Sister

But these wilting examples are stems of unexpected thoughtfulness, a bunch of compassion as surprising as cowslips on the shoulders of a motorway.

The chrysanthemum cameraman told me that this evening the News at 10 is running a special on your story. I just phoned Mum to tell her. I think in a strange Mum-like way she’s actually proud of how much attention you’re getting. And there’s going to be more. According to one of the sound technicians, there’ll be foreign media here tomorrow. It’s funny, though—weird funny—that when I tried to tell people a few months ago, no one wanted to listen.

monday afternoon

It seems that everyone wants to listen now—the press, the police, solicitors—pens scribble, heads crane forward, tape recorders whir. This afternoon I am giving my witness statement to a lawyer at the Crown Prosecution Service in preparation for the trial in four months’ time. I’ve been told that my statement is vitally important to the prosecution’s case, as I am the only person to know the whole story.

Mr. Wright, the CPS lawyer who is taking my statement, sits opposite me. I think he’s in his late thirties, but maybe he is younger and his face has just been exposed to too many stories like mine. His expression is alert and he leans a fraction toward me, encouraging confidences. A good listener, I think, but what type of man?

“If it’s okay with you,” he says, “I’d like you to tell me everything, from the beginning, and let me sort out later what is relevant.”

I nod. “I’m not absolutely sure what the beginning is.”

“Maybe when you first realized something was wrong?”

I notice he’s wearing a nice Italian linen shirt and an ugly printed polyester tie—the same person couldn’t have chosen both. One of them must have been a present. If the tie was a present, he must be a nice man to wear it. I’m not sure if I’ve told you this, but my mind has a new habit of doodling when it doesn’t want to think about the matter in hand.

I look up at him and meet his eye.

“It was the phone call from my mother saying she’d gone missing.”

When Mum phoned, we were hosting a Sunday lunch party. The food, catered by our local deli, was very New York—stylish and impersonal; same said for our apartment, our furniture and our relationship—nothing homemade. The Big Apple with no core. You are startled by the about-face, I know, but our conversation about my life in New York can wait.

We’d got back that morning from a “snowy romantic break” in a Maine cabin, where we’d been celebrating my promotion to account director. Todd was enjoying regaling the lunch party with our big mistake:

“It’s not as though we expected a Jacuzzi, but a hot shower wouldn’t have hurt, and a landline would have been helpful. It wasn’t as if we could use our cell phones—there’s no cell system out there.”

“And this trip was spontaneous?” asked Sarah incredulously.

As you know, Todd and I were never noted for our spontaneity. Sarah’s husband, Mark, glared across the table at her. “Darling.”

She met his gaze. “I hate ‘darling.’ It’s code for ‘shut the fuck up,’ isn’t it?”

You’d like Sarah. Maybe that’s why we’re friends—from the start she reminded me of you. She turned to Todd. “When was the last time you and Beatrice had a row?” she asked.

“Neither of us is into histrionics,” Todd replied, self-righteously trying to puncture her conversation.

But Sarah’s not easily deflated. “So you can’t be bothered either.”

There followed an awkward silence, which I politely broke, “Coffee or herbal tea, anyone?”

In the kitchen I put coffee beans into the grinder, the only “cooking” I was doing for the meal. Sarah followed me in, contrite. “Sorry, Beatrice.”

“No problem.” I was the perfect hostess, smiling, smoothing, grinding. “Does Mark take it black or white?”

“White. We don’t laugh anymore either,” she said, levering herself up onto the counter, swinging her legs. “And as for sex …”

I turned on the grinder, hoping the noise would silence her. She shouted above it, “What about you and Todd?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” I replied, putting the ground beans into our seven-hundred-dollar espresso maker.

“Still laughing and shagging?” she asked.

I opened a case of 1930s coffee spoons, each one a different colored enamel, like melted sweets. “We bought these at an antiques fair last Sunday morning.”

“You’re changing the subject, Beatrice.”

But you’ve picked up that I wasn’t, that on a Sunday morning, when other couples stay in bed and make love, Todd and I were out and about antique shopping. We were always better shopping partners than lovers. I thought that filling our apartment with things we’d chosen was creating a future together. I can hear you tease me that even a Clarice Cliff teapot isn’t a substitute for sex, but for me it felt a good deal more secure.

The phone rang. Sarah ignored it. “Sex and laughter. The heart and lungs of a relationship.”

“I’d better get the phone.”

“When do you think it’s time to turn off the life-support machine?”