The Guest, page 17
For a moment, Iris wished she hadn’t given in to Esme’s invitation. But they still hadn’t met Hamish and, during their daily telephone call yesterday, she had told Esme she was worried about Beth, who, since coming home two weeks before, hadn’t ventured out at all. She seemed content to stay close, working alongside Gabriel in the garden before coming in to help her prepare lunch or dinner. Iris knew Beth was worried about them, just as she was worried about Beth. They were all worried about each other, it seemed.
“Come over tomorrow,” Esme had said. “Please don’t refuse, Iris. Hugh and I would love to see you and Gabriel, and meet Beth. And you need to meet Hamish. And Marcus, Hugh’s son, will be here. It will be good for Beth to meet someone around her own age. You don’t have to stay for long if you don’t want to, but a change of scene will do you good.”
Iris knew Esme was right, so she’d agreed. It was only as she’d been getting ready this morning—it had been a relief to be forced into wearing something other than jogging bottoms and a T-shirt—that her mind had looped back to the circumstances of baby Hamish’s birth. It had been a welcome respite to be able to think of something other than the horror of Pierre’s murder, but Iris wished her thoughts hadn’t focused on Esme, and a possible relationship between her and Joseph. The fact that he’d been present at the birth, rather than Hugh, made her uneasy. That he had taken Esme to the hospital made sense. But to have stayed, to have been with her while she gave birth, to have been the one to hold the baby in the first seconds of his life—it felt somehow wrong. It couldn’t have been contrived; Esme couldn’t have planned to give birth while Hugh was up a mountain so that she could have Joseph by her side. But still.
It made Iris uncomfortable about seeing Joseph, and as they neared Esme and Hugh’s, she prayed he wouldn’t be there. There was also the problem of what she’d said to the police, about hearing him and Laure arguing. She felt she owed him an apology, but she wanted to talk to him on his own, not in front of everyone.
That morning, Gabriel said he wondered how Joseph was feeling, given that he’d been in a relationship with Laure, and Iris had realized that she’d been so caught up in her own emotions that she’d never once thought of Joseph in all of this. In her defense, she thought that his feelings couldn’t have run very deep in the space of a few weeks. It must have been a huge shock, however, for him to learn that Laure had murdered Pierre.
The pavement was too narrow for the three of them to walk abreast so Iris slipped behind and ran a worried eye over Beth. Despite being in shock when she’d first arrived, she had looked wonderfully healthy, her skin tanned a golden brown, her mahogany hair braided into a thick glossy rope. Now, despite spending most of the day outdoors in the garden, her face had an ashen pallor and there were hollows under her eyes. She had lost weight, they all had. Gabriel’s clothes hung off him, he needed a belt to keep his jeans up.
In their desire to be away from prying eyes, their pace quickened as they approached Esme and Hugh’s house. They were quickly swept into warm embraces and introduced to Hamish and Marcus, who was the image of his father but with a head of hair and no beard. As she watched Beth walking in the garden with Hamish in her arms, laughing at something Marcus was saying, Iris felt some of the tension leave her.
“Thank you,” she said, as Esme pressed a glass of chilled white wine into her hand. “I didn’t know how much we needed this.” She glanced over to where Gabriel was talking to Hugh. “Gabriel especially. He and Pierre had a special bond, and to think of his life ending in such a violent way is torture for him.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine how hard it must be for you all.”
Iris moved to a wicker chair and sat down. “We think that for Laure to have been driven to such an extreme act, there’s more to the story of Pierre having a child. Gabriel said he had doubts at one point. The problem is, we’ll never know.” She took a welcome sip of wine. “I feel so confused about everything, about how I should feel. Despite what she did, Laure was my friend. And I feel partially to blame for what happened. I should have noticed, paid more attention to her state of mind. When she came back from Paris, there was this feverishness about her which was totally at odds with how she’d been when she called me from Gare du Nord. To be honest, I was just glad that she was no longer depressed and crying, and I didn’t think to question the change in her mood.” Iris paused. “At the time, Gabriel wondered if her distress when she called me was an act. It obviously was.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Iris. Even if you had realized that Laure was mentally unstable when she came back from Paris, it would never have occurred to you that she had murdered Pierre.”
“There must have been a trigger. I don’t believe Laure went to Paris with the intention of killing him. He must have told her something that made her spiral out of control.”
“We saw her the day after, at yours, and she was as cool as a cucumber. It seems incredible that less than twenty-four hours earlier, she’d killed Pierre in cold blood.”
“She’d started drinking early that day, I remember. Maybe she was trying to blank out what she’d done.” Iris looked for something else to talk about. “Your garden is looking so much better.”
Esme nodded. “Having Joseph working full-time for the last three weeks has certainly helped.”
“How is he?”
“Devastated. Her death hit him hard, and being taken in for questioning was a huge shock. A shock to me and Hugh too, as we hadn’t known they were in a relationship.” She paused. “You tried to tell me but I’d hoped it wasn’t true. I didn’t think he would be good for Laure—yet it seems that he loved her. He couldn’t believe the police thought he might have had something to do with her death.”
