‘Oooh,’ I moaned. Bruce climbed into my lap, tail wagging so hard that his whole body quivered. He rested his forepaws on my chest, nosed my chin, then began licking the tears from my face.
I sat on the Embankment on a beautiful summer day clutching Bruce’s leash in my hand like a lifeline, and began to bawl.
TEN
‘The Ford Fiesta is not just the best-selling car of December but of the whole year, selling a staggering 117,296 models by the end of 2009 [taking over] the top UK sales position from the Ford Focus. The pair retained first and second place in the sales charts through to the end of the year. After the Focus follows the Vauxhall Corsa, Vauxhall Astra, Volkswagen Golf, Peugeot 207, Mini, BMW 3-series, Vauxhall Insignia and Ford Mondeo.’Faye Sunderland, ‘Green Car Becomes Top-Selling Model of 2009,’ January 7, 2010, www.TheGreenCarWebsite.co.uk
I don’t suppose anyone was happy about Susan’s death except Samantha and Victoria Brelsford who had inherited, at least for the time being, Susan’s dog, Bruce.
After an early dinner, Janet’s daughters retreated to their bedroom in the owner’s apartment where they proceeded to dress him up in baby clothes and spoil ‘Brucie’ with Sizzlers bacon treats.
I had no appetite for dinner. Claiming a headache – not so far from the truth – I’d gone up to my room early, changed into my Betty Boop pajamas, and was trying to read a Christopher Buckley novel, but even Buckley’s offbeat sense of humor wasn’t keeping my brain engaged. My thoughts kept wandering back to that morning, to Susan’s lifeless body, her vacant eyes, and I’d lose my place. I had read page twenty-three for perhaps the fifth time when there was a gentle knock on my door. ‘Hannah?’
It was Janet.
I checked my watch, surprised to discover that it was only eight o’clock. I padded to the door in my bare feet to see what she wanted.
‘The girls are settled, Alan’s down at the Cherub. Would you care to join me in the lounge for a glass of wine?’
I managed to dredge up a smile. ‘Thanks for not asking me how I’m doing, Janet.’
‘I know how you’re feeling, Hannah. Gutted.’ She touched my arm lightly. ‘Come as you are. By the time you get downstairs, I’ll be in my pajamas, too.’
After Janet left, I splashed some water on my face, then wandered over to the wardrobe where I found the fluffy terrycloth robe Janet provided for each of her guests, pulled it off the padded hanger and slipped into it gratefully. I spent several frustrating minutes looking for my slippers before remembering that I hadn’t packed any, then padded downstairs wearing a pair of the gray wool socks Paul never travelled anywhere without.
The door to the lounge was propped open with an iron cat sculpture with marbles for eyes. Inside, I found Janet already sitting on the couch, legs stretched out, feet propped up on the coffee table next to a bottle of red wine and two balloon glasses. The television was on, its volume muted.
Janet patted the sofa cushion next to her, indicating I should park myself there. ‘Red or red?’
‘After carefully considering the options, I’ll take red.’
She poured, but when she passed the glass to me, it was so large I had to use both hands.
We sat in companionable silence, slowly sipping, watching the screen numbly as a silent parade of policemen, some apparently wearing cameras affixed to their heads, brought petty criminals to justice on the highways, byways and back gardens of Britain.
‘We were just becoming good friends. And the girls adored her!’ Janet sobbed for the third or fourth time since I’d returned to Horn Hill House and delivered the bad news. She snatched a tissue from the box that sat on the sofa between us and blew her nose.
I choked up, too, thinking of my mother and missing her terribly. With Susan gone, that door had slammed shut. It was as if Mother had died all over again. I reached for a fresh tissue.
Janet had inverted the wine bottle over my glass, wringing out the last few drops, when the clock on the mantel chimed ten. Susan switched to the evening news on BBC One, and we sat through stories about the Iraq war, swine flu, rising university tuition fees and how eating fish might protect us from Alzheimers, but surprisingly, there was no mention of Susan Parker’s death.
At 10:25, BBC One gave way to Spotlight BBC South-West. Janet aimed the remote, and turned up the sound.
A news reader with perfectly styled, variegated blond hair fixed serious blue eyes on the camera lens and began:‘A woman has been killed by a car in Dartmouth, Devon, following a hit and run, say police. They are keen to trace a dark-colored car with front near side damage and a missing wing mirror, possibly a Vauxhall, which failed to stop at the scene. The woman was treated at the roadside and pronounced dead at the scene. Police are appealing for anyone with information to call them on 0800-555-1111, or Crimestoppers, anonymously.’
‘That’s it? That’s all they’re going to say about it?’
Janet flapped a hand. ‘Shhh. Look! That’s Royal Park Garden!’
While I sputtered in outrage, the camera cut to a panorama of the historic park that stood opposite the Embankment near the spot where Susan had died. Viewers were treated to serene close-ups of the Victorian fountain, cheerfully splashing, flower beds in summer profusion, and tourists resting their weary bones on park benches, before coming to rest on a reporter standing in front of the bandstand, the midday sun highlighting his hair like a halo as the wind swirled it around his head.
The woman in the pink warm-ups must have hung around the scene for some time after the ambulance took Susan away, because she loitered at the reporter’s right, shifting her weight nervously back and forth from one trainer-clad foot to another, almost as if she were jogging in place. ‘I saw the driver’s face!’ she told the reporter. ‘Screwed up like this, it was.’ She furrowed her brow until her eyes became slits. Her lips formed a firm straight line. ‘Determined, I’d say. Drove that car deliberately over the curb and aimed it straight at that poor woman!’
‘Was the driver a man or a woman?’ the reporter asked, then thrust the microphone in the direction of her brightly painted mouth.
‘I think it was a woman, but it could have been a very short man. The driver was looking through the steering wheel, like this.’ She raised her hands to a ten and two o’clock position and scowled between them in the direction of the camera. ‘Whoever it was had white hair, I’m sure of that. Or maybe it was blond.’
I sat up as straight as anyone could while cradling an oversize wine glass in both hands. ‘You didn’t mention that this morning, you stupid cow!’ I shouted at the florid face now filling Janet’s television screen. ‘Or maybe you did, and I wasn’t paying attention.’ I collapsed, melting back into the cushions. ‘They must still be trying to notify Susan’s next of kin, right? Otherwise they’d be reporting her name?’
‘That shouldn’t take long. Susan’s face will be all over the news by morning.’ Janet flicked the controls and the television screen went blank. ‘We’re out of wine,’ she announced after a moment in which the only sound was that of a toilet flushing somewhere in the house. ‘But the situation is easily remedied.’ She winked. ‘I know where Alan keeps the key. Back in a tick.’
And she was, too, carrying two bottles of Cotes du Rhone Villages 1996 and a corkscrew. As she held one of the bottles between her knees and worked the cork out, she said, ‘I hope this isn’t something Alan’s saving for a special occasion.’
‘You’re a clever girl. You’ll think of something to tell him.’ I held my glass out for a refill.