The First Cut Page 2

  Nicky fiddled with her shoulder-length hair. ‘I guess I realize that I’ve grown apart from someone I used to be close to.’ The flight attendant slammed shut the plane door and pinned an orange strip of material across the window. Nicky was unsure how that tiny piece of material would help in an emergency. She saw Adam was watching her intently with those dark eyes. He seemed to be really interested in what she was saying. Nicky wondered with a jolt of loss whether she used to be like this all those years ago – curious, excited by the new.

  ‘Go on.’

  Nicky took a deep breath. ‘I went to see an old friend for the weekend. She’s married with two kids and living in Bilbao. We had absolutely nothing in common any more. Her interests were all about her kids; mine lie elsewhere. And that was kind of that.’ How simple our complex stories can be made to sound, Nicky thought. Sam. The legendary party girl – until that night. Their relationship had not survived Grace’s death. That tragedy had changed them all in different ways. Sam had run away to Spain, married a doctor, become teetotal. Nicky envied Sam’s ability to escape her past, to create a new identity. She would never be able to do the same. Grace was the sister she never had. Their relationship had withstood the teenage years, separation at university, a string of boyfriends and periods of work overseas, yet had still held strong, through Grace’s marriage to Greg and beyond. They had been blessed with an unshakeable bond and they had blithely assumed it would go on like that for ever, right up to the same old people’s home when their husbands were long dead and their children grown, still gossiping, still laughing, still friends.

  How wrong they were.

  Grace had never seen past her thirtieth birthday. Nicky felt the familiar rage build in her chest and pushed her knees against the plastic seat in front. She refocused on Adam, who was looking at her, waiting. ‘What were you doing in Spain?’

  ‘Seeing my friend Davide.’ He paused. ‘So what do you do for a living, Nicky?’

  ‘I write obituaries, for my sins.’

  ‘Wow! That sounds really great!’

  Nicky couldn’t resist a smile. He was so young! So enthusiastic! So unlike the jaded and cynical person she had become, her heart crusted over with grief and questions that would never be answered. ‘I like it, which is a bit of luck since I do it every day. I’d say having done what you liked is pretty high up the list of people’s wishes at the end.’

  Adam leaned back into his seat. ‘It’s funny how people only sum up their life at the end of it. How they unburden themselves as it all draws to a close. My aunt is dying, basically.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She meant it. She knew she didn’t have a monopoly on suffering or grief, though it sometimes felt like it.

  He waved her sympathy away. ‘She’s led an interesting life. Maybe that’s all we can ask for. But when she’s lucid she spends her time looking back and she seems so full of regret. The past haunts her.’ He shook his head. ‘I think it’s important throughout your life to close the chapters as you go.’

  Nicky considered this. It would be a mistake to think that just because he was young he was naive. She put her hands in her lap and looked out of the window. Closure. Such an American word, but, like a lot of Yank ideas, catching. Her wedding ring was cold against her fingers. A lack of closure on Grace’s death was causing big problems in her marriage.

  She turned back to him as they taxied to the end of the runway. ‘So, what do you do?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ He tailed off. ‘You know how it is with young people today. Not in education, not in training.’ He flashed her a devastating smile. ‘I went to circus school for a while. Learned to fly trapeze, juggle, that kind of thing.’

  Their conversation was interrupted as the roar began underneath them and they were sucked back against the seats. Nicky found take-off a thrill.

  She heard Adam mutter a low ‘Christ.’

  She saw his hands were white with the effort of gripping the armrests. ‘Flying not your thing?’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that. I’m claustrophobic. I don’t like crowds. Being all thrust up against other people.’ He shuddered a little.

  The plane eased to horizontal as they left the ground.

  ‘Take-off inevitably makes me think of what it would be like to crash-land with all this lot right around you.’ He cocked his head to indicate front and back. He gave an embarrassed laugh.

  ‘At least if you die you know you don’t go alone.’

