My Best Friend's Murder Read online

  ‘That would be lovely.’ Funny to think we ran in and out of the Waverlys’ house as children, as if it were our own. Now, aside from Rich, I barely see them. ‘I was sorry Charlie and Laura couldn’t make it tonight.’

  ‘They wanted to,’ Jenny says as David drifts away raising one hand in a lazy farewell. ‘They’ve got a lot on. And if Henry hadn’t just been over, I’m sure he’d have popped in. You know he likes a party. Now, don’t be a stranger.’

  She plants a kiss on both my cheeks then heads out of the door after David, leaving me standing on my own in the middle of the room. I wander over to the vintage drinks trolley parked by the enormous Christmas tree at the back of the room. As I’m walking, I notice the carpet in here is new. It’s blush-coloured and heavily textured, already wearing the tiny smudges of people’s footprints. Izzy clearly didn’t ask people to take their shoes off like she did to me when she replaced the carpet in her bedroom. I smirk, imagining Jenny Waverly’s reaction to being asked to remove her Tod’s. Then I pour red wine into a glass the size of a fishbowl and take a gulp.

  ‘Hey, you.’ Rich materialises at my side. ‘I wanted to say thanks for the chat outside. You helped me see that Iz going back to work could be a good thing.’

  ‘I didn’t really say anything.’

  ‘You listened. That helped me sort my head out.’

  It’s sweet of Rich to credit me but I know he’d have come to the conclusion on his own.

  ‘I mean it. I needed someone to tell me Izzy could handle it and that I should wake up and smell the roses. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  I go to reply, and I don’t know quite how it happens, but all of a sudden my wine glass is lolling on the floor, the contents seeping into the carpet. My hands are wet and Rich is covered in splatters of wine that make him look like a slasher victim.

  ‘Oh my god, what happened?’ Izzy’s voice could cut glass. She hurries over to inspect the huge purple mark ballooning onto the carpet. Against the pale pink, it looks like a particularly vicious bruise blooming on the skin of a face.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I begin, but Rich cuts in.

  ‘My fault.’ He holds his hands up like he’s being arrested. ‘I lost my balance and knocked into Bec. Did I get you?’

  ‘I’m sure there’s no harm done.’ Izzy sweeps her eyes across my dress. ‘The one advantage of navy means nothing shows up on it.’

  ‘Have you got any white wine?’ Ed is on his haunches examining the stain. ‘It might neutralize the discolouration.’

  ‘I don’t think white wine will stand a chance against this.’ Rich nudges it with his foot. ‘It’s no biggie. We were talking about redecorating this room anyway, weren’t we, darling?’

  Izzy makes a visible effort to iron the frown out of her forehead. She doesn’t mention that they’ve just finished redecorating this room, but the carpet and the new chandelier glinting overhead give her away. ‘You know I never say no to a project.’

  ‘Of course, we’ll pay for a new carpet.’ Ed brushes fluff off his trousers and gives me a squeeze.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, mate. It was totally my fault.’ Rich insists.

  ‘Nonsense. Bec’s the one who dropped the glass. We don’t want to put you out.’

  ‘We can sort it out later. Let’s not let it ruin our evening.’ Izzy brightens. ‘Can I get anyone another drink? Bec, you need a whole new glass, hon. Maybe you should stick to white this time?’

  Despite Izzy furnishing me with another, smaller glass of wine, the party breaks up shortly afterwards. Rob has a client early in the morning and the other guests follow him out the door. Ed and I stay another half an hour but the energy’s gone out of it, like flat champagne. When Ed says we should go because he might have to head into the office in the morning, Izzy makes vague noises about staying for one more but I can tell her heart’s not really in it.

  ‘I’m sorry about the carpet,’ I tell her when we’re standing in the doorway together. Ed’s gone onto the street to flag down our driver so I don’t have to walk in my heels.

  ‘Don’t worry, you can get me a new one for Christmas.’ She’s staring over my shoulder, tracking Ed’s progress.

  ‘I don’t mind paying for it.’ I start shivering. It seems to be getting colder.

