The Breakdown: The gripping thriller from the bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors. B Paris A
swallow quickly, fold the tea towel in half, then in quarters and bend to put it in my bag. ‘Yes, Matthew told me, it was on the news,’ I say, my head beneath the table.
She waits until I’m sitting straight again, then gives a shudder. ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it? The police think she broke down.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yeah.’ She pulls a face. ‘How awful – imagine breaking down in the middle of a storm, in the middle of nowhere. I don’t even want to think about it.’
It takes everything I’ve got not to blurt out that I was there, that I saw the woman in the car. But something stops me. This place is too crowded and Rachel is already emotionally invested in the story. I’m afraid she’ll judge me, be horrified that I did nothing to help. ‘Me neither,’ I say.
‘You sometimes use that road, don’t you? You didn’t take it last night, did you?’
‘No, I’d never take that road, not when I’m by myself.’ I feel my skin reddening and I’m sure she’ll know that I’ve just lied.
But she carries on, unaware: ‘Just as well. It could have been you.’
‘Except that I wouldn’t have broken down,’ I say.
She laughs, breaking the tension. ‘You don’t know that! She might not have broken down. It’s only supposition. Maybe somebody flagged her down, pretending they were in trouble. Anybody would stop if they saw someone in trouble, wouldn’t they?’
‘Would they, though? On a lonely road and in a storm?’ I desperately want the answer to be ‘No’.
‘Well, not unless they didn’t have a conscience. Nobody would just drive on. They’d at least do something.’
Her words slam through me and tears prick my eyes. The guilt I feel is almost unbearable. I don’t want Rachel to see how much her words have affected me so I lower my head and fix my eyes on the vase of orange flowers sitting between us on the table. To my embarrassment, the petals begin to blur and I reach down hastily, groping in my bag for a tissue.
‘Cass? Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘You don’t seem it.’
I hear the concern in her voice and blow my nose, giving myself time. The need to tell someone is overwhelming. ‘I don’t know why, but I didn’t…’ I stop.
‘Didn’t what?’ Rachel looks puzzled.
I open my mouth to tell her but then I realise that if I do, not only will she be appalled that I drove on without checking that the woman was all right, she’ll also catch me out in a lie, because I’ve already said that I didn’t go home that way last night.
I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It obviously does. Tell me, Cass.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
I scrunch the tissue with my fingers. ‘Because I’m ashamed.’
‘Ashamed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ashamed of what?’ When I don’t say anything, she gives a sigh of exasperation. ‘Come on, Cass, just tell me! It can’t be that bad!’ Her impatience makes me even more nervous so I look for something to tell her, something she’ll believe.
‘I forgot about Susie,’ I blurt out, hating myself for using what is just a mundane issue compared to the woman’s death. ‘I forgot that I was meant to have bought her something.’
A frown appears on her face. ‘What do you mean, forgot?’
‘I can’t remember, that’s all. I can’t remember what we decided to buy her.’
She looks at me in astonishment. ‘But it was your idea. You said that as Stephen is taking her to Venice for her birthday, we should buy her some lightweight luggage. We were in the bar near my office at the time,’ she adds helpfully.
I let relief show on my face, although the words mean nothing to me. ‘Of course! I remember now – God, I’m so stupid! I thought it must be perfume or something.’
‘Not when there’s so much money. We all put in twenty pounds, remember, so you should have a hundred and sixty altogether. Have you got it with you?’
A hundred and sixty pounds? How could I forget being given that much money? I want to admit everything but instead I carry on the pretence, no longer sure of myself. ‘I thought I’d pay by card.’
She smiles reassuringly at me. ‘Well, now that that little drama’s over, drink your coffee before it gets cold.’
‘It probably already is – shall I get us a fresh cup?’
‘I’ll go, you sit here and relax.’
I watch her as she joins the queue at the counter, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. Although I managed not to tell her about seeing the woman in the car, I wish I hadn’t had to admit that I’d forgotten about the luggage. Rachel isn’t stupid. She’d witnessed Mum’s deterioration on a weekly basis and I don’t want her to worry, or to start thinking that I’m heading down the same road. The worst thing is, I have no memory of suggesting that we buy luggage, or of where I put the hundred and sixty pounds, unless it’s in the little drawer in my old writing desk. I’m not worried about the money itself; if I can’t find it, it doesn’t really matter. But it’s frightening to think I’ve forgotten everything to do with Susie’s present.
Rachel comes back with the coffees.
‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’ she says, sitting down.
‘Go on.’
‘It’s just that it’s not like you to get so upset over something as mundane as forgetting what present you’re meant to have bought. Is there something else troubling you? Is everything all right with Matthew?’
For the hundredth time, I find myself wishing that Rachel and Matthew liked each other more. They try not to show it but there’s always an undercurrent of mistrust between them. To be fair to Matthew, he doesn’t like Rachel simply because he knows she disapproves of him. With Rachel, it’s more complicated. She has no reason to dislike Matthew so sometimes a little voice in my head wonders if she’s jealous that I now have someone in my life. But then I hate myself for the thought, because I know she’s happy for me.
‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ I reassure her, trying to push last night from my mind. ‘It really was just the present.’ Even those words seem like a betrayal of the woman in the car.
‘Well, you were a little worse for wear that night,’ she says, smiling at the memory. ‘You didn’t have to worry about driving home as Matthew was picking you up, so you had quite a few glasses of wine. Maybe that’s why you forgot.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘Well, drink up and we’ll go and choose something.’
We finish our coffees and go down to the fourth floor. It doesn’t take us long to choose a couple of powder-blue suitcases, and as we make our way out of the shop, I sense Rachel’s eyes on me.
‘Are you sure you want to go for lunch? If you don’t, it doesn’t matter.’
The thought of lunch, of having to talk about anything and everything to avoid speaking about the woman in the car, suddenly seems too much. ‘Actually, I’ve got a splitting headache – a bit too much celebrating last night, I think. Can I take you to lunch next week instead? I can come into town any day now that I’m not working.’
‘Sure. You’ll be all right to come to Susie’s party tonight, won’t you?’
‘Of