I stopped talking, unable to go on. Jessica was turning her glass around and around; the glass chimed dully against the wood of the table. I sighed - it was almost all told. Just one more thing to confess to.

“I took an overdose.” I fought to keep my voice even. I could feel my face trying to smile and fought to keep it level.

“Shit, Maudie.” She sat back in her chair, putting a hand up to her face.“So what happened? I mean, obviously you didn’t – die.”

We were both speaking jerkily, the words coming out in blurts.

“Angus found me on the bathroom floor.  I guess they decided that was something they couldn't deal with themselves although God knows they probably considered it. I got carted off to A and E.”

"Shit."

"I was in hospital - I mean a mental hospital, not the A and E - for ages. Six months, maybe. I’m over it now. I’m completely better now.” I clenched my teeth. “I’m fine now, but I still go to therapy. It does help. As I’m sure you know.” I sat back in my chair and stretched my shoulders up to my ears, easing the ache in my neck.

There was another silence between us. I had the sudden, horrible thought that perhaps she thought I was competing with her – a competition as to who had the hardest luck story, who deserved more pity. I opened my mouth to say something and shut it again. Instead I said I’d buy us both another drink.

When I came back, she took it from me without a word of thanks. I don’t think she meant to be rude. She had the inward look on her face of someone whose mind was far from the room. She seemed to be mentally bracing herself.

"You were going to ask me something, weren't you?"

She hesitated. "It doesn't matter," she said. "It can wait."

"No, go on. I'm sick of talking about myself, anyway."

She looked me in the eye. "Alright," she said, eventually. I could see her take a deep breath. “Maudie, how are my parents?”

“You don’t know?” I said slowly.

“No,” she said. “I just haven’t felt up to contacting them. It was just that step too far. I needed to see you first to – to kind of break the ice, if that doesn’t sound too stupid.”

“It doesn’t,” I said. My heart was thumping; I felt hot and cold with dread.

“I’m ready now, though,” she said, and I felt something shrivel up inside me. “I’m ready now.”

“Jessica, I’m sorry but I don’t know how to tell you this.” She was looking at me, her face quite unprepared for what I was about to say. I took a quick, shaky breath, and said it. “Jessica, I’m really sorry but your parents are dead.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off her face. She hadn’t registered what I said, or so I thought. She blinked a few time, her eyelids stuttering. “What?”

I took hold of my legs under the table, to stop my hands from shaking. “Jessica, I’m really, really sorry but your parents are dead.”

Her face began a slow, inner crumpling. “Dead?” she said, in a whisper. “How?”

“I’m afraid your dad had a heart attack.” Like Angus, I added mentally. “I’m really sorry. It was very quick–”

“And my mum?” she said, cutting me off.

I closed my eyes briefly and took another deep breath. “She – she committed suicide.”

My voice had trailed away to a whisper. I tried to say something else, but my voice failed completely.

Quaking, I looked at Jessica. She had her eyes shut. She held herself like a cat does, quivering, before it leaps.

Then she moved. Her hand went flying out, into her full wine glass. The glass flew through the air and struck my breastbone, drenching me with wine. I gasped, more in shock than in pain. She rocketed to her feet, leaning over the table towards me.

“You bitch,” she said, her voice vibrating so much I could barely make out the words. “You knew all this time and you never told me? You never told me my parents were dead?”

I stuttered out something meaningless, something useless. Jessica had both hands on the edge of the table, her hair hanging in a lank swathe on either side of her head, her eyes fixed upon mine.

“You were right, Maudie. You were right.”

“What?” I said, gasping.

“You were right. You were right, you were right, you were right–” her voice was going up and up, humming upwards like a warning signal. I was shaking my head without knowing I was doing it. “You were right. You are guilty. You are guilty! It was your fault–”

“But–” I said, uselessly.

She thrust her face forward. “My fucking parents are dead because of you. Because of you, I’ve been fucked over my entire life! And you sit there and tell me you have problems. You fucking bitch.  It’s your fault my parents are dead, your fault, your fault, your fault–”

I had a terrifying flashback to her mother in the kitchen of the cottage, eyes squeezed almost shut, flecks of spit landing on my face as she screamed at me. As then, I could only shake my head in terrified denial.

Suddenly she fell silent, silent except for her gasping breaths. Slowly, she backed away from the table, shaking her head. “You’ll pay for this,” she said, her chest heaving. “I’ll make you pay for this if it’s the last thing I do.”

She turned and ran from the room and I heard the door of the pub bang open and then closed. I sat there in my chair, clothes soaked with wine. I looked as if someone had shot me in the chest. I could only sit there, hands plastered across my useless, treacherous mouth, shaking.

Chapter Twenty Nine

The telephone rang at nine thirty the next morning, as I was sat picking miserably at my breakfast. Matt got up to answer it and I held my breath.

“Hello?”

I knew it was her. Under the table, I clenched my fists. “Hello? Who is this?”

Matt banged down the receiver and came back to the table. The phone rang again.

“Oh, leave it,” I said, unable to bear it.

“I will,” he said, reaching for his coffee. “It’s getting rather tiresome. Some idiot obviously thinks it’s funny.”

The phone stopped ringing and the answerphone clicked on. There was nothing on the line, no speaking, just the click and burr of a broken connection.

“This is starting to become a bit more than annoying,” said Matt. “Perhaps you could call the phone company?”

“What?”

“The phone company. Perhaps they can – oh, I don’t know – put a block on the line? Trace the calls? I don’t know what they do but – could you call them?”

I stared down at my empty coffee cup. “Okay.”

“Thanks, darling. It would help,” said Matt. He upended his coffee cup. “Ugh, lukewarm. Anyway, what are you up to today?”

“I’m seeing Margaret at eleven. Then – I don’t know – maybe lunch somewhere. I’m not sure...” My voice trailed off.

“Well, I’ve got a meeting with the high-ups at work,” he said after a moment. “So we could be celebrating later."

I barely heard him. “Sorry, what?” I said, looking up.

Frowning, Matt rested his hands on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “I said, we could be celebrating later. My promotion, I mean. If you want to. Oh, and if I get it.” He laughed. “Mustn’t count my chickens.”

“That’s great,” I said, dredging up a smile. “Good luck. I’m sure you won’t need it.”

I watched him walk out the kitchen and waited until I heard the front door close. Then I slumped forward onto the kitchen table.

I had to brace myself before I left the flat. I pulled gloves on over my shaking hands and thought cravenly about taking a taxi. I took a deep breath and marched outside.

Jessica wasn’t there. I let my breath out in a shuddering sigh. The relief almost made me nauseous. I walked quickly to Margaret’s house, swinging my arms. I tried not to think of Jessica’s last words to me but they kept repeating themselves in my head. I couldn’t get that look of hatred – and it had been hatred – out of my mind’s eye.