How to Kill Your Best Friend Page 2

  “Jem wanted it to be a celebration of—her. Though I don’t expect the staff have much experience of planning memorials, hence . . .” He gestures with the fingers of one hand, the smallest of movements that somehow seems to sweep in the tableau in front of us and the staff behind it all. I don’t see Lissa in any of it. “It’s quite different to Graeme’s funeral, isn’t it?”

  Graeme. Kind, funny Graeme. Lissa’s first love and first husband; Adam’s best friend. But the last thing I want to do is talk about Graeme. “Who is that?” I nod toward Jem and the uniformed man. Behind them, I can see Lissa’s parents, sitting at a table with several other people, their plates loaded with food. Lissa’s father is tucking in, but her mother hasn’t even picked up her cutlery. I wonder if she’s even aware of the plate in front of her. I look away quickly.

  “The chief of police. I can’t for the life of me remember his name, but he’s decent; he did all the right things after she went missing.” I look at him, nonplussed, and he explains. “You know, search parties with all the local fishermen—the ones that weren’t too scared to go out, that is—and interviews with all of us, that sort of thing. There was a vested interest from the locals to find her; they’re all terrified that Jem will close the hotel now.”

  “Will he?”

  He shrugs. We lapse into silence for a moment, and then his words tweak at me. “Too scared to go out. What did you mean by that?”

  “There’s a local legend about Kanu Cove. Some kind of sea serpent is supposed to frequent there: a snake or a dragon or something like that. Some of the traditionalists think she was taken as tribute. Or punishment—”

  “Punishment?” I swing round to him. “For what?”

  “It’s a centuries-old myth, Georgie; it’s not exactly big on detail. This snake-thingy likes them young and female, I’m told, but beyond that, the story varies. Anyway, one or two of the fishermen didn’t want anyone to go searching for her at all. Apparently they thought it might be unwise to look like you’re asking for your tribute back.” I realize my mouth is open and close it sharply. Adam’s lips twist wryly at my expression. “Yeah, I know, but don’t worry, the search was really thorough. Two more fishing boats wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  A waitress pauses by us with a tray of mixed cocktails; Adam waves her on. “Hey,” I exclaim, even though I wasn’t planning to take a drink at all. “What if I wanted one?”

  “You’re not stupid enough to drink today of all days.”

  I grimace. “I hope you can still say that at the end of the night.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll be here.” To stop me, or regardless of what happens? I can’t tell what he means. He rubs at his jawline, and I suddenly remember how it felt when his stubble scraped over my bare shoulder. Was that the last occasion when I had a drink? No, that would have been when I last saw Lissa, of course. I stare resolutely out over the milling crowd. After a moment, I gesture at Lissa’s father, Philip. He’s by a drinks station now, grinning at a very pretty young waitress, who is looking up at him rather coyly. Philip is an actor of some repute. Right now I would guess he’s playing charmingly debonair Englishman with just a hint of lovable rogue. It’s not a new role for him. “Christ, is he at it today of all days?”

  Adam glances over. “Mmm. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

  “Yes, but you can neuter them,” I say viciously.

  “I don’t think his wife is the neutering kind.” I glance across at Diane again. She’s as beautifully put together as ever, in white of course, sitting perfectly upright at the table; I’m not sure she’s moved since I last glanced at her, though her table companions have melted away. I thought perhaps she was in shock, but no—there’s something about her posture, about the set of her mouth. She seems too tightly reined in for shock.

  Adam observes quietly, “You know, you didn’t call me back.”

  I glance at him sharply, then just as quickly I look away. “No.” Oh dear God. Where’s a rug to brush things under when you need one? I hadn’t expected him to bring that up—I hadn’t expected to see him here at all. He was never the biggest fan of Lissa. He wasn’t at university with us; he was really just part of the swimming gang as Duncan’s friend—and also Graeme’s, originally. I’d anticipated a period of British awkwardness when we next met, while we resolutely ignored what happened between us the last time we were together; I’d expected a certain discomfort that would have to be endured until we found our way past it. But he’s waiting for more, and I find myself actually offering it, acutely aware of the color rushing to my face. “There wasn’t anything to say.”

