Page 41 of The Fall-Out

I rolled over on the mattress, using my phone as a torch and sliding the drawer open as silently as I could. The black nylon case was still there. I lifted it out, surprised at its lightness, and sat up, resting it on my crossed legs. The zip slid open easily, as if it had been oiled. The camera inside was just that – a camera. Quite a high-end one, I guessed – black and silver and slim – although like all technology presumably almost worthless over a decade after its purchase.

I didn’t know how to use it – even how to switch it on. If there were photographs stored in its memory, I didn’t know how to get them off. Presumably it needed a cable to connect to a computer, but there was no cable in the bag. Probably, it would need a separate cable to charge.

What was on there? Why had Zara kept it all those years, while she moved from apartment to apartment in Paris and from city to city around the world? Why had she chosen to return it to Patch now, rather than posting it back years ago, donating it to a charity shop or just throwing it away?

There must be pictures on there. Pictures of her and Patch, from when they were together. Pictures she wanted me to see – or wanted me to want to see. But I didn’t want to see them. I didn’t need to torture myself with images from long ago, of her and Patch young and beautiful and in love.

I wasn’t going to play that game. It wasn’t my camera. Whatever images were stored on it weren’t my memories. Guiltily, I replaced the camera in its case and put the case back in the drawer.

Silently, I sprang out of bed and dressed, glancing into the children’s room on my way to the bathroom and seeing them both sleeping peacefully. I cleaned my teeth, not wanting to rouse the household by showering, and tiptoed downstairs. Patch was asleep on the sofa, covered by a blanket. I shut myself in the kitchen and drank two glasses of water followed by a cup of tea, then devoured three slices of toast and Marmite.

Then, fortified, I picked up my phone. There were a handful of messages from Kate, Abbie and Rowan saying they missed me and hoped I felt better, but no clue as to what I might have missed the previous night.

I flicked through to Instagram. Kate and Abbie didn’t post frequently – just the occasional picture of their cats. But Rowan, possibly inspired by her teenage daughter, had become quite prolific on there recently, posting pictures of the properties her estate agency had on the market, clothes she’d bought and selfies of her with Clara and with her boyfriend Alex (who admittedly was so hot anyone would want to show him off).

Sure enough, there was a picture from the previous night. A familiar scene – a table in a bar, several cocktails, a bottle of wine, a carafe of water and bowls of rice crackers. A bit of Rowan’s arm, where she was holding the phone high to get everyone in the picture at their best angle. Her face, luminous and beaming; Abbie, caught as usual in a not-quite-smile, her eyes half closed; Kate, her face enigmatic as ever, lips only just parted because she was self-conscious about her slightly crooked front teeth.

And there, on the edge of the picture, in shadow and half cropped out, was another face, in profile. A slice of defined jawline, a ski-jump nose, long feathery eyelashes, dark lipstick and the line of a cropped, angular bob with a brutally short fringe.

Zara.

SEVENTEEN

For a second, I wondered whether I was going to throw up again. I could feel the toast churning uneasily inside me, but I quickly realised that I’d seen off whatever bug I’d had – this was something different. Surprise, of course – but more than that. Shock. Betrayal, even. And along with all that, a kind of sick sense of foreboding.

But that was ridiculous. I’d done nothing wrong. It was Zara whose behaviour had alienated her from the Girlfriends’ Club inner circle – Zara who’d been in the wrong. I’d done nothing to be ashamed of, nothing that would earn me retribution or ostracisation. Of course, the way things had turned out for Zara hadn’t been ideal – but whose life was, really, ever? Certainly not mine.

My friends knew what Zara was like – they’d been on the sharp end of her behaviour for years. They had no reason to trust her and no reason to mistrust me. And I had no reason to be feeling the way I was now – nervous, furtive and discombobulated, as if I’d done something terrible and been caught out and now everyone was talking about me, and once they’d finished talking they’d have all made their minds up to hate me.

I shook my head, gulping the dregs of my tea, then grimacing because it had gone cold. I was being ridiculous.

Perhaps she hadn’t even arranged it – perhaps she’d just coincidentally been in the same bar they’d been in the previous night and joined them for a quick drink and a selfie.

But my rationalisation of the situation totally failed to reassure me.

I switched on my phone and looked at the image again. Zara’s face was still there. I didn’t press like on it.

Instead, I tapped through to WhatsApp. Normally, we’d check in once we got home from a night out, all of us tipsily saying what fun we’d had or carrying on the threads of conversations we’d begun earlier. Almost always, whoever woke first the next morning would kick off the day’s chat when she was still in bed, and we’d all compare notes on our hangovers before getting on with our days.

But this morning there was nothing – silence, a blank screen apart from a final message Abbie had posted the previous evening saying she was stuck at her desk and would be half an hour late. I hesitated for a moment, then grasped the nettle and posted.

Naomi:

Morning gang! How was last night? Did I miss anything interesting?

There was no response.

Come on, Naomi, give them a break. It’s still early.

Trying to stop the niggling voice in my head that told me something was up, I forced myself into a whirlwind of activity, making beds, tidying the kitchen and ironing a shirt for Patch to wear to work.

Then, like a moth drawn to a life-threatening naked flame, I picked my phone up again.

Abbie:

Hey, Naomi, glad you’re back in the land of the living! Are you feeling better?

Kate:

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