“I need to apologize to him.”
“He’s not here today, he’s gone to see his mother.” She hesitated a moment. “You’ll be going to Paris this week?”
Iris nodded. They hadn’t gone to Laure’s funeral last week, but they were going to Pierre’s. “Yes, on Tuesday. The funeral is on Wednesday. Then back on Thursday.” Esme nodded slowly. “What?” Iris asked.
“It’s just that Joseph doesn’t believe that Laure killed Pierre.”
“Neither did we. And yet it seems that she did.”
“He said she wouldn’t have been capable of it.”
“There was a lot more to Laure than any of us knew.” Iris’s voice was sad. “And I’m sorry, but Joseph only knew her for a few weeks. I don’t think he could have known the true essence of Laure in such a short a time.”
“I agree. It’s probably his grief speaking.” Esme looked toward the garden. “Beth is lovely. You must be so proud of her.”
Iris smiled. “Thank you. Yes, we are, we’re tremendously proud of her. It’s lovely having her around, although it’s probably not so great for her. Gabriel and I aren’t much fun at the moment.”
“I’m sure she understands. And if she ever needs a change of scene, she can always come here and cuddle Hamish.”
* * *
“They’re so lovely,” Beth said, as they walked home two hours later. “Esme says I can go around whenever I want.”
Iris nodded. “She’s amazing like that. Her door is always open, literally. She’s fine about people just walking in.”
Beth smiled. “That’s so cool. I would hate it. Imagine someone dropping by when you’ve got a face mask on, or are still in your pajamas.”
“Neither of those things would faze Esme at all. Whereas I can’t think of anything worse.”
“Yet you coped really well when Laure turned up uninvited and made herself at home.”
Iris blinked back sudden tears, touched by Beth’s compliment but feeling unworthy of it. “On the surface perhaps. But she was beginning to exasperate me. I feel terrible about that now. And we didn’t go to her funeral,” she added, her voice breaking. “We couldn’t. It would have been as if we were condoning what she’d done.”
Beth linked her arm through Iris’s. “Stop beating yourself up about it, Mum. You were right not to go. And if you do feel bad, just remember that she killed Pierre.” Her voice hardened. “That should get rid of any pity you feel toward Laure.”
49
Gabriel stared out of the train window. Now that Pierre’s funeral was over, the little energy that had carried him through it had drained out of him. They’d soon be at St. Pancras and he felt so bone-weary he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it off the train.
What alarmed him the most was that he didn’t seem to be able to give himself the mental shake that he needed. Yes, the last year had been hard; his beloved father and equally beloved dog had died; he had found Charlie near to death in the quarry; his best friend had been murdered by his wife, who had then jumped to her death. He could be forgiven for feeling depressed. But it was his inability to find anything positive to hang on to that worried him. His marriage wasn’t in a great place, and he had no inclination to go back to work as a GP. Beth—the only thing that got him up in the morning—would soon be going to university, and the walled garden would soon be finished, so he wouldn’t even have that to do.
Beth hadn’t wanted to come to the funeral, and he and Iris had been happy to let her stay behind. He hadn’t wanted her to see the tears he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back; he couldn’t have coped with her distress at his distress. It was also something he felt he and Iris needed to do together, by themselves, because once it was over, their shared relief that they could now get on with their lives would hopefully bring them closer. Except that it hadn’t. Last night, in their hotel, they might have been in different rooms for the little they’d said to each other. It seemed there were no words big enough to bridge the gap between them.
It was the same at home. If he walked into the kitchen, and found Iris already there, he would mumble Sorry, help himself quickly to whatever he wanted and leave. When had it come to the point, he wondered, where he was apologizing for going into his own kitchen?
He pressed his head into the head rest so that he could see Iris’s reflection in the window. She was sitting upright, staring straight ahead of her and the bleakness on her face made him instinctively reach for her hand. She didn’t grip his, or even hold it. Her hand lay limply in his, as if she was only tolerating his touch, and because to snatch it away would have been rude.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, turning to her.
He saw a flare of anger in her eyes and steeled himself for a What do you think? But, perhaps in deference to the other passengers, she gave a tight nod. He saw the woman sitting opposite glance at Iris, and when she turned her eyes on him and gave him a sympathetic smile, he wanted to lean across and shout at her not to judge his wife, because she didn’t know everything she’d been through. But he was scared that once he began, the anger and the bitterness and the unfairness of it all would explode out of him, and he wouldn’t be able to stop.
Claire had been at the funeral. After, as they’d left the crematorium, he’d wanted to speak to her, but she’d been with friends, and Iris hadn’t wanted to interrupt them. But when Iris had got caught up in a conversation with Pierre’s work colleagues, Claire had seen him standing alone and had come to speak to him.
“I’m so sorry,” she’d said. “I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you and Iris, coming so soon after Laure. I know how close the four of you were. It’s hard enough for us.” She indicated the group of friends.