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I was joking. It’s fine.’ Izzy’s face looks pinched. ‘Now, I probably won’t have time to see you before the big day but you’re still coming, right? No last-minute plans to head north and celebrate with Ed?’

  ‘Of course I’m coming. I come to you for Christmas every year.’ I don’t mention that Ed wasn’t thrilled when I told him I wanted to continue the tradition this year. In the end, he conceded he’d hardly given Christmas with his family – particularly his feral nephews – the best sell. I told him I’d use the time by myself to do some wedding planning and promised to come with him next year. ‘Are you sure I can’t bring anything? I know you said chocolates but I could do starters as well. Or maybe a pud?’

  ‘You know we don’t do starters on Christmas Day. And Jenny’s already doing the Christmas cake. Chocolates are fine. They’re coming for twelve sharp, does that suit?’

  ‘I can come earlier?’ Last year, I went over at the crack of dawn and we got tipsy on Buck’s Fizz before she started cooking. It wasn’t the best Christmas dinner but it was a laugh.

  ‘Twelve’s better. I’m sure you’ll want to spend the morning talking to your family and Ed. Speaking of which, that must be your Uber.’

  She points at a black Lexus crawling down the street. It pulls up outside and Ed rolls down the window.

  ‘Two secs,’ I call. I turn to Izzy, needing to ask. ‘Are you sure everything’s okay with us?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’ The note of impatience in her voice makes me feel like a needy boyfriend.

  ‘Positive?’

  ‘Look, Bec—’ Izzy’s sentence is cut off by the sound of a small voice calling ‘Mummy’ from inside.

  ‘For Pete’s sake, it’s like that child doesn’t need any sleep at all.’ Izzy grits her teeth. I look past her and see Tilly’s heart-shaped face peering out from between the bannisters.

  ‘Do you want me to come in and help?’ I seize the opportunity to get things back on track. ‘I could start tidying up while you put her to bed? Ed won’t mind going home alone.’

  ‘Thanks, Bec, but I’ve got this. Go home and have a lie-in. Ed’s heading up north next weekend, isn’t he? You should be with him.’

  And with that, she steps back across the threshold and closes the door, leaving me standing in the cold.

  Seven

  Thursday 20 December

  4.01 p.m.

  On the last day before the magazine closes for Christmas, Tina, our editor, tells us we can all knock off at 4 p.m. I’ve spent most of the day looking up wedding venues and sending the links to Ed anyway. The issue before Christmas always goes to press early and the place is like a ghost ship. Normally I linger in the office, tidying my desk and making sure my inbox is empty. Today I’m first out the door. I leave the rest of the team cracking into a bottle of prosecco sent in by an advertiser and leg it to the lift. If I hurry, I can hit the shops and pick up a few last-minute bits before the after-work crowd floods the high street.

  Clearly I’m not the only one to have this idea. I step out of the building into a tide of people with bright scarves and sharp elbows pushing and shoving their way towards Oxford Street. With five shopping days left until Christmas all the shops are open late and the whole street’s rammed. Part of me is tempted to give up and go home. I’ve done all my Christmas shopping already. But I have something special in mind for Tilly. I’m so excited I don’t think the day will be the same without it. I duck into the passageway that leads directly into St Christopher’s Place to escape the tramping feet. It’s not much quieter. The whole square’s lit up like a fairyland and the restaurants are teeming with people and office Christmas parties. I duck past a crowd
wearing particularly garish Christmas jumpers and cut up through the back streets towards Selfridges to pick up Tilly’s present.

  Despite having to jostle for space when I get there, I find myself pausing outside the entrance, staring at the window display. Mum used to bring Rob and I up here on the first day of the Christmas holidays to see the decorations. Sometimes Rich and his family would come and we’d get a milkshake in the American diner around the corner. Tonight’s futuristic setting of Father Christmas on the moon, complete with shiny red space suit, is a far cry from the traditional windows we used to see in our childhood. But it makes me think of Mum. I smile. She’d be chuffed I was spending Christmas Day with Jenny and David. Which reminds me, I may as well have a browse to see if there’s anything they’d like. I pull open Selfridge’s shiny brass doors and step inside. Before I go to the children’s department, I nip into the books section.

