it’s as though my mind is filled with shadows.
When I am done, I look doubtfully at the cake cooling on the counter. Nothing went quite right. The cake feels heavier than it should, sagging in the centre. The colour is all wrong. Still, it is kindly meant. I’m sure Melissa will accept it in the good grace with which it is intended.
I tidy myself up in the hall mirror, breathing slowly, in and out, in an attempt to calm my jumpy heart. I sigh at my appearance; eyes baggy and skin the colour of porridge. But then I suppose I look like a woman who feels truly penitent, and that is as it should be. I’d dress in sackcloth and ashes if I could.
I walk around to the front door, holding the cake carefully, and knock sharply.
No one comes. But Melissa’s Range Rover is parked outside so she must be in. I ring the bell.
Still nothing. Looking up, I see that windows are open at the front. I’m sure someone is there. Maybe it’s just Tilly, but at least I can leave the cake and perhaps apologize to her at the same time.
When our friendship was at its zenith, I would sometimes bypass the front door and go through the garden gate and down to the kitchen at the back of the house. Then I noticed that it started to be locked, which I had to admit was a sensible security move when you live in a city.
Hesitating, I walk to the gate and gently push on the handle. It opens easily.
I’ll just pop the cake inside if the patio doors are open. I’ll find a piece of paper and write a note.
Coming into the back garden I spy some cigarette ends that haven’t been cleared up. I will deal with those when I come back out. There must have been an awful lot to do, cleaning up after the party. Another little puff of shame and humiliation spreads in my chest.
I go to the French windows and peer inside.
The light is shining on them so I can’t really see anything, but one of them is slightly open. Tentatively, I push it wider and step into the cool kitchen.
It is lovely in here. Melissa has such good taste. I hope she will forgive me. I was so looking forward to sitting here and drinking coffee with her again, like we used to.
I will leave the cake for her on the table. I simply cannot let things slide back to the way they were. Not when it seemed as though our bridges may be mended.
‘Coo-ee?’ I say, not too loudly. The air feels thick and unnatural, only punctuated by the ticking of the large railway clock on the far wall. It feels as though there is no living soul here. Melissa is not one for plants, or pets, though I’ve never felt the lack until now.
But there is a strangeness in the air I can’t identify.
I’m just about to place the cake on one of her beautiful granite counters when there is an indistinct but recognizably human noise from the other side of the kitchen, from just out of sight beyond the table. I swivel round so fast in shock I almost drop the lemon drizzle onto the floor.
Then I realize I can see the gold of Melissa’s pretty hair, tied in a ponytail, just beyond. She is kneeling down on the other side of the table.
‘Oh my goodness!’ I say. My heart is galloping uncomfortably fast. ‘What are you doing down there, Melissa?’
I come closer and see that she is crouching on her haunches, like toddlers do with such ease. Her hands are over her mouth. She is looking down at something just out of sight on the floor. Oh no, I do hope it’s not a spider or a mouse. I would go a long way to help Melissa, but I’m not sure I’m up to that.
‘What is it?’ I say gently, moving closer. ‘Are you …?’
The rest of my sentence is whisked away in an out-breath that seems to go on and on. I am aware of the thud and whoosh of my own blood.
‘Oh …’, I say, but it comes out as a strangled whisper.
There is a man lying on the floor in front of her.
It’s the one I saw this morning, dressed now, thankfully, his head turned away from Melissa. A heavy-looking stone implement lies at her feet on the floor and it takes a moment or two for me to understand that it’s the pestle from that ugly pestle and mortar set she went on about so much.
My brain is slow to make sense of this strange scene. I look at the sticky redness on the side of the man’s head for several minutes before I connect it with the pestle and with Melissa.
She rocks back and forth a little, seemingly unaware of me, until I come and kneel beside her, taking her hands and forcing her to look into my eyes. Hers are cloudy with shock so I speak slowly, while gently chafing her hands to comfort her.
‘Melissa, look at me,’ I say, forcing authority into my voice. ‘Tell me what happened’.
‘He’s dead.’
The words are whisper soft and I feel her breath on my face.
‘I killed him. I didn’t mean it. I just …’ She breathes in a big suck of air. Her lips tremble. They are deathly white.
I understand then, with a rush of bright clarity.
‘Did he … did that man try to hurt you?’
She doesn’t answer me so I gently press on.
‘Did he … force himself on you?’
She doesn’t reply, just stares into my face as though there are answers there. I’ve never seen her look so young. Oh my poor, dear girl. My heart twists with sympathy and affection.
‘You poor baby!’
I pull her into an embrace. She falls willingly into my arms, limp as a rag doll. I breathe in the sweet smell of her hair before she struggles slightly and pulls back.
‘Are you hurt?’ I say.
Finally, she finds her voice, which comes out flat and toneless.
‘I … I just lashed out.’ She stares down at the pestle, which has a patch of jammy wetness and a few black hairs stuck to it. ‘I didn’t, I didn’t mean to.’
I shudder in distaste then force a briskness into my voice.
‘Go and wash your face in the bathroom. Take a few moments to calm yourself down and then I’ll make tea and we can talk.’
Almost meekly, she rises to her feet and almost stumbles out of the kitchen.
I think I may be experiencing a delayed reaction. It is only now that my own legs begin to shake so hard I almost collapse. I lean back against the table, breathing hard.
I wish someone would tell me what to do. I’m aware that we should call the police, and when I have watched dramas on television I have always been very dismissive of characters who fail to do this obvious thing.
But let me tell you, the aftermath of violence feels very different to television programmes. It’s as though the normal rules of life have been crumpled up and tossed aside. Surely it is an impossible thing to lift a telephone and alert the outside world to the intimacy of the scene in this kitchen? How would they ever understand?
I saw him this morning, strutting about like Cock of the North.
I glance at the body and feel disgust rising in my throat. I don’t want to be near it. I walk over to the sink, taking deep breaths. And as my breathing starts to settle, I make a decision.
I will help her. I will do whatever it takes. A feeling of euphoria dares to trickle into my tummy. We have a bond now that she can’t share with another living person.