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‘I miss her,’ says Lottie. ‘She was my best friend, and I know I’m so blessed with my life now, but it still feels weird that she’s not part of it.’
‘Yeah.’ I miss her too. Lottie always maintained that she was Hannah’s best friend, but from the way Hannah acted it never seemed that way to Jennie.
‘I got us some refills,’ says Elliott, holding up three more bottles of Smirnoff.
Jennie hadn’t even noticed he’d gone back to the bar, but she gratefully takes a fresh bottle, knocking back half of it in one long chug. She knows she’s drinking too much and too fast, but she doesn’t care. All she cares about is numbing the pain of the Hannah-shaped wound the conversation has reopened. The music isn’t helping as the Spin Doctors fade and Prince’s ‘The Most Beautiful Girl in the World’ begins. This song has always reminded her of Hannah.
‘So what are you up to?’ asks Elliott. ‘Tell us about your life now.’
Jennie is grateful for the subject change, even though she hates talking about herself. Putting on a bright tone, she says, ‘I joined Thames Valley Police in ’95 and made detective a few years later. I’m a DI now and run a team in the Major Crime Unit based here in White Cross.
‘A detective, that’s very cool,’ says Elliott. ‘Well done you.’
‘Totally,’ says Lottie. ‘And do you have a husband, a family?’
Jennie takes another mouthful of Smirnoff before answering. ‘I don’t have time for that sort of thing. My work is my life.’
Lottie’s expression changes to a pained look that Jennie’s used to seeing from parents who learn she doesn’t have kids. It’s as if they can’t comprehend why a woman might not want to have children. Lottie turns to Elliott and changes the subject. ‘Speaking of time, I can’t believe they’re demolishing the school tomorrow. I really thought the Historical Society’s petition would’ve stopped the redevelopment plans, but the council don’t seem to care about our town’s history.’
‘The place is falling down,’ says Elliott. ‘It’s beyond saving.’
‘But surely they could have done something?’ Lottie replies, her voice getting louder. ‘It’s been standing over a hundred years. The developers should be renovating it, not razing it to the ground.’
Elliott shrugs. ‘That school is a derelict death trap and the land it’s on is worth a premium.’
Jennie agrees, but stays silent. She takes another gulp of Smirnoff instead and looks past the makeshift bar at the view beyond. The school building is too close to the foot of the hill to been seen from here, but across the valley the lights of White Cross town twinkle like stars in the darkness.
‘It’s the end of an era,’ says Lottie, sadly. ‘I’m going to watch tomorrow. I think it’s important to bear witness to these moments in history, even if you don’t agree with them.’
Later, Jennie wobbles her way home through the lanes, so drunk it’s a struggle to keep her bike going in a straight line. She has no idea how many Smirnoffs she had; all she knows is that each one helped her feel less weird about seeing the schoolfriends she lost touch with so many years ago. She even managed to stay put when Lorraine Chester briefly joined their group to say hello. The weirdest thing was how Lorraine was so nice to her, greeting her like a long-lost friend rather than the Brummie-accented girl with the embarrassing mum who Lorraine and her mean-girl clique had bullied so mercilessly.
Braking to a halt outside the house, she dismounts and pushes the bike as she snakes her way up the front path.
As she tries for the third time to get her key in the lock, Jennie wonders if she’ll hear from Lottie and Elliott. They hugged at the end of the night and swapped numbers with emphatic promises of staying in touch. Maybe they will. Maybe that would be nice.
Staggering up the front step, she wheels her bike inside and props it in the hallway before closing the front door. Bending down to pick up the post, Jennie’s stomach lurches and the hallway seems to spin. The Seventies flowered wallpaper and peeling paintwork kaleidoscope before her eyes. She puts her free hand on the wall to steady herself and wonders if she’s going to be sick.
Once the moment has passed, Jennie walks to the kitchen and downs a pint of water before refilling the glass and carrying it through to the lounge, along with the post. She flops down onto the threadbare brown sofa and starts to open the envelopes. There are a couple of bills in her mum’s name, a letter from the solicitor handling the probate of her mum’s estate, and a final statement and confirmation that the refund of her security deposit has been actioned by the estate agent she rented her apartment from until last month.
She looks around the lounge. It hasn’t changed since her mum bought the place, back in 1993. Or rather, it’s aged badly. Nothing has been mended or updated. The only modern things in here are Jennie’s laptop and printer, and they’re hardly state of the art. When Mum died seven months ago, Jennie had been adamant she wouldn’t move back into the house. But when the landlord increased the rent on her flat, keeping the house going and renting an apartment didn’t really make sense. So she moved in, telling herself that she’d clear out the place in her spare time.
Jennie’s been here five weeks, but all she’s managed to do so far is box up her mum’s knick-knacks and start to recycle the mountains of old magazines her mum seems to have hoarded for the last ten years. She needs to hire a skip really, or a house clearer. The whole thing feels exhausting.
The cuckoo clock in the kitchen chimes midnight and Jennie flinches. She swears under her breath and vows that the stupid clock is going to the charity shop at the weekend. She’s always hated it.
Putting the post down, Jennie takes another long drink of water and tries not to think about how awful she’s going to feel in the morning. This is why she doesn’t usually drink.
Finishing her water, Jennie sits alone in the crushing silence, surrounded by the debris of her mum’s life. She thinks about Elliott and Lottie, both married and living in fancy houses, and sighs. How the hell have things come to this?
Day Two
Chapter 2
Jennie wakes with her heart racing.
Yanked from sleep by the foghorn going off beside her head, she gropes for the phone and presses the screen, trying to silence it. It takes another few seconds to register that it’s a phone call and not her alarm. She reads the caller ID: Zuri Otueome.
Jennie squints at the time: it’s barely seven o’clock. Still groggy, she answers the call. ‘Morning.’