  ‘Shoulder to shoulder with your fellow passengers.’ He groaned.

  ‘They say it’s the safest form of travel.’

  ‘That doesn’t help, I’m afraid. My fear’s not rational. Like so much of what we do, it’s irrational. I wonder if it’s the loss of control I can’t stand. Maybe I’m a control freak.’

  ‘Your fate in someone else’s hands.’

  He cocked the eyebrow at her again. ‘Indeed. Someone who’s been on a three-day bender with five Thai prostitutes and chooses landing time to catch up on his lost sleep.’

  ‘You know, I once read an article about plane crashes, which claimed that the reason most people die is that they assume they’re going to die on impact, and so they don’t make the effort to get out. They passively await their fate.’ He was nodding, looking at her intently as she spoke. He had dark hair that sat up in a cute tuft at the front and he looked like he was listening to a private joke. ‘The ones who fight, survive.’

  ‘Would you be like that?’

  ‘You bet! I think at that moment all my worst character traits would come out. I’d be climbing over people to escape, chewing off limbs.’

  Now it was his turn to laugh. She saw more of those perfect teeth and his eyes that crinkled up at the corners. The lines disappeared the moment he stopped, his skin with its lovely texture springing back to its correct shape instantly.

  ‘Remind me not to be in front of you come the first day of the sales.’

  Good-looking, and fun too. Life is for living, Nicky thought. God, would she fight, fight for every day that was afforded her. Had Grace fought? She shuddered. They told her the death was quick, that she was dead before she hit the water, but there was still so much they didn’t know. Nicky would be trapped for ever in the purgatory of what ifs and why.

  ‘You can rest assured I’d get to the widescreen TV before you.’ She was flirting and she didn’t care.

  Adam threw his hands out in a gallant gesture of defeat. ‘It’s all yours, Nicky, all yours.’ He paused. ‘At least you’re honest. I like to think I’d be the hero, running across the tarmac with twin babies under my arms, saving them from the big explosion behind me.’ He narrowed his eyes and looked at her and she felt the shards of physical attraction pierce her. ‘The gap between our hopes for ourselves and the reality is pretty big. We’d all love to be a hero, but in the end we probably just save ourselves.’ Adam leaned towards her. ‘Gosh, this is a DMC.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A deep and meaningful conversation.’ Nicky laughed. ‘You know something else? They say that twenty per cent of all couples meet on a plane.’

  Nicky gave him a look of mock horror. ‘That is not true.’

  Adam continued. ‘Sitting side by side for hours, far from home. You can think about the big things in life – and have a drink.’ They both looked towards the galley where an air steward was pulling out the drinks trolley. ‘Beer or wine? Plain or salted peanuts?’

  When they landed the sun was shining, the robot from Bulgaria was smiling and no one shoved her. She floated down the plane steps on warm good feeling and walked across the tarmac with a swagger. Luton’s beautiful, she thought. The customs channel was as far as they could go together, because beyond that she was headed for the car park and he to the train. She kept their goodbye light as they formally shook hands before she continued across the concourse. She couldn’t resist turning round and there he was, staring after her as she’d suspected he would be. They smiled at each other and for a glorious moment she saw her younger,
carefree self burst through the shell she had erected around herself in the aftermath of Grace’s murder. Thank you, Adam, she said to herself.

  2

  ‘Why is it always the ugliest clothes that are locked up?’ Greg was looking at a leather jacket with long tassels dangling from the arms, and trying to pull it off the hanger. Nicky watched him trace his hand along the white security wire that ran away into the depths of the rail.

  She smiled, feeling the ruffles on the front of a blouse. ‘You should see the handbag section.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ They weaved past some animal-print accessories balanced on a dead-tree display. ‘Get off me, you maniac!’ Nicky whirled round to see Greg wrestling with a leopard-print scarf.