  I find what I’m looking for almost at once, a trilogy of novels by Simon Sebag Montefiore, set in Russia during the war. I don’t know what Rich is writing about but for some reason I imagine a World War Two epic. He loved history at school. While I’m there, I pick up a book on gardening for Jenny. For David, the latest doom-and-gloom analysis of the economy. I take a quick look on the 3-for-2 table for Izzy but she’s not really a reader. Plus I’ve already got her present. I framed a picture of us in our early twenties, one of those rare ones where we both look nice, even though I’m slightly out of focus. I know she’ll like the frame; it’s a silver Vera Wang with a pretty bow in the corner. I’m planning on having them on my wedding list. I grab another sticker book for Tilly and take the books up to the counter. Armed with two distinctive yellow Selfridges bags, I make my way up to the children’s toy department, where I have it on good authority (Jules got the press release) that there’s an American Girl concession.

  I smell it before I see it. Selfridges have cleverly positioned the pop-up next to a sweetshop, and the cloying smell of chocolate and melted sugar hits my nostrils as soon as I turn the corner. The American Girl awning makes the shop’s front windows look like a dress rehearsal. Glittery snow falls over an alpine village, complete with ski lifts, polar bears and snowball fights. There’s even fake snow piled up outside and a red carpet winding off the main shop floor. Inside the shelves are packed with rows of dolls in every colour, each clad in the latest winter fashions. In one corner, shop assistants do the dolls’ hair, while in another, there’s a spaceship almost as tall as I am. It’s a world away from the Barbie-or-Cindy choice Izzy and I grew up with. I can’t wait to see Tilly’s face when she opens it.

  I got the idea when I was round at the Waverlys’ a few months ago and Tilly had a friend from nursery over. The friend had an American Girl doll with her and both girls were obsessed by it. Jules confirmed the dolls are the hottest playground commodity going. When Izzy suggested that I might want to buy a basket or a bell for the bike they’re getting Tilly, I told her fine but I had other ideas. I want this to be a surprise.

  Tilly’s a girly girl like her mum so I gravitate towards the girls with long hair and dresses. There are dolls in cheerleader costumes, dolls that are dressed up for prom and ones that ice-skate. In the end, I’m torn between two. The first has long blonde hair, wide green eyes and looks not dissimilar to Tilly herself. She’s wearing a skirt and jacket suit combination and carrying a briefcase, like the working-girl doll she’s supposed to be. The other has dark hair and a fringe. In jeans and a hoodie, she’s plainer but she has a dog on a lead that looks like Missy. Tilly loves Missy. I pick the dolls up and hold them side-by-side. If I squint a little, they look a bit like Izzy and me. Same types; Izzy all suited and booted and me slumming it. That decides it. I pick up the dark-haired doll and join the huge queue at the counter. If you don’t choose yourself, how can you expect anyone else to?

  6.28 p.m.

  The drumroll thump of Missy’s tail is the only thing that greets me when I get home. Ed must be working late. I consider going for a run but the programme Rob’s set has me going tomorrow morning so I open the fridge instead. It’s like investigating a crime scene; drips of old food and what looks like the decaying carcass of old fried chicken at the back. I need to be more like Izzy, planning my meals at the beginning of the week. I call Ed and see whether he wants to get a takeaway when he gets back.

  ‘Hey, sweetie.’ I flip the lid of the bread bin. A pair of crumpets that have seen better days. ‘What do you want for dinner?’

  ‘Er.’ There’s static on the line. It sounds like he’s outside. ‘Did I not mention I’d be back late tonight?’

  ‘You didn’t say.’ There goes our evening of watching Christmas movies together. Since Ed got made partner last year his hours seem to have doubled. I shouldn’t complain, though; it’s not as if he’s enjoying himself. I cross the hallway into the sitting room and settle myself on the sofa, trying to ignore the stripes of grey paint on the wall above the TV. One of these days we really need to decide which colour we’re going to paint this room.

  ‘Sorry, last-minute client dinner –’ more static ‘– be a late one, but don’t worry, I know we’ve got dinner tomorrow. I’ll make sure I’m not too wrecked. I want to be on good form for you before I go away.’

