The Bones of You (11 page)

15

December

I
tread carefully with Jo in the days leading up to Christmas, seeming to come so soon after Rosie’s death. It’s a time of year I’ve always loved, appealing to my homemaking side, as I make our house pretty, invite friends, gather treats and presents for my family. This year in particular, Grace’s first since starting university, and because Rosie’s death still hangs over us, is far more precious.

“Oh, we have an artificial one, thank God,” Jo says when I offer to get her a tree. “They make such a mess. It looks quite real. You’d never know.”

If I didn’t know Jo was a clean freak, I’d have wondered if it was a put-down. I think of the hint of plastic-paint smell, instead of the resinous wafts of pine that I love, or the absence of needles, which are still appearing six months later, but if they weren’t, in a bizarre way, I’d miss them.

“You must all come over. For a drink,” I say on impulse. Only after the words are out questioning whether it’s wise, in the light of what happened a couple of weeks back. “Bring Delphine, too, if she’d like to come.”

Just days later, in the midst of flickering Christmas lights, the warm glow of candles lighting the windows, I find myself somewhere much darker.

Laura’s phone call one evening comes as I wrap presents and write a few last-minute cards. “I won’t keep you, Kate. I know you’re busy, but I thought you’d want to know. The police have taken Alex in for questioning.”

“God.” Feeling my legs suddenly weak, I sit down. “Are you sure?”

“Completely. It seems the friend who gave him an alibi has since retracted it. Seems it was a lie and they’ve fallen out. Kate? Are you there?”

But I’m not listening, images drifting through my mind of Alex, at the garden center, silently working; in the clearing in the woods where Rosie died; zooming in as angrily, bitterly, he tells me about Neal, words weighted with menace, implied threats, and veiled warnings. Even so. I’m shocked.

“Sorry. I was just thinking. I can’t believe it—that Rosie would be with someone who could do that. . . .”

“Well, at least they’ve got him. You know what this means? Obviously, there’ll be a trial, but at last you can all get on with your lives.”

Slowly, it starts to sink in, that it’s not so much a weight lifting as a relief, just to
know.
For all of us—except Jo and Neal. Delphine.

“There was something else, too.” Laura’s voice is serious. “Only, Alex was done for assault—a couple of years ago. He beat up this guy who was stalking his then girlfriend.”

“But surely that’s just teenage emotional stuff?” I say to her. “It must happen all the time. Boys punching boys . . .”

“Not on this occasion,” she says quietly. “This guy ended up on a life-support machine. Alex very nearly killed him.”

Jo and Neal come over that evening to a house that’s cinnamon scented from the mulled wine Angus has made, the kitchen warm from the Aga’s cosy heat, the needles already dropping from the tree, which I’ve brought in early just for this evening. I’ve decorated the fireplace with ivy and larch from the garden and lit candles. It’s as it always looks in here just before Christmas. Untidy. Homely. Welcoming.

For drinks, which is just that, drinks plus a few mince pies, I’d usually pull on clean jeans and my velvet and chiffon top. A little more makeup than for every day, maybe even nail polish. Festive, but not over the top, but knowing Jo will be glammed up to the nines, I’ve made an effort.

“A dress?” Angus looks shocked, then disconcerted, because he knows the code, too, and I’m breaking it. “I thought this was just drinks?”

“It is,” I reassure him. “But there’s nothing wrong with dressing up a bit, is there?”

My bemused husband shakes his head, then glances down at his chinos, as if wondering if he ought to wear a suit.

I catch his eye. “You look great.”

I wish Grace was here with us, but she’s not due home until tomorrow, and, anyway, being Grace, she’d have her own plans. We’ve invited Rachael and Alan, and our neighbors, too. Ella and David, both arty types and gentle people, sensitive to what’s happened to Jo and Neal—and being childless, a little removed from what’s happened. David’s an architect, and Ella paints, mostly fine art, and though we’re not of their world, we get on well enough. They arrive early, Ella picking my brains on her garden, while David brainstorms the conservatory Angus yearns for and can’t afford.

“But as long as Kate has her horses, we can’t stretch to it,” my poor, deprived husband says mournfully to David. “Do you know how much they eat? What their vets’ bills cost?”

Before David can sympathize, the Andersons arrive.

