It Ends At Midnight, page 22
It could so nearly be true. Tess seemed sure by the time of the trial that it was true. I didn’t want to argue with her certainty. We didn’t need to bring up my relationship with Stewart, my dislike of Linda. I mean, I didn’t see what happened. Not really. Not that I could swear to. It was better for Tess that way. But maybe for some reason Stewart did think Linda was up for it. Maybe he did try it on with her and she lashed out. I swore to it that I didn’t see. I’ve always tried to protect Tess. But now we’ve found Linda, now we’ve played with that fire, it’s time to see it through.
‘So strange to be going up to Edinburgh on the train with you, after all these years,’ Tess says, finally turning away from the window, her cheeks pink. ‘After you left, I never thought we’d be so close again, or that we’d be returning in this way.’
I smile. Our minds still work on the same lines, even now. A synchronicity.
Fast-forward through the years, running into her in London after university. Our friendship rekindling. I wanted her to meet my new friend. To show that I’d moved on from that terrible time, from my obsession with Stewart. I still remember it, the moment he walked over to the table where we were both sitting. I knew from the look in her eye what would happen, even as I introduced her for the first time. She leaned over, smiling fit to burst. ‘Tess, this is Marcus.’
I didn’t stand a chance after that. She was thin, funny, gorgeous. All the things I loved her for at school. All the things I hated her for after that. I was so close to getting a new relationship, Marcus and I were so nearly there. But Tess came along. The frisson between us didn’t die, though. It smouldered on. All these years I’ve felt his eyes on me, wondering what might have been.
The train’s pulling into Edinburgh Waverley. We pick up our bags – well, I pick up mine, but Marcus won’t let Tess carry anything. He’s treating her like she’s made of glass, like she’ll shatter if she falls. It’s taken a cancer diagnosis to make him realise how much he cares.
We go up to Market Street to wait for a taxi. We could walk, but again Marcus won’t let Tess, too worried that she’ll exhaust herself. She tries to reassure him, smiling brightly and cracking jokes in the cab on the way to Regent Terrace. He doesn’t look convinced, though, worry lurking all the time behind his eyes. It’s as if everything he said to me about his suspicions has gone out of his head. I’m trying hard not to think about it all, but I can’t. If she could lie about a pregnancy, she could lie about this. I’m not sure anything is beyond her.
I have to stop thinking like this. I’m being a terrible friend. The worst imaginable. Tess is facing a potential death sentence and I’m sour with suspicion. By the time we get to Regent Terrace I’ve calmed myself down. The sight of where we’re staying knocks all residual unpleasantness from my mind. From the ornate, spiked railings outside, to the facade of the Georgian house, three windows wide, it’s a dream.
‘This is amazing,’ I say. ‘Where did you find it again?’
‘A specialist company,’ Tess says. ‘One of their deluxe bookings. That’s how we’ve been able to arrange the party. Though it was so helpful for you to recommend Gareth. He’s been amazing.’
A shadow passes over me. ‘That’s great.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I know it must be awkward. Has he not been in touch?’
Tears start in the corners of my eyes. I dash them away with my fingers and laugh, a little shaky. ‘No, he hasn’t. But at least I’ll see him tomorrow. Maybe we can work it out.’
We walk up the stairs to the front door. It’s opened by a man from the lettings agency who shows us round. He keeps telling us about the features of each of the rooms, but I want him to leave – we want to explore for ourselves. We listen as politely as we can but get him out as soon as possible. When he’s left, Tess stands in the middle of the drawing room, a huge room the width of the house, and pirouettes.
‘We made it,’ she says. ‘We’re here. It’s going to be glorious.’
Marcus goes over to Tess and puts his arms around her and for a moment they embrace. I step back. I’m excluded again. Seeing their happiness brings home my own misery. But Tess reaches her hand out to me and pulls me into the circle.