“It doesn’t seem possible that they’ve both gone,” Gabriel had said. “And in such terrible circumstances.” He’d hesitated and then plunged on, because he would probably never see her again, and he needed to know. “Do you know what happened, why Laure left Pierre?”
Claire had shaken her head. “All Pierre told me was that they’d decided to take a break from each other and that Laure had gone to stay with you and Iris in England. He never said why and I never asked because if he’d wanted to tell me, he would have. From the little he said, it seemed to have been a mutual decision.” She’d exchanged a rueful smile with him. “You know how private he was, how he never really shared his problems with anyone, preferring to go off by himself when he was feeling low. It’s why, when he messaged me and said he was going away for the whole of July, I didn’t think anything of it. It was what he did.” She’d hesitated then, as if she wasn’t sure if she should continue. “I can’t believe it of Laure, I really can’t. I know I have to, but it seems—I don’t know, unfathomable. Even if he was having an affair, which I doubt, why kill him?”
He’d been tempted to ask Claire if she’d heard anything about Pierre having a child. But he hadn’t, because the more he thought about it—and he had, a lot—the more he was convinced that Laure had lied. The fact that they would never know the truth, and so never really have closure, made moving on doubly hard.
He was roused from his thoughts by Iris removing her hand from his. He waited to see if she needed it to rummage in her bag, or rub her eye, but she simply folded it into her other hand, lying in her lap. His heart went out to her; he could almost see her inner turmoil and wished he could help. But she seemed so out of reach.
And then there was Maggie Ingram. Acknowledging that he’d kept her waiting long enough, he’d rescheduled their meeting for a week on Tuesday. He could have made it sooner, but he thought he might need some downtime after the grueling, desperate experience of Pierre’s funeral. Once he’d seen her, he hoped that everyone would leave him alone, and he’d finally be able grieve in peace for his friend.
50
Iris felt terrible for removing her hand from Gabriel’s. She hated that she couldn’t bear for him to touch her, hated that she was unable to comfort him, especially at a time like this, when he had buried his best friend. But she couldn’t allow him to penetrate the steel barrier she had mentally constructed around herself to contain the terrifying emotions that had piled up inside her, afraid that they would come spewing out in one massive, violent jet. Because if they did, that would be the end of her. Iris Pelley would cease to exist.
She also hated that uppermost in her mind wasn’t Gabriel, or Pierre, or even Laure. It was Joseph who invaded her thoughts as she sat on the train on their way back to London. It had been a mistake to go and see him, she realized bitterly, a mistake to think that he would forgive her.
She had gone to see him at Esme’s on Monday. The front door had been unusually closed, and Iris remembered Esme saying the previous day that she had an appointment at the doctor’s for Hamish the next morning. She had taken the path around the side of the house, expecting to find Joseph working in the garden. There’d been no sign of him, and when she knocked on the door of his cottage, there had been no answer.
She shouldn’t have gone in, she knew that now. But when she’d tried the door, it had swung open, almost as if it was inviting her in. She’d been curious; there had been so many jokes about Joseph living in a shed that she’d wanted to see what it was like.
It looked surprisingly comfortable. The door opened onto a main room, with a sofa along the right-hand wall, and on the opposite wall, a kitchen area with a double gas ring and a fridge. In the center of the room, there was a small wooden table and two chairs.
Opening the door to the left of the main door, she’d found a small a bedroom with a double bed and a chest of drawers. Pushing away images of Laure and Joseph there together, she had moved to the door to the right of the bed. As she had expected, it led to a compact shower room.
Back in the main room, she’d pulled open the cupboard doors and found blue and white striped crockery, saucepans and cans of beans, chickpeas and soup. She should have left then, and waited for Joseph outside. Instead, she had sat on the sofa, imagining what it would be like to live there, away from everyone and everything. Here, she remembered thinking, I would find peace.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Joseph’s voice, angry and disbelieving, had broken abruptly into her thoughts. He was standing in the doorway, his face dark with something Iris feared might be loathing.
“I-I’ve come to apologize,” she’d stammered, scrambling to her feet.
Before she could say anything further, he had stepped away from the door so that he was no longer blocking it.
“Please leave.”
“I just want to explain,” she’d said, flustered. “It was an honest mistake, I really did think you and Laure had been arguing. I—” She stopped. Joseph had stepped toward her. “Now!” he had almost shouted.
The memory made her cheeks flame with embarrassment. She wanted to ask Gabriel something, but it was several minutes before she could summon enough saliva to be able to speak.
“Joseph’s not coming back to work for us, is he?” she asked.
Gabriel turned to her, his eyebrows raised, and she knew how odd it must have sounded, that she was talking about Joseph when she’d barely said two words to him since Pierre’s funeral yesterday.
“Yes, he should be there now. I asked Hugh on Sunday if we could have him back to finish the garden and he said he would send him around this week. He was probably there on Tuesday too. I should have asked Beth if he turned up.”
“Why?” Iris tried to hide her panic. “I mean, why can’t you finish it yourself? There’s not much to do now, is there?”
