have the wrong person,’ she said. ‘Karl and I were talking about, you know, the future. He wouldn’t have committed suicide, believe me, please believe me. You have the wrong person.’
‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I have any more news,’ Karen Nelson said.
PC Spofford gave her a sympathetic but helpless smile as he followed his colleague out. Red did not respond. She felt numb. She closed and locked the door carefully. Inside she was a mess of jelly.
18
Thursday evening, 24 October
Van the man was playing ‘Someone Like You’ on the stereo, and he was watching two different shows, both muted, on his twin fifty-five-inch Samsung screens. On one was the news, and on the other was all the television he needed, most of the time – except tonight.
Red loved this song. They had danced to it on their second date. Someone like you! he had whispered into her ear, and kissed her on the cheek. Then they’d kissed on the lips and they’d danced the entire song out, in a Brighton nightclub, without their lips ever parting.
He watched her return to her living room after seeing the cops out, pour a large glass of white wine, and light another cigarette.
Tut, tut, you are smoking too much, baby. But don’t worry, smoke on! It’s not going to kill you. Something else is going to get you long before those thin white sticks with the filter tips.
He watched her pick up the remote and turn up the volume on the news, but the fire at the Cuba Libre was no longer showing. Now it was the Prime Minister, in some factory that made soup, wearing a silly-looking protective hat and protective gloves, nodding approvingly as he supped from a large spoon.
Red was crying.
Bryce was crying too. He was staring at his laptop screen, looking through all the emails and texts she had sent him back in those early days when they had been so much in love.
You’re incredible! I miss you so much, my darling Bryce. I can’t wait to see you tonight XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
God, my darling Bryce, what have you done to me? Every second without you is pure torture. I crave you.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Did I tell you that you are the most amazing, incredible, smart, beautiful man I ever met in my life. I want you so badly. Just get over here as quickly as you can. I’m naked inside my clothes and waiting for you. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
You stupid girl , he thought, sniffing and dabbing his eyes. You stupid, stupid girl. Remember that time we went to see Othello at the Old Vic in London? Remember that line? Like the base Indian who threw a pearl away, richer than all his tribe?
Remember?
19
Two years earlier
Red had chosen her dress carefully, with the help of her best friend, Raquel Evans, who had accompanied her, for several hours that June morning, on a trek around Brighton’s fashion shops. She’d finally settled on a simple black A-line dress from a boutique in Dukes Lane that both the assistant and Raquel, who was also a redhead, told her looked stunning – without being overtly sexy.
Black always suited her, and she had followed the Maître D’ confidently across the floor of Brighton’s elegant Cuba Libre restaurant, beneath the huge rotating bamboo ceiling fans, to a table in the corner.
Mr Laurent, he apologized, had not yet arrived. But as she reached the table she saw, to her surprise, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, and a red rose lying on the plate in front of the chair to which she was guided.
Would madame like a drink while she waited?
‘I’m fine,’ she had said, although in truth she was a bag of nerves and could have done with a seriously large cocktail.
She did not have to wait long. Within a few minutes, an apparition strode towards her. He was tall, with short black gelled hair, and looked like a young George Clooney. He wore a beautiful black linen jacket over a white open-neck shirt, expensive-looking jeans and dark-coloured loafers, and he had the most confident smile she had ever seen – with flawless
‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I have any more news,’ Karen Nelson said.
PC Spofford gave her a sympathetic but helpless smile as he followed his colleague out. Red did not respond. She felt numb. She closed and locked the door carefully. Inside she was a mess of jelly.
18
Thursday evening, 24 October
Van the man was playing ‘Someone Like You’ on the stereo, and he was watching two different shows, both muted, on his twin fifty-five-inch Samsung screens. On one was the news, and on the other was all the television he needed, most of the time – except tonight.
Red loved this song. They had danced to it on their second date. Someone like you! he had whispered into her ear, and kissed her on the cheek. Then they’d kissed on the lips and they’d danced the entire song out, in a Brighton nightclub, without their lips ever parting.
He watched her return to her living room after seeing the cops out, pour a large glass of white wine, and light another cigarette.
Tut, tut, you are smoking too much, baby. But don’t worry, smoke on! It’s not going to kill you. Something else is going to get you long before those thin white sticks with the filter tips.
He watched her pick up the remote and turn up the volume on the news, but the fire at the Cuba Libre was no longer showing. Now it was the Prime Minister, in some factory that made soup, wearing a silly-looking protective hat and protective gloves, nodding approvingly as he supped from a large spoon.
Red was crying.
Bryce was crying too. He was staring at his laptop screen, looking through all the emails and texts she had sent him back in those early days when they had been so much in love.
You’re incredible! I miss you so much, my darling Bryce. I can’t wait to see you tonight XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
God, my darling Bryce, what have you done to me? Every second without you is pure torture. I crave you.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Did I tell you that you are the most amazing, incredible, smart, beautiful man I ever met in my life. I want you so badly. Just get over here as quickly as you can. I’m naked inside my clothes and waiting for you. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
You stupid girl , he thought, sniffing and dabbing his eyes. You stupid, stupid girl. Remember that time we went to see Othello at the Old Vic in London? Remember that line? Like the base Indian who threw a pearl away, richer than all his tribe?
Remember?
19
Two years earlier
Red had chosen her dress carefully, with the help of her best friend, Raquel Evans, who had accompanied her, for several hours that June morning, on a trek around Brighton’s fashion shops. She’d finally settled on a simple black A-line dress from a boutique in Dukes Lane that both the assistant and Raquel, who was also a redhead, told her looked stunning – without being overtly sexy.
Black always suited her, and she had followed the Maître D’ confidently across the floor of Brighton’s elegant Cuba Libre restaurant, beneath the huge rotating bamboo ceiling fans, to a table in the corner.
Mr Laurent, he apologized, had not yet arrived. But as she reached the table she saw, to her surprise, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, and a red rose lying on the plate in front of the chair to which she was guided.
Would madame like a drink while she waited?
‘I’m fine,’ she had said, although in truth she was a bag of nerves and could have done with a seriously large cocktail.
She did not have to wait long. Within a few minutes, an apparition strode towards her. He was tall, with short black gelled hair, and looked like a young George Clooney. He wore a beautiful black linen jacket over a white open-neck shirt, expensive-looking jeans and dark-coloured loafers, and he had the most confident smile she had ever seen – with flawless
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