The Lost Relic

Saturday, even a beautiful early autumn afternoon like this one, wasn’t normally a day of leisure for Brooke. She had a thousand other things to attend to that she knew she was neglecting, including repainting the kitchen of her ground-floor apartment in the converted Victorian red-brick house – but spending time in the garden relaxed her and that was something she needed badly right now.

As she stood up, brushing bits of grass from her bare knees and gazing at the colourful borders, she couldn’t help but let her mind drift back, as it had been doing obsessively of late, to the event a month earlier that was the cause of all her troubles.

Phoebe’s invitation to the fifth wedding anniversary party had seemed a wonderful opportunity to catch up with the sister Brooke was so close to but didn’t get to see often enough. Their schedules seldom allowed it: Brooke was either too busy with her London clients or off in France; or else Phoebe and her husband Marshall were away on one of the frequent exotic vacations with which an investment banker and a Pilates instructor to the celebs could indulge themselves. Skiing in Aspen, snorkelling off Bermuda, high-rolling in whichever of the world’s best hotels and restaurants were currently fashionable with the Serious Money Club. The couple had only recently moved into their latest acquisition, an insanely expensive eight-bedroom mock-Tudor house in Hampstead that Brooke hadn’t seen until the night of the party.

And what a party. The huge house was milling. A trad jazz band were playing in the corner of one palatial room, people were dancing, champagne was flowing. If anyone there hadn’t been a stockbroker or a top barrister, a billionaire banker or a PR guru, Brooke must have missed it. All she’d really wanted was to get some time alone with her sister, but Phoebe was taken up with playing the hostess and they’d barely been able to snatch more than a few words by the time the champagne was going to Brooke’s head and she’d headed for the kitchen to get herself a drink of water.

Not surprisingly, the kitchen was gigantic. Miles of exotic hardwood worktop and every conceivable cooking gadget known to man – despite the fact that Phoebe and Marshall ate out almost every night – but finding something as simple as a water glass wasn’t so easy. As Brooke was searching yet another cupboard, she heard the kitchen door open and turned to see Marshall come into the room, smiling at her. He clicked the door shut behind him, closing out the noise of the band and the party buzz. He’d walked up to her and leaned against the worktop, watching her. Standing a little close, she’d thought – but made nothing of it at the time.

‘I was just looking for a glass.’

He pointed. ‘In there. Oh, there’s Evian in the fridge,’ he added as she picked out a tumbler and went to fill it at the sink.

‘Great party,’ she’d said, opening the fridge and helping herself to the chilled water. She took a sip, and when she looked back at Marshall he’d moved a little closer. Was that a little odd, or was she just imagining things?

‘I’m so glad you were able to make it,’ he said. ‘It seems so long since we last saw you, Brooke. Keeping busy? Still going over to France to teach at that place – what’s it called?’

‘Le Val.’ She nodded. ‘More often than ever.’

Marshall’s smile had wavered a little then. ‘I suppose you’re still seeing that soldier fellow?’

‘Ben’s not exactly a soldier.’

‘Anyway, it’s good to see you again, Brooke,’ he’d said. ‘Tonight wouldn’t have been the same without you.’

‘Don’t be silly. Tonight is all about you and Phoebe. I’m really happy for you both.’

‘No, I mean it.’

‘Well, it’s sweet of you to say.’

They’d gone on chatting for a few moments. Brooke had noticed that Marshall was a little red in the face. Must be the champagne, she thought – until suddenly he pulled a serious frown, cleared his throat and interrupted their small talk by blurting out, ‘I really did mean it, you know. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again, a lot. In fact, I’ve been having trouble thinking about anything else the last few weeks. Or anyone else,’ he added meaningfully.

‘Marshall, are you drunk? You shouldn’t be talking that way.’

‘I married the wrong sister,’ he stammered. ‘I realise that now.’

‘You’ve had too much to drink. Let me make you a coffee.’

‘I’m not drunk,’ he’d protested, moving even closer and making her back away. ‘I think about you all the time. I can’t concentrate at work. I can’t sleep at night. I’m in love with you, Brooke.’

His earnestness was shocking. She’d