  “No?”

  I hadn’t expected him to push the point, either. “You live in England. I don’t.”

  “We could have talked.” I’m looking out across the sea of people, but I sense he’s almost amused by me.

  I think about that for a moment. “I’m not good at that.”

  “No kidding.” This time I do look at him, and I find myself laughing—as much at his wry expression as his words. Then the waitress passes again. She has glasses of champagne mixed in with the cocktails. Cold beads of water have formed on the outside of the glasses. “Come on,” Adam says, pulling my attention away. “Let’s go speak to all the people we need to and then we can slip away for the swim.”

  I draw back in horror. “We’re swimming? Surely not where—”

  “No, not there. Of course not there; we’ll be swimming where the ceremony was.” He reads my face. “You didn’t know? Duncan and Bron thought it would be a fitting send-off, and Jem was all for it.” Duncan and Bron and Jem and Adam. All here, all making plans together. And I didn’t even know about the white dress code. “Look, it’s not compulsory. If you’re not up to it—”

  “No, it’s fine.” I swallow. He tips his head quizzically. “Really. It’s a good idea. You’re right, though. I’d better go speak to her folks before I get my swim stuff.” I recognize I’ve been putting it off. Spending time with Lissa’s parents has always felt awkward, and I can’t imagine the present circumstances will improve that.

  “Philip actually said he might swim, too,” Adam says. “I should tell him it’s almost time.”

  We can’t immediately see Philip, so Adam heads off to find him, but Lissa’s mother, Diane, is exactly where she was before, still alone at the table as I approach hesitantly and slide into the chair next to her. She turns her head slowly to look at me. It always surprises me how little she looks like Lissa: dark haired and athletic in a posh, horsey sort of way, whereas Lissa is blond and china boned. Was. “Georgie,” she says. Her voice is entirely flat.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Yes.” We look out at the crowd. After a few moments she says, “No white for you, I see.”

  “I—”

  “Quite right, too. It’s not a bloody party. But Philip said I shouldn’t make a fuss.” Her mouth twists bitterly. I should say something, but I can’t think of anything that would fit. “Do you believe in fate?”

  “What?”

  She waves an impatient hand. “Fate. Destiny. Was this preordained?” I look at her blankly; I can’t seem to find solid ground in this conversation. She’s still staring out at the milling crowd. “All that time invested, all that—love. Sleepless nights and schools and ballet lessons, swimming lessons . . . Was this the end point all along? Or was it something I did? Or didn’t do? Or Philip?” She looks straight at me, suddenly fierce, and I finally see Lissa in her, in the hazel eyes they share. In the accusations they hold. “Or you?”

  I can’t find a breath. “I don’t—”

  But she’s already looking away, her sudden energy entirely dissipated. “I think I’ll go back to the villa.”

  “Should I . . . should I find Philip for you?”

  She barks an entirely mirthless laugh and pushes her seat back abruptly. “No, thank you
.”

  I watch her walk away from the pavilion, her back militarily straight, and I wonder if Diane is the only person alive who might be capable of understanding what I’m feeling.

  * * *

  —

  Twenty minutes later, after collecting my swim gear, I’m back in the horseshoe bay, which I have since learned is rather boringly named just that: Horseshoe Bay. Jem, Adam, Duncan and a handful of people I don’t know are looking rather businesslike in Speedos at the shoreline. Someone has put thought into this endeavor: there are Chinese lanterns strung up on the piers that jut out on either side at the widest point of the bay, and lights on a series of buoys that span the water between them. There’s enough light, from the unobtrusive lamps that light the path skirting the beach and from the moon, for us to see what we’re doing, but the sea itself is a dark mass, darker even than the sky above it, only occasionally lightened at the shoreline by flashes of white from a breaking wave.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask Bronwyn. She’s already shrugging out of her white dress to reveal a dark-colored Speedo swimsuit underneath.