  ‘No worries.’ Perhaps I’ll get a takeaway on my own. I’m about to hang up when I hear someone giggle in the background. It sounds like…

  ‘Is Izzy with you?’

  ‘She is indeed. We started going through some of the CS accounts so I flicked her a message to see if she could pop in. Then when the dinner got pulled together, it made sense for her to join. Do you want to speak to her?’

  ‘No, you’re all right. I’ve got to go. Try not to wake Missy up when you come in.’

  ‘I’ll be as quiet as a slightly tipsy mouse. Love you.’

  I find myself frowning at the phone after Ed hangs up. I know it’s stupid to feel jealous. She wouldn’t mind if I spent the evening with Rich. Looking the way she does, she wouldn’t have to. I don’t like Ed’s co-workers so it’s not as if it’s an evening I want to be on anyway. But Izzy’s always complaining how busy she is. Ed only had to ‘flick over’ a message and she dropped everything. I sent Izzy three text messages today. She hasn’t replied to a single one.

  Eight

  Friday 21 December

  6.52 p.m.

  I stare into the dregs of my drink and think about ordering another. Given the time Ed crawled in last night, I have a feeling he’s not going to be up for a big night. He didn’t even stir when I got up to go for a run and he spent so long in the shower I thought he might have fallen asleep. I look at the door again but aside from the sturdy bouncer fiddling with his earpiece, there’s no movement. At least I’ve got a seat. This place is down a side street off Bank station and when I eventually found it, there was a crowd of people milling outside. They must have all been leaving though because inside is quiet. The ceilings in the restaurant are high and vaulted – I read online that the restaurant was an old merchant bank until a few years ago – and there are a few couples dotted around underneath them. But the bar area is darker. Besides me, there’s only one guy, in his mid-fifties with a perma-tan. He looks a bit like David Dickinson and he keeps glancing over. The velvet French Connection dress I’m wearing is more low cut than I realized. I wonder if I should ask to go straight to my seat. I’d feel less conspicuous if I was sitting at a table with a white starched tablecloth instead of at a dimly lit bar. I finger my engagement ring pointedly and decide to wait it out. I’m probably imagining things.

  I’m on the verge of ordering another drink when I see Ed framed in the doorway at the top of the stairs, a stressed look on his face and his laptop case slung over one arm. I try to get his attention. Izzy mastered the art of wafting her hand through the air in the sixth form common room. I, on the other hand, shoot my arm into the air like a rescue flare.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Ed shucks off his coat and deposits his laptop case on the hook under the bar
. ‘One of our American clients didn’t seem to grasp we’re five hours ahead and that it was most definitely close of business. Do you want another drink? I’m getting a scotch.’

  The man with the perma-tan throws the rest of his drink back and wraps his coat around his shoulders like a cape. He leers at me as he struts past on his way to the door.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Ed stares after him as he leaves.

  ‘Nothing. Are you really having a scotch? You’re brave.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ed waves the bartender over.

  ‘It must have been about four when you finally made it into bed.’

  ‘I’m hardcore,’ Ed says, with a slightly fragile-looking grin.

  ‘Was Izzy similarly incapacitated?’

  ‘I hardly saw her.’ Ed orders our drinks. He can say what he likes about being hardcore but his hands are shaking. ‘Why, what has she said?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to her today.’ I don’t mention that she hasn’t replied to my messages. Is she really that hacked off about a carpet? There was that time at school she refused to speak to me for ages because I bought the same Jansport rucksack as her. So maybe she is. Ed’s expression relaxes as he takes a sip of his drink.

  ‘Shall we go to our table? I hope you’ll like this place. One of the guys from work recommended it.’

  I follow Ed to the lectern by the entrance where he gives our names. A moment later, the maître d’, a man with the stereotypical slicked-back hair and pencil-thin moustache of a French waiter, leads us to a table by the window. I can see the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral and the glitter of the city lights laid out before us.

  ‘What a view,’ I say.

  ‘I second that.’ Ed smiles at me and I blush.