  She started giggling. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  He came up behind her and put his arms tightly round her, resting his chin on her neck. ‘I’ve missed you too.’ They stayed just so for a long moment, neither of them wanting to move, until Greg stood up straight and looked about. ‘Which floor are we on? Haven’t we been through this section before?’

  She loved days like this with Greg, drifting around town, just the two of them. He’d come back from working in LA two days ago and they were fitting back together after his long absence. In a few days he would be gone again, forging his burgeoning career in the States, but for now he was here and she was enjoying his company.

  ‘Come on, I want to buy you something fabulous. Maybe once we’ve paid the exit signs will reappear, as if by magic.’

  They walked to a section full of dresses and started picking items out.

  ‘Can I be of any help here?’ The sales assistant’s smile was an invitation to splurge.

  ‘You betcha,’ replied Greg, dumping a pile of dresses in her hands. ‘She needs the changing room.’ Greg was blond, tall and loud. A bit like herself, she knew. He had a strong chin, blue eyes and an imposing physical presence that was hard to ignore for women and men alike. Life just seemed more fun with Greg. She shut the curtain behind her and changed into a blue dress.

  She came out onto the shop floor. The sales assistant was laughing at something Greg was saying. He turned towards her, his face expectant. She shook her head, looking down at the dress. It wasn’t right; it was too sack-like and came across as sad. She swished away behind the curtain and picked up a red patterned shift.

  Six months after Grace’s death Nicky started dating Greg. Grief bends and twists relationships into unrecognizable shapes. They were both in mourning and they leaned on each other, then one day that leaning turned into something more physical. A lot more physical. She was at pains to tell people it had not been planned or even ever thought about when Grace was alive. When Nicky first met Greg he was simply the man that Grace loved, a filmmaker who lived half his life in London and half abroad, chasing his dreams. He was full of talent and ambition and such self-belief that no one would bet against him succeeding. Grace already owned and ran a successful gastropub, which she had started with some money from her dad. They fell in love, he proposed and she accepted. They got married and then a few months later, with Grace’s thirtieth looming, Nicky had started trying to persuade Grace to celebrate her birthday properly. They would all have a laugh and it would be a great holiday, a way to enjoy herself when Greg was away.

  Nicky stared at herself in the changing-room mirror. She didn’t see any of those former friends now. The recriminations and the suspicions killed their relationships. The media went mad for the story, but the police couldn’t solve it. No one was ever charged; there was no trial. The picture might have been confused, but several clear facts stood out: Grace was killed before she ended up in the water, and a blood trail was found leading away from the lake and the house, probably to a car. The alarm was likely to have been set off by the killer, which meant no one heard it leave.

  Nicky told people that their beginning had been easy. She knew that sounded absurd, considering the circumstances, but it was easy to fall in love when they had a tragedy that united them. Life seemed precious, fate was cruel and time felt short. She had fallen in love hard and fast, and so had he. It was as if by being together they could keep Grace alive. And that had worked beautifully for eighteen months – right up until they were married. It was what came afterwards that was the problem. It was then that it had all changed.

  Greg poked his head round the curtain and looked her up and down. ‘God, you look great in that. Come here.’ He pulled her to him across the litter of clothes on the floor and gave her a kiss. ‘Let’s buy it and go get some lunch. I’m starving.’

  They rode the escalator to the ground floor and skirted hats, then Greg paused by the flower shop. ‘I’m going to buy a notebook,’ Nicky said. ‘I’ll see you here in a minute.’

  Greg nodded as she headed off to the stationery department, where she spent some time deciding between a green and a yellow patterned notebook. She paid and came back to the florist’s, but couldn’t see Greg. After standing for a while looking through the crowds of people she began to circle out to find him. She went past designer bags then came to the beauty department and saw his broad back at a counter. A woman so young she looked like she’d only just hatched was standing opposite him, behind a glass counter. Nicky hung back for a moment to see if Greg was buying her a surprise. She didn’t want to spoil it. The woman leaned across to Greg and touched him on the arm. Nicky watched as her glossy lips shrank from a smile into a look of disquiet.