  “No fixed plan, I shouldn’t think. It’s about five hundred meters across, pier to pier. We usually swim straight out to the buoys then do laps along the buoys between the piers.”

  We. We usually. We, but not me; I am not part of that collective, though surely they can’t possibly have done this swim more than half a dozen times. I peel off my own dress, throwing it carelessly onto a sun lounger, and adjust the shoulder straps of the swimsuit I’d put on underneath. “No sea serpent myths for this particular bay?”

  “None that I’m aware of.”

  “Where is Kanu Cove anyway?”

  Bron’s hand falters as she tucks her hair into her swim cap. “Farther round, past the headland. Maybe seven minutes’ walk.”

  “Then why didn’t she swim here?”

  Bron exhales. “I don’t know, Georgie. Maybe she wanted somewhere peaceful. Some time alone.”

  “Lissa? At night? Really? On our Malta trip we could barely get her to put a toe in the water after dark.”

  “People change.” There’s an edge to her tone that surprises me. “She was living here; I guess she got more comfortable with it.”

  “That’s just it: she was living here. So she must have known Kanu Cove was danger—”

  “Stop it, Georgie.” She whirls away from me, then just as suddenly turns back. The moonlight isn’t strong enough for me to see her face, but I can hear the tears in her voice. “She went swimming and she drowned. It was stupid, it was senseless—and she died. And you’re not the only one trying to come to terms with it.”

  She turns away again. I put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Bron. Bron, I’m sorry.”

  She turns into me and hugs me fiercely. “I know,” she says into my shoulder. I can feel her tears on my skin. “It’s just . . . you weren’t here. It was awful. We were all asking those same questions at the time, and the police were asking things; it was nonstop. And none of it mattered because in the end she was still gone. It was . . . Well. You weren’t here.”

  “I . . . I couldn’t be,” I say, but that’s not entirely true. I didn’t dare come. I was too scared of what I might see in Lissa, in Jem. Even now, my mind skitters away from it. I was buying myself time by not coming, and Lissa died. “I’m sorry.”

  We stand together, Bron’s head at my shoulder, my hand stroking her hair. It always surprises me how much taller I am than her. Is it that which shapes the balance between us; is it merely height that casts me into the role of protector? Even though, in many ways, Bron is far more robust than I? Then Duncan calls, “Are you two coming, or what?” and Bron releases me.

  “Coming.” She runs ahead of me to the water’s edge where Duncan, Jem and Adam are waiting for us. I scoop up my swim cap and hold my goggle straps in my teeth, tucking my hair into the cap as I follow her. A group has already set off and is starting to string out; in the dark, I can’t see the swimmers properly, but I glimpse intermittent flashes of pale arms or the white froth from a kick. We will catch them quickly enough; they don’t possess the swimming pedigree of our little group. I know the water ought to feel beautifully warm, but without the heat of the sun, it still chills me, and I suck in my breath when it reaches my stomach. Bron throws herself into a dolphin dive, and I force myself to do the same, feeling adrenaline flood through my body as my head submerges; then I break into an easy front crawl, popping my head up occasionally to check for Bron and the others without breaking stroke. Within ten strokes or so, my heart rate has settled as my body starts to adjust to the water temperature. Now I’m following the pale bubbles of somebody’s kick trail—probably Duncan’s—so I don’t need to lift my head to sight. Within a minute or two we’ve passed a swimmer with an awkward stroke, then two more, then the whole pack of the first group. Bron has settled in on my right, only a meter or so from me; I can see the windmill of her pale arms every time I breathe to that side. Jem and Adam will be on our feet, following our kick trail. This is how we normally swim together, like a pod of dolphins: Duncan up ahead, Jem and Adam at the rear, Bron on my right and Lissa on my left. Only every time I breathe to the left, Lissa isn’t there.

