Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (read book txt) 📗

anything. And it certainly doesn’t explain what was going on with her and Charlie – unless – hang on … If Charlie knew her from the club – could Rory have met Rachel through him?’

I consider this. ‘I suppose that would explain why Charlie was told to keep it secret that he knew her.’ I chew my lip. ‘Oh God, Katie. Do you really think Rory could have been having an affair with her? And hiding it, all this time?’

‘I don’t know. None of it makes any sense.’ She shifts in her seat. ‘Where is Rory, anyway?’

‘Home. They’re back now, from Italy. I went to Serena’s exhibition the other night.’

I’d finally told Serena about the notes. It hadn’t gone well. She just looked at me, white as a sheet, then muttered some excuse about wanting to lie down. And I haven’t heard from her since.

‘Didn’t that seem a bit odd to you?’ Katie is saying, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

‘Didn’t what seem odd?’

‘Rory and Serena. Going abroad so soon before her baby is due. I’m surprised she was even allowed to fly.’

‘She got some private doctor to sign it off, I think.’

‘But why would they want to go away? When the baby is due so soon?’

‘I hadn’t really thought.’

The rain gets louder, and we both glance up at the skylight. The taste of the pizza is so comforting. The food of sleepovers, when Katie and I were teenagers and she’d come over, and we’d watch Clueless and Scream on repeat. After we’ve finished the pizza, Katie collects the boxes while I head to the kitchen to scoop ice cream into bowls.

‘Anyway, I’m sick of thinking about it,’ I say, when we are both back on the sofa. ‘Tell me what’s going on with you. I saw your front page. That interview with the girl in the rape case, it was amazing. You must be really proud.’

Katie smiles, looks away, but I can tell she is pleased. There’s been a lot of talk about the interview, about how Katie persuaded the girl to waive her anonymity.

‘Helen,’ she says, swallowing a mouthful of ice cream, ‘you know I asked you before about that other rape case years ago. When you were at Cambridge. The boathouse rape?’

I nod slowly.

‘Did you really not remember it?’

I start fiddling with my spoon, avoiding Katie’s eye. It’s pointless trying to hide things from Katie when she is in this sort of mood.

‘I mean, it was such big news at the time. And it all happened the summer you –’

‘All right, all right.’

Katie stops. I shift on the sofa, the baby digging under my ribs. I suppose it doesn’t matter now.

‘I’m sorry, Katie. I wasn’t entirely honest with you.’

Katie frowns. ‘What do you mean? Why not?’

‘I suppose I knew you’d want to ask questions, and Daniel … he hates talking about it. We were interviewed about it, you see. By the police. The four of us. Daniel, Serena, Rory and I.’

Katie’s eyes widen. ‘Why?’

I shrug. ‘They thought we might have been in the boathouse. That we might have seen something.’ I look her in the eye. ‘We hadn’t seen anything, obviously. We’d been out punting all day. None of us had anything helpful to tell them.’ I sigh. ‘I wish we had. That poor girl.’

Katie considers this. ‘So why does Daniel hate talking about it so much?’

‘I just remember he was upset when those horrible boys got off. Even though there was nothing he could have done.’ I smile sadly at Katie. ‘It’s just what he’s like. He cares about people.’

On the table in front of us, Katie’s phone rings. ‘Probably work,’ she says. ‘Sorry.’ I motion that I’m going to the bathroom anyway.

When I come back, she is sitting on the very edge of the sofa.

‘Katie?’

‘It wasn’t work,’ she says quietly, looking up at me. ‘It was Daniel. He said he’d been trying to call you. Where’s your phone?’

I frown. ‘In my bag, I think, or … maybe in your kitchen. Why – what’s going on?’

She opens her mouth, closes it again.

‘Katie?’

‘He … he said you should come home straight away. The police are searching the offices –’

‘What, Daniel’s office?’

‘Yes … and … Helen, your brother’s been arrested.’

It can’t be real, I think. It doesn’t feel like real life.

‘Charlie?’

Katie shakes her head. ‘That’s just it. He said … he said they’d arrested Rory.’

SERENA

The room smells of bleach, of dust, of neglect. A single light hangs overhead. I take a seat in the grey plastic chair in front of a screen, a constellation of little holes drilled into the glass, like in a banking kiosk. A little gap underneath. I sit down, carefully, steadying myself on the glass, hugging my bump to my body. Things are getting more difficult now. I place my bag on the floor, twist to spread my coat across the back of the chair so it doesn’t crease. I sit there, waiting, for what seems like a long time.

Finally, there is a buzzing noise, harsh, institutional. The sound of a heavy door opening. And there, on the other side of the smeared glass, is my husband. A day-old stubble on his cheeks, a haunted look in his eyes. A blue nylon bib on his chest as if he is off to play five-a-side. Except he is not. He is in police custody, facing a charge of murder.

Rory’s eyes widen when he sees me.

‘Serena,’ he says. Then his face collapses. He slumps into the chair, covers his eyes with his hands, like a child trying to hide. His forearms are brown, still, although the colour has faded a little. Just a couple of weeks ago, we were still on holiday, sailing out to Capri. The sky had been overcast, but there had been a brightness behind the clouds that made you squint. The sort of day where you burn without realising.

I lean towards my husband, try to reach my hand through the flap. ‘No touching,’ a voice snaps from the corner.