Before her life did the same.
‘C’mon, then.’ Zoe sat in the same place Anni Hepburn had occupied earlier. She placed her mug on a side table and stray strands of perfectly coloured blonde hair fell, as if by design, around her face, framing her pretty features. Zoe seemed to find the business of looking beautiful effortless. It made Suzanne feel even worse.
‘You told me to come over. I’ve had to throw a sicky so tell all.’
Suzanne sighed, held the mug in front of her once more like a shield, told her everything.
‘So…’ Her account didn’t actually conclude, she just seemed to lose the energy to make words. ‘That’s, that’s it…’
Zoe stared at Suzanne, eyes wide, lips parted. Even her look of horror seemed perfect. Suzanne felt suddenly tired once more.
‘God, Suzanne, that’s, that’s really horrible…’
Suzanne closed her eyes, said nothing. She knew that already.
Zoe leaned forward. ‘Was it…’
Suzanne opened her eyes again. ‘Couldn’t have been. I… No.’ She sighed. ‘No.’ Her head dropped. ‘No.’
Zoe leaned back, said nothing.
Suzanne looked up. ‘Why would it be him? Why now?’ Emotion was building inside her once more. ‘Why?’
‘It can’t be him, not Anthony… ’
‘You weren’t there, Zoe. You didn’t see the photo, you didn’t have the dream.’ Her mind slipped back to the previous night. ‘The dream, oh God, Zoe…’
‘Suzanne.’ Zoe’s eyes locked on to Suzanne’s. Clear and bright and blue, not like Suzanne’s muddy-brown ones. Her hands reached out, took Suzanne’s.
‘You being a therapist, now?’ Suzanne’s smile was as weak as her voice.
‘Bringing my work home with me,’ said Zoe. ‘Now take a deep breath. Be calm. It can’t be Anthony. You know that.’
Suzanne said nothing, just concentrated on breathing, waited for Zoe to continue.
‘What happened with Anthony, Suzanne… that’s all done with.’
Suzanne said nothing, kept her eyes averted from her friend.
Zoe tried to make eye contact, frowned. ‘Suzanne, it is finished, isn’t it?’
Suzanne said nothing.
Zoe sat back, dropped Suzanne’s hands. ‘Oh, you’re not. Suzanne, tell me you’re not…’
Suzanne looked up. ‘No. I’m not.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes,’ Suzanne said, looking at the carpet. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Good.’ Zoe smiled. ‘Well, you needn’t worry. I’ll stay tonight.’
Suzanne looked up. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘Why not? You can’t stay on your own. I’ll be with you. We can go to work together tomorrow. You
‘Well, yes, I hope so, but…’ Suzanne tried to find some objection. This was typical of Zoe. Good-looking and good-hearted. Sometimes she didn’t feel worthy of her friendship. ‘What about Russell? He’ll-’
‘-be fine for a couple of days. He can cope.’ Zoe smiled.
‘Might give him a chance to miss me. Appreciate me all the more when I go home.’
‘But-’ Suzanne felt tears well within once more.
‘Stop it. None of that.’ Zoe stood up. ‘I’ll just nip home and get a few things. Will you be OK on your own for an hour or so or d’you want to come with me?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Lock the door after me.’
Suzanne did so, triple-checking the locks. Then walked back into the living room, sat down. Her coffee was cold. She looked round for something to do, something to distract her. Take her mind off things until Zoe returned. Saw the phone.
No.
No. She shouldn’t.
She knew what she was going to do. Who she was going to call. No.
She picked it up. Put it on the table.
Kept looking at it.
No.
Picked it up again. Her hand a claw, holding the receiver like an eagle would its prey.
Dialled a number she knew by heart. A number she had never forgotten.
17
Anni Hepburn stared at the painting on the wall and wondered what to make of it and also the person who owned it.
It took centre stage in a very small, cramped office, a narrow, shelf-lined room that could have doubled as a store cupboard or a corridor to nowhere. The shelves were full of books: textbooks, novels, old, new, with no particular order to them that she could work out. Shoved in around the books were magazines, folders, papers. A few ornaments and nicknacks sat on what space there was. Small and disparate, things that probably had a story or at least a joke behind them when first placed there, but were now dust-heavy and sun-faded. Opposite the shelves a desk dominated the rest of the room. A computer in the centre surrounded by a mini cityscape of piles of books. Around the painting on the wall was a timetable, a wall planner, a few postcards, a couple of yellowed cartoon strips cut from newspapers. But it was the painting that drew the eye. Anni was sure that was the intention.
Mounted in an elaborate, yet old and chipped gold frame, it showed a man, tall, young and handsome, head back, chin up, standing in some marbled hall, his hands grasping the lapels of his jacket, gazing out with, on first viewing, a look of untouchable arrogance and haughtiness that bordered on contempt. On closer viewing, however, it showed the skill of the painter. The arrogance that informed the handsome features never reached the eyes. They held a mirth, a mockery, saying that the whole thing was a sham and that the man was going to burst out laughing at any moment.
A smaller piece of artwork was pinned up next to the painting. Superman, all massive chest, huge arms and tiny underpants, was soaring above the Earth, an American flag fluttering behind him.
The man has a serious ego problem, thought Anni.
She sat in a gap between the desk and the doorway in a chair, ancient and wooden, dark and worn, with a tired tapestry cushion on the seat. It seemed to be at odds with the rest of the room, more like something found by the fire in an old, wood-beamed pub rather than in a functional 1960s office, all breeze-block walls and cast-iron windows, of a university professor.
The subject of the painting was now sitting in front of Anni, at the book-covered desk, and he was no superman. His appearance showed, even more than the damaged frame, the dust collected on it or the fading of the oils, just how long ago it had been painted. He was still tall, but the black hair was largely grey and thinning slightly at the temples. The arrogant, haughty set of his features had deepened to become a set of permanent lines, like a mask worn for so long and so often it had become the wearer’s real face. The eyes, though, were what had changed the most. Rather than the self-mocking dancing in the painting, they just showed a weariness. And, once Anni had announced who she was, a wariness.
‘You’re lucky to catch me,’ he said. ‘I was about to go home.’
She smiled. ‘So, Professor-’
‘Just Anthony, please,’ he said, offering a tentative smile. ‘No need for formality.’
‘Right.’
Professor Anthony Howe had been easy to track down. Anni had made one phone call to the university to find him in his office. He had finished teaching for the day and was catching up on his marking. He would be in for a few hours, he said, if she wanted to drop by, but what was it concerning? Once she mentioned Suzanne Perry’s name,