‘Here we all are,’ she says. ‘Back where we began.’ She squeezes my hand in hers. ‘It’s amazing to be here with you. I’ll do a proper speech tomorrow, but for now, I want to tell you how much we appreciate your friendship, Marcus and me. You really are our best friend.’
Marcus nods, patting me on the shoulder. There’s nothing sexual in it. I feel like his child. So much has changed since Tess told us about the death sentence hanging over her head.
‘I just want tomorrow to be perfect,’ she says.
‘It will be,’ Marcus says. ‘And then we’ve got the holiday to look forward to.’
‘Holiday?’ I say.
‘Yes, a honeymoon. As it were. Tess booked it,’ Marcus says.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Mauritius,’ Tess says.
‘How lovely,’ I say. I even manage a smile. They’ll be jetting off while I return to London to deal with the wreckage of my career. I try not to dwell on the contrast.
33
My room is on the third floor, above the master suite on the second floor. I can hear Tess and Marcus’s voices through the floor, though not the actual words. Are they arguing again? I wouldn’t put it past them, even on the day of their vow renewal. So many rows. So many misunderstandings.
It’s going to be strange, being out with her in Edinburgh again. I’d never have anticipated it all those years ago, when I thought we were saying goodbye forever. The fact that our lives have been so entwined is one of the foundations of my life – it’s a scary thought, that it might change. Sometimes the ivy is the only thing holding the crumbling stones together.
That won’t be the case here. They need to move forward. I need to get on with my life, too, get this travesty of a trial behind me and get my career back on track. My relationship with Gareth, as well. Maybe it’s time for me to see this renewal of vows not as a self-indulgence but more as an ending and a beginning, burning clean all the infection and suppuration from the past.
The cab driver doesn’t look impressed when we say that we want to go to St Stephen’s Street – it’s hardly worth the fare for him – but he takes us, going round corners slightly too fast so that we’re thrown into each other, teeth jangling as we drive over the stone setts in the road. Soon enough we’re there, down the stairs into the Antiquary.
Tess orders a soft drink but I hit it harder, ordering doubles to every glass of her sparkling water and throwing the drinks back so fast she soon has a queue of glasses waiting for her attention.
‘Take it easy,’ she says, but I don’t pay any attention. I’ve tried to cheer up but I’m feeling morose, the drink not lifting me but rather pulling me down.
‘Easy for you to say,’ I tell her. ‘You’re sorted. Lovely vow renewal with your lovely husband, lovely trip off to Mauritius. Lovebirds on sea.’
Tess raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, sorted for now. I think you might be forgetting something, though. Why do you think I’m not drinking? It doesn’t agree with my medication.’
I glare at her before I lower my head. ‘I’m sorry. I know I should remember. It’s just hard, sometimes. You look like normal, you talk like normal. It’s hard sometimes to keep in mind what’s happening.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘It’s about as far from normal as it can be, though. It’s like sitting on a bomb. Or a firework. Someone’s lit the fuse, but I don’t know how long it is, how soon it might go off. I’m constantly on edge.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘This is hard for me too. I feel as if everything is changing.’
‘It is changing,’ she says. ‘That’s why. It would be bound to with a diagnosis like this.’
‘You can’t change the past, though. You do know that, don’t you?’
I put my chin up as I say this, a defiance to the question, and Tess puts her chin up too.
‘It’s not about changing it. It’s about making it right. Accepting we were wrong. Saying we’re sorry.’
I try to stare her out, but her gaze is unwavering. I lower my eyes first.
So many ghosts lie between us. The dead are not always quiet.
Tess’s glass is empty at last. Mine too. Not half full. Or half empty. Drained to the dregs.
‘Shall we go somewhere else?’ she says.
‘Where?’
‘Well, we could go along to the Bailie for one. Or down to Shambles – I think it’s called something else now, something like Maison Hector. More revisiting of our youth.’
I pull a face. ‘I dunno. I like it here. It’s always been my favourite. Can’t believe I haven’t been here for so long.’