  ‘Sir, are you OK?’

  Nicky started towards her husband as a bunch of flowers slipped from his hand and landed on the floor. The woman had rounded the display now, unsure whether to come closer. Nicky watched Greg slump forward on the counter. She put her hand out to him, wondering if he was going to faint. His face was white, his eyes closed. ‘Greg, what’s the matter?’

  He didn’t answer. He looked as if he hadn’t heard her, didn’t even realize she was there. It took her a moment to see that he held something in his hand which the assistant was trying to take from his grasp. It was a bottle of perfume.

  ‘I was showing him this reissue of an old classic. He smelled it and then he . . . he went like this.’ She was Australian, her voice low and concerned.

  ‘Greg?’

  He opened his eyes with what looked like a great effort and straightened up. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine.’

  The shop assistant smiled. ‘Perfume has a very powerful ability to conjure emotion and memories. You know, research shows that once a woman finds a perfume her partner likes, she tends to wear it for years. Maybe this will become your signature scent!’ She was in selling mode, trotting out the company guff.

  Nicky rubbed Greg across the shoulder. ‘It’s OK, honey, it’s OK,’ she said quietly.

  Memories. They had both been ambushed at different times by the past, by objects that connected to Grace. Greg didn’t look at her but walked off towards the aisles of men’s underwear.

  Nicky picked up the bottle and felt the cold weight in her palm. She steeled herself, knowing where she would be transported when she put the bottle to her nose. She sniffed the tiny black hole and frowned. A distinct, lemony fragrance hit her, but Grace did not come flooding back. This was not something she had ever worn; it wasn’t her perfume. ‘Greg?’

  She found him holding a display stand, rubbing his forehead.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  He smiled, keen to move on. ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’

  ‘That was nothing?’ They stared at each other in silence. ‘Let me in, Greg.’

  He laughed but it was without humour. ‘It’s nothing, honestly. Jet lag, that’s all.’ He strode away, closing off any chance of talking about what had happened.

  She was about to follow and have it out with him, when the Australian assistant called out, ‘Madam, madam! He’s left the flowers.’

  Nicky turned back into the beauty section as the woman held out the delicately wrapped bouquet. Nicky took i
t, but it felt like a consolation prize.

  3

  The doorbell rang as Nicky was sieving hot tomatoes and swearing. She’d decided to cook a meal for Greg’s family and, with hope triumphing over experience, had chosen a complicated recipe that was slowly and painfully turning into a disaster. Everything was taking longer than she’d anticipated, allowing her to drink more and care less about the food.

  ‘Greg, can you get it?’

  She was answered by a chorus of voices advancing on the kitchen. She burned her fingers on the tomatoes as Greg’s mother, Margaret, loomed in for a kiss and a hug. Arthur came over and pinched her cheek and then proceeded to demand the bottle opener. Greg’s sister, Liz, brought up the rear of the party with her son, Dan, who sloped in last. Dan had gelled his hair so that it stood up in stiff peaks. A smell that Nicky assumed was meant to imply mountain freshness but screamed ‘awkward teen approaching’ wafted towards her. She half began to put her hand out to try to ruffle his hair, and then realized he’d get tomato in those peaks.

  ‘Whatever are you doing?’ Liz asked, sniffing with implied disapproval. Nicky gave up sieving and slopped the tomatoes back into the saucepan. How predictable: Liz had begun sniping before she’d even sat down.

  ‘You really don’t have to make such an effort, love,’ Margaret added, peering unconvinced into a pan. Margaret approached any stove as if it was a deeply untrustworthy foreigner that would rob her sooner than it would boil eggs. Her only interactions with such an implement over the years had been to open the oven door and slam in the frozen item before retreating across the room, poised for fight or flight. To see Nicky actually leaning against it with gas rings burning was, for Margaret, as wondrous as watching a pagan ritual.