Am I Guilty?: The gripping, emotional domestic thriller debut filled with suspense, mystery and surprises!
a woolly hat pulled down low over his eyes, was half-walking, half-jogging on the other side of the road, a large black Labrador tugging at the lead he held in his outstretched hand. Even from this distance, I could see that he was smiling, saying something to his eager pet, and I felt a sudden pang of envy.
Everywhere around me, people were going about their lives, feeling happy, enjoying the little things. The normal things. I wondered, would I ever be able to feel like that again? To take pleasure in simple, everyday tasks, without this gnawing pain, this overwhelming guilt, this grief that paralyzed me? Would I ever stop feeling this self-loathing, this disgust every time I looked at myself in the mirror? And what about Nell? How was I going to fix Nell?
I turned from the window, wondering, not for the first time, if I should get her some professional help, a counsellor or something. I was seeing Isla later in the week, as usual – she’d probably know somebody. Isla knows everyone. But what if Nell refused to go? Could I make her? I sighed, my eyes drifting to the drinks cabinet under the mirror, the big one with the elaborate metal scrollwork that I’d loved so much when Rupert and I had spotted it in a junk shop when I was pregnant with Zander, just after the scan where we found out we were having a little boy. Rupert had bought the mirror for me straight away when I said how much I loved it, so excited about the new baby, so thrilled he was getting a son. If only he’d known then, how things were going to turn out. If only I’d known.
My eyes flicked again to the drinks cabinet, then I resolutely looked away. I’d been doing so well, hadn’t had a drink for two days now. Well, this was day three, so nearly three really, if anyone was counting. I took a deep breath. No, no drinking today. I could do this sober. I had to. I inhaled again, slowly, deeply, blew the air out forcefully, then walked out into the hallway and headed upstairs to Nell’s room.
‘Oh, that garden will be perfect for photos! Look Annabelle, how lovely it is!’
Flora, who was standing at one of the three windows of the large drawing room, turned to me, her eyes bright with excitement. I put my notebook down on the arm of the sofa and went to join her. She was right.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘It really will, won’t it?’
We stood there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, taking in the view. It was Wednesday morning, and we were on a site visit to a house near Wotton-under-Edge. It was owned by Elaine Gorton, a criminal barrister who worked in London during the week and spent her weekends in the Cotswolds, but she’d given me keys this week so I could come and check the place out, put a plan together for our next meeting.
She was getting married in May, at nearby St Mary the Virgin church, and I was in charge of the reception, a relatively small affair for around sixty people, which would be held here at her home, an elegant, Grade II listed, Queen Anne-style villa set in an acre of beautifully landscaped gardens. From a paved patio area outside the window, steps led down to an expanse of lawn, ideal for the marquee I intended to set up, and bordered with shrubs, roses and fruit trees. A curved path led, via an archway covered in some sort of evergreen climber – I’m not bad on trees, but not great on recognizing plants – to a large, white, painted summer house, and behind that a walled ‘secret’ garden. It had been too wet to venture out yet this morning, but I knew from the photos Elaine had sent me that that would be the perfect spot for pre-lunch drinks, with wooden benches dotted around under magnolia trees, beautifully colour-coordinated beds of herbs and flowers, and a gently bubbling fountain.
‘You’ve got a good eye, you know.’ I turned to Flora and she looked at me and grinned.
‘Thanks, Annabelle! I’m not much of a photographer myself, but it does look like a garden from a wedding magazine, doesn’t it? I can just picture Elaine out there, all slinky in her dress, the sun shining, the roses in bloom … it’s going to be fabulous, isn’t it?’
Her green eyes shone, and her enthusiasm was infectious. My first thoughts when planning an event like this, which would rely so heavily on good weather, were anxious ones about rain and wind, flyaway marquees and soggy food. But Flora was definitely better at looking on the bright side, and although I still needed to have a wet weather contingency plan, I suddenly felt inspired.
‘It is,’ I said. ‘Maybe we could drape that archway halfway down the garden with some little fairy lights, and do a few more photos out there later on, when it gets dark? And … random thing to say, and tell me if you think I’m bonkers … what do you think about trying to use that horse? The one we saw as we drove in?’
‘Oooh yes!’ Flora squealed, clapping her hands, and I could see that she’d immediately understood my idea. ‘We could make a flower garland for its neck. It would look wonderful! I wonder if it’s tame enough though?’ She wrinkled up her small nose, pondering.
‘Hmm, yes, maybe we should check that out before we suggest it to Elaine – could go horribly wrong otherwise!’
We both laughed. We’d spotted a white horse in the field adjoining Elaine’s garden as we drove in, the animal almost fairy tale in appearance with a long flowing mane and graceful swishing tail, and a haughty, regal stare. I wasn’t sure who owned it, but if they were willing, and the horse was a well-behaved one …
‘Oh, Flora, I almost forgot.’ I turned from the window as something else from my never-ending to-do list suddenly came to mind. She turned too, grabbing her own notepad and pen from the windowsill.
‘Yes? Shoot.’
I flicked through my notes.
‘Here it is. Isla Laird’s been in touch. You know her, don’t you? Oh, of course you do, she’s a friend of Thea’s, isn’t she? She’s a producer on that late-night chat show, Yak Yak Yak? Anyway, Ailsa Levi is appearing on the show in a couple of weeks’ time, and as we’re doing her book launch on Friday Isla was wondering if we could get a bit of footage for her to use on the show – you know, Ailsa signing books and that sort of stuff? She said the show will pay for it – we just need to sort someone who can shoot broadcast-quality video as well as the stills photographer we’ve already booked. Can you organize that?’
‘Sure, no problem.’
Flora nodded, scribbling away in her book. I watched her for a moment. Was it my imagination, or had she suddenly turned a little pale?
‘Are you OK, Flora?’ I asked hesitantly.
She looked up, a slightly haunted expression in her eyes, then smiled.
‘Fine! I’ll get onto that this afternoon. Oh look, it’s stopped raining. Do you want to make a run for it now, zoom down and have a peek at the secret garden while the going’s good?’
I nodded.
‘Great idea. We can roughly measure the lawn too, see how big we can go with the marquee. She wants a dancefloor as well as dining space. Should be fine, but let’s just check.’
As I followed Flora out through the hallway and down into the kitchen to the back door, I mentally kicked myself. I should have dealt with Isla Laird myself, damn and blast it. Why had I passed the job on to Flora? She’d definitely looked a little shaken there for a moment. I should have thought, should have realized that as one of Thea’s best friends, Isla was very much a part of what had happened, and that being forced to deal with her now was bound to be very difficult for poor Flora. That had been thoughtless of me.
I knew Isla myself a bit, too, of course – as a showbiz type, who flitted between London and Gloucestershire, she often attended events I’d organized, launches and celebrations and parties thrown by writers, actors, local celebrities. She’d even been to a do at my own house once, a couple of years back, I remembered now – probably the garden party I’d held to mark three years of Big Day Event Planning.
She