A Question of Guilt(12)

Now that I had the use of the computer I took the opportunity of looking the girls up on Facebook but I couldn’t find either of them. Chances were, then, that they were married and would be using their new names. Or perhaps after her experience of being stalked by Brian Jennings, Dawn wanted to keep a low profile. I did find a page for Muffins, Lisa’s teashop, but it wasn’t very informative, just a picture of the cheerfully decorated interior and another showing a display of scrummy-looking cupcakes.

My scrutiny of the web was interrupted when the telephone on Dad’s desk began ringing. I didn’t answer it, as I didn’t imagine it would be for me, and I knew Mum would pick up in the kitchen. She did, but a moment later she was calling through: ‘Sally – it’s for you! It’s Rachel.’

As I think I mentioned earlier, Rachel is one of my oldest friends. We met on our first day at primary school, two little girls trying very hard to be brave and grown up when we actually both felt rather lonely and lost, and the bond we formed then had lasted. We sat beside one another on the same work table each year, we went to one another’s birthday parties and spent time in one another’s homes. I’d loved having Rachel for sleepovers, and even better was when I got to stay with her. She had an older sister and she lived on a new estate in Stoke Compton where there were other children to play with – a real treat for me, an only child whose home was a couple of miles out of town. Rachel, of course, loved coming to the farm because of the hens, the ducks and the baby animals, not to mention the barn where we could hide behind the bales of hay and make believe we were just about anywhere we wanted.

When we moved on to ‘big school’ – the local comprehensive – we stayed friends. Homework and holidays, first dates and heartaches, we shared them all. Even after we left school we remained close for quite some time, keeping in touch by letter and phone calls – and later emails and texts – and meeting up when I was at home. But life was taking us in different directions; I landed my dream job with the regional daily and moved away, while Hannah stayed in Stoke Compton, working as a cashier with one of the banks. I had my own flat in town; she remained living with her parents. And then she got together with Steve Brice, and for the first time in almost twenty years a chasm opened up between us. I was happy for her, of course I was – she’d had a crush on Steve for as long as I could remember – and when he asked her out she wrote excited letters filling me in on every detail of their burgeoning romance. But as their relationship progressed from the casual to the committed she wrote less and less often and volunteered less and less information. I understood that what she and Steve were sharing was too private now to be reported on in girlie letters, but I missed our former closeness all the same.

I was chief bridesmaid at her wedding, organizing her hen party, shepherding the small attendants up the aisle and somehow managing to keep them from treading on her flowing train, and holding her bouquet while she made her vows. But not so long afterwards, Rachel was not only a wife but also a mother. A baby girl, born just eleven months after her wedding day, was followed within two years by twins and this meant her time was fully occupied and we had even less in common. Apart from Christmas, Easter and little Megan’s birthday – I was her godmother – I rarely saw Rachel.

Since I’d been at home convalescing, though, Rachel had turned up trumps. Though she was incredibly busy, working part-time as well as being a mum to her growing brood and all that entailed, she’d somehow managed to phone regularly as well as come and see me,

‘How are you doing, Sal?’ she asked now.

‘I’m fine.’ I wasn’t in the habit of taking such questions literally. ‘And you?’

‘The same. Hey, listen, the reason I’m ringing is to see if you fancy a night out? ‘Steve’s offered to babysit, and there’s a special promotion on at Ricardo’s – pizza and a glass of wine for ten pounds. What do you think?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ I said. Ricardo’s is a trattoria and wine bar in Porton, our nearest big town; they do the most delicious pizzas and the lovely Italian waiters who make a tremendous fuss of us whenever we eat there gave it a holiday atmosphere – if it weren’t for the damp and cold outside you could almost believe you were living it up in some balmy foreign resort.

‘I’ll pick you up then – about seven?’ I could hear children’s voices clamouring in the background. ‘Oh, Alistair – no! I’m on the telephone!’ Rachel exclaimed, exasperated. And to me: ‘I’ll have to go, Sally. Alistair’s knocked over Abigail’s poster paints . . .’