You Can Trust Me by Emma Rowley

Author:Emma Rowley
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2020-06-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 39

I should be going down for the dinner party. It is time to celebrate the end of the week, with drinks and good food and an evening of strangers, which will be a blessed relief.

Instead I am sitting here on my bed in a wet towel, not doing anything. It will stay with me for a long time, that hour that has just passed.

I hadn’t known quite what question to ask first.

We were in the living room off the kitchen, as usual. Annie was looking after Bea, upstairs; Josh had gone out to pick up some more wine. Olivia started talking, with me still fumbling to switch on my digital recorder.

It’s next to me now, a small black shape on the bedside table. And my head is full of her story, the images her words conjured up in my mind.

The quiet night. The roar from within the burning house. The knock on the door at a cottage, far away. And running through it all, the soft trickle of Olivia’s voice ...

Afterward I opened my laptop. I felt compelled to start writing, while it was all still fresh in my mind.

I was falling back on what I do, as a ghostwriter: it is my way of understanding, processing things. I have not written much so far, and I know I can’t tell the whole truth, laying out all that I know.

But, at last, I have made a proper start to her story. No wonder I couldn’t get to grips with it before, when I was missing this—the foundation stone of who she is.

Now I glance over it again, on the laptop screen. As usual, it is not her words, not exactly, but I think I have captured their essence. The story just flowed out of her, like a dam had been broken. There were tears, a shocking amount.

In fact, I reflect now, it was almost as if she had just been waiting for the chance to tell her story. For some people it can be like that: an unburdening.

But I really must get going. I haven’t worn makeup all week, but it’s a party, isn’t it? And I want to blend in with her crowd . . .

As I stand up, I press play again to listen to the session as I move around the room. I hang the black dress Olivia loaned me in the bathroom, so the steam from my shower can get out the creases.

Her voice on the tape is measured, her composure intact—for the first few minutes.

“The main thing I want people to know is that they can get through hard times—tragedy, even. If I can, they can, too. Does that sound about right?”

I had nodded. Then she started to tell me what happened.

“It had been a long, hot summer. No rain . . .”

I begin to put on foundation, letting the story wash over me, one ear alert to any gaps I must fill in later. I don’t think there are many.

“We hadn’t been away until then—perhaps because the weather had been so beautiful.

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