I look around as I say this. Not much has changed, the bar still in the middle, curving out into the two rooms of which it’s the centre. There’s still a blackboard on the wall, listing the bands that will be playing over the next month. At least it’s not a fucking folk night.
‘I want to move on,’ Tess says. ‘This may be the last time . . .’ She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to. I bite my lip, but fury builds up in me.
‘Is this what it’s going to be like for the rest of it?’ I say after a moment, unable to contain myself.
‘What?’
‘You, pulling out the cancer card every time you want to get your own way?’
Time stops. We’re at the heart of it, time before, time after, a moment of still. I look at Tess as the vibrations from the words I’ve said travel through her ear canals to her eardrums. I can feel the movement of the ossicles as if they were mine, translating the vibrations into sounds, the words forcing their way through her cochleas and down her auditory nerve until they make their way into her brain, like a shit posted through a letter box, stinking and unwanted. As what I’ve said sinks in, I see revulsion growing on her face. Not as fast as my self-loathing. But it’s too late to unsay it now.
‘Did you just accuse me of playing the cancer card?’ she says. I want to die in my chair right here, right now, my mouth stuck half-open.
‘I . . . of course not. I mean, I . . .’
I’ve lost the power of speech.
‘I want to go back to the house, Sylvie,’ Tess says. ‘I’ve had enough now.’
I nod, eager in my movements, though it’s too late now to show how keen I am to do what Tess wants.
We stride back through the dark streets. I guess this isn’t how it was meant to be. Not the triumphant return Tess hoped for, a time for us to luxuriate together in our shared past. Perhaps this is how it was always going to be, though. At some point I was going to lose it, goaded past endurance by Tess’s insinuations, her rewriting of history. It was always a competition between us.
From the moment she said she had cancer, it was always a competition I was going to lose.
It’s cold now, but bright moonlight cuts through the night sky and lights our path, merging with the orange glow of the streetlamps that reflects up from the damp pavements. There’s still Christmas in the air, trees lit up in windows, and the occasional firework, a warm-up for the extravaganza that’ll happen for the Hogmanay celebrations tomorrow. We get to the end of St Stephen’s Street, St Vincent Street, cross the bottom of Howe Street, past the clock tower that measured out my childhood. Along the grey facades of Great King Street, through Drummond Place, London Street and up to Broughton Street. So many memories we pass, so many corners when I stopped and snogged someone or had an illicit fag before my return home, always later than I said. I’m crying now, tears running down my face that I’m too angry to wipe away. This is not how it was meant to be. We were meant to walk back arm in arm, do you remember, wasn’t it here . . .
I stop again, but now I’m laughing. Of course it was always going to end this way, me furious, her in a strop because as ever I’ve said the wrong thing, been a stupid cow. I knew it from the start, and so did she.
‘Tess,’ I say, ‘Tess.’
I think for a moment she’s going to ignore me, keep stomping on like a juggernaut, but she slows, turns, icebreaker slow.
‘What.’
It’s not a question. Not really.
‘Let’s not do this now. Let’s forget about it. All of it. We’re here now. Let’s enjoy it and stop fighting.’
Slowly she walks towards me, feet still heavy, her shoulders drooping as if she’s under a great weight.
‘I’m sorry, Tess. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘I know,’ she says, but she holds out her hand.
34
Even though it’s Edinburgh, where the weather can switch to wind and rain in the blink of an eye, it stays sunny throughout the morning. Marcus and Tess eventually emerge down to the huge open-plan kitchen for breakfast, where I’m drinking black coffee. I don’t meet their eyes as they walk in, despite the brightness of Tess’s greeting.
Tess says that both her parents and Marcus’s are on their way up on the train, and plan to check in at the Balmoral Hotel above Waverley Station. They’ll be able to share a cab over to the house in time for the ceremony in the afternoon. Some of their friends have messaged to say they’re here, the couples who have made the trek, excited at the idea of a Scottish Hogmanay.
‘Jeff and Serena are on the way,’ Marcus says, looking up from his own phone.