  Duncan, who is the quickest out of all of us, is setting a leisurely pace by his standards, whether out of thoughtfulness to Jem, who is the weakest, or because he’s not in his usual shape, I can’t tell. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful for it: I’m feeling the effects of both the jet lag and the emotional exhaustion of the day; I don’t feel as if I have another gear to slip into if Duncan were to pick up his pace. My eyes are adjusting to the dim light: I watch the trail of silvery bubbles from Duncan’s feet; I watch my arms cut rhythmically through the darkness beneath me. I feel the cool water slipping past my limbs, the swell of it beneath me when a bigger set rolls in. Three strokes and look for Bron. Three more strokes, don’t look for Lissa. Bron, no Lissa. Bron, no Lissa. Slowly I am being cracked open. You can’t hide from yourself in the water; it doesn’t allow it. It seeps into even the finest of hairline fissures and soaks off the shell.

  Duncan’s feet drop down, and I realize he’s called a halt by one of the lit buoys, presumably to let Jem, who is lagging now, catch up. Adam, by contrast, hasn’t lost any ground. He was never really a competitive swimmer—he played water polo instead—so he must have been putting in some training of late. We tread water by the buoy, which gently rocks as the water beneath it swells and ebbs, its circle of light wandering to and fro, painting faces then receding, as the faint rhythmic slap of Jem’s arms against the water grows nearer. There’s a solemnity to the silence that grows with every additional second that it remains unbroken. Jem has reached us now, breathing a little hard. I tip my head up toward the stars above. I will remember this forever, and I don’t want to have to. It’s so extraordinarily hateful to be here without her.

  “Lissa.” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until Jem’s voice joins mine. “Lissa,” he says hoarsely. “To Lissa.”

  And then we are all saying it, our murmured words rolling out across the black velvet sea. “To Lissa.” “Lissa.” “To Lissa.”

  * * *

  —

  After we all swim back, Adam comes to settle on a sun lounger beside me, still in his trunks with a towel in his hand.

  “You didn’t find Philip?” I ask him, awkwardly pulling my dress over my towel. It takes a feat of coordination to remove the towel without exposing myself, but I’m practiced at it.

  “I did.” There’s something in his voice that pulls my attention to him. “He was . . . ah . . . otherwise engaged.” I shake my head, not understanding. “Quite deeply engaged, in fact.”

  Realization dawns. “Oh my God. With the waitress?”

  “The very same.”

  “Jesus.” It’s beyond revolting, but somehow I can’t help giggling. “That’s appalling.” T
hen a thought sobers me. “Poor Diane.”

  “She’s not blind to it. At some point she must have made a decision to stay regardless.” Lissa wasn’t blind to it, either. But children don’t get the same choice. He stands, wrapping his own towel round his waist, and then shucks off his trunks underneath it. I look out across the bay. Someone has extinguished the lights on the piers. “Though, on today of all days . . .”

  “Maybe it’s a reaction to it. An affirmation of life. Or something.”

  “Maybe.” He sits back down beside me and starts to pull on dry shorts. “I heard you with Bron. Asking about Kanu Cove.”

  “Bar?” Jem calls across to us.

  “In a minute,” I call back. I turn back to Adam, my hands busy bundling my wet hair into a bun. “I didn’t mean to upset her; it just doesn’t make sense.” I sound defensive. I have no reason to sound defensive. “But then, I wasn’t here when it happened.” As Bron made clear.

  “I know, but you’re right. It doesn’t make sense.” He pauses. “Tell the truth: when you got the call, did you expect it to be Jem that was missing?”

  Yes. I stop, my hands still full of my twisted hair at the nape of my neck, my mouth full of words I can’t say, that I don’t dare voice. Yes, I thought it would be Jem. Not then, exactly; not quite so soon, but at some point. At some point I would get the call, and it would be about Jem. My eyes are fixed on the darkness of his face. I deliberately slide them away, looking at my lap as I finish securing the bun. The silence that sits between us has a weight to it.

  He nods once, twice, as if to himself, then reaches out a hand to lay it carefully on my shoulder, his thumb rubbing gently along my collarbone. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, as if we haven’t just been discussing—well, whatever we’ve been not discussing. “I could kind of get behind the life-affirmation thing.”