I’ve primed Ella, because she doesn’t really know her, that Jo will look like a movie star and will probably flirt her arse off with her husband, if she’s on form. Ella doesn’t care, and, anyway, arty types have their own obscure dress code. But as Jo and Neal walk in, I’m knocked sideways.

She’s wearing the skinniest skinny jeans and a loose top from which her legs and arms stick out like little pins, her hair messily swept up so she looks girlish. I realize that, quite simply, I’ve overdressed for my own party.

Neal shakes Angus’s hand and kisses me, my accusations of the other weekend clearly forgiven, his warm bonhomie drawing our neighbors over, so that while Angus fetches drinks, they’re soon chatting like old friends. Jo hovers in the background.

“Hi!” I hug her. “No Delphine?”

“She’s at home, not feeling great,” says Jo. “Poor little thing. I just want her better by Christmas.”

It’s the most motherly thing I’ve heard her say about Delphine. “I know what you mean. Come and meet our neighbors.”

Shortly after that, Rachael and Alan join us.

The Andersons are on a charm offensive. Appearing to exist only in the moment. Looking at them, you’d never guess that we were bystanders on the edge of their tragedy. Neal takes David’s card and says he’ll pass it on to a colleague of his who badly needs a good architect, while Jo declares she simply has to see Ella’s work, because for ages she’s been looking for something
different.
Then the conversation inevitably turns to the prestigious award Neal was nominated for, but he won’t be drawn.

“I feel tremendously humbled,” is all he’ll say on the subject. “Do you know how many unsung heroes there are out there? They’re the ones who deserve it, far more than we do.”

I glance at Jo, her expression unreadable, as she watches him.

I’m expecting a somber evening. It’s still so soon after Rosie’s death, after the news about Alex, which is why I’ve kept this gathering so small. But it’s a good evening. We drink a little too much, say one or two things we’ll probably regret, and Rachael’s laugh fills the house. We part late, as old friends sharing heartfelt, even happy, Christmas wishes. Angus and I watch them walk down the drive, breath freezing in clouds, feet crunching on the gravel.

“That wasn’t a bit as I expected.” He shakes his head. His arm goes round me. “I thought we’d have fireworks or a drama of some sort, after everything you’ve been saying. Really nice people, aren’t they?”

I thread my arm under his sweater. “They are. But I feel so sorry for them, don’t you? It’s their first Christmas without Rosie. .. . It’ll be so hard—for all of them.” Then I reach up and kiss him. “Thank you.”

He looks surprised. “What for?”

“For understanding. For stopping me from getting too sucked in. For always being here.”

16

W
ith Grace’s arrival imminent, I rush around, adding last-minute touches of eucalyptus from the tall tree in the garden, cutting pine and more ivy, their lingering scents combining with that of wood smoke. Wanting everything to look perfect. Grace loves Christmas as much as I do. She bursts in, long hair flying, eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Mum!”
She hurls herself into my arms, little girl Grace of years back. I hug her.

“I’ve missed you. . . .” Breathing in the fresh citrus scent of her hair.

“Me too.” She pulls back. “I can’t believe that guy we saw is Rosie’s murderer.”

I nod. “I know. Nor could I.”

“It’s so sad, isn’t it?” Peeling back the past months to reveal old wounds still healing, her eyes now glistening with tears.

I nod, realizing the weight I’ve been carrying. That all of us have. Of worry and responsibility, for Grace and her friends, that though it receded slightly had never left us—until a murderer was behind bars.

“We’re going to have a good Christmas,” I tell her softly, because the past is what it is, watching her eyes light up.

“I’ve got presents for under the tree. And we need to decorate it. Can we do it today?”

“I’ve done the tree, Grace. . . .” Her face falls momentarily. “But I’ve left the cards. Only I thought you’d want to look at them first.”

My heart warmed by her familiar smile.

We go outside to help Angus carry her stuff in; then, while he stacks the firewood that’s just arrived on either side of the fireplace, Grace and I ice the Christmas cake. We’ve a month stretching ahead before she goes again, a month in which our family will be complete. A rare peacefulness washes over me and, with it, a kind of thanks. That it’s Christmas, that my husband is here and my daughter is safely home. At this moment, there is nothing more I could wish for.

Can we at last move on? With Alex held in custody, I start to imagine we can, until my world is rocked yet again and the closure, the sense of security that briefly crept in, goes up in smoke. Laura calls with the news that Alex has been released, pending further investigation. It seems there’s simply not enough evidence against him.