I freeze. ‘As in the people from your chambers? Jeff the judge?’
‘Didn’t Tess mention it?’ Marcus says.
‘I’m sorry, Sylvie. I totally forgot. It’ll be fine, though. Don’t worry about it. This is a party, it’s not work.’
I shake my head. ‘Jesus, this is going to be humiliating.’
Tess shakes hers back at me. ‘No, it’s not. Not if you don’t let it. This isn’t about you, Sylvie. It’s about Marcus and me. Everyone is here to celebrate that. Call it an armistice day, if you must, but literally no one will be talking about you or anything you’re supposed to have done.’
‘Promise?’ I feel utterly exposed. Vulnerable.
‘I promise,’ she says.
Maybe because we’ve got up so late, the day flies by. Marcus goes out at lunchtime to meet up with his friends and family, at a pub they’ve booked down in Stockbridge. I’m about to go out too, until Tess reminds me that we’re getting our hair and make-up done. I want to tell her to fuck off, my lips practically forming the word, but I restrain myself.
‘Lovely,’ I force myself to say, and I put my coat back down on the chair in the hall.
While we wait for the hairdresser to turn up, Tess walks me around the house again, talking incessantly about how pleased she is at how well it’s turned out. The drawing room is the perfect size for the intimate ceremony that she has in mind. Gareth will be arriving soon to start doing the food for the reception and to set up the room. I dig my fingernails into my palms when I hear his name.
Tess has thought of every detail. The house is no smoking – of course – so there’s a tall ashtray to put out on the front step. There’s only a couple of people who still smoke – the barristers, of course – but she wants to be accommodating to everyone. It’s going to be great. She says it so much she almost sounds as if she believes it.
A flurry of arrivals, the hairdresser first, swiftly followed by the make-up artist. Tess sends me upstairs, saying she’s waiting to let in Gareth. I don’t argue. It might help to be all done up before I see him.
They make me sit on a chair in the middle of the master bedroom in a mist of Elnett. They don’t ask me what I want – even if they did, I wouldn’t be able to say. I put myself completely in their hands. After a while, Tess comes into the room.
‘What do you think?’ she says.
‘I haven’t looked yet. They said it should be a surprise,’ I say, waving my hand at the stylist.
‘You look lovely,’ the hairdresser says.
I know I should react, smile, but I feel like a soft toy with a hole in it, the stuffing falling out of me. I can’t even sit up straight.
‘Why don’t you put your dress on?’ Tess says. ‘It’s hanging up in the wardrobe over there.’
I shrug. ‘If you want.’ I get myself up to my feet, the movements slow, almost painful. Again, I’m struck by the thought that it’s me who looks ill, not Tess. I’m wearing grey jogging bottoms and a grey sweatshirt and as I walk across the room, I feel as if I’m already dressed for prison, all washed out and dreich.
Tess opens the wardrobe and pulls out the long purple dress, hands it to me. I undress, careless as to audience. I know how much weight I’ve lost, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. My ribs are visible under my skin, like a xylophone. I’ve never seen myself so thin before. After all these years I’ve achieved the holy grail, massive weight loss. It does not suit me.
At least it means I don’t have to worry about the dress fitting me. It glides up over my hips without a hitch. I reach behind me and pull the zip up as far as I can before standing, helpless. No one in the room moves until I say, ‘Tess, can you help me?’
Tess comes over to me and zips the dress up to the top. I turn round and she smiles.
‘How do I look?’ I say.
‘Amazing. You haven’t aged at all. It could be our wedding day.’
I almost crack a smile. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘No, honestly. It’s great. Go and have a look.’ She points at the upright mirror that’s standing in the far corner. I walk over to it, the purple satin rustling with each step, before standing in front of it.
I want to cry. They can all tell me I look lovely till they’re blue in the face. They’re wrong, and I’m right. I look appalling, all updo and fancy frock, my face peering out of it all like a corpse daubed in undertakers’ paint. I’m a whited sepulchre, the outer finery masking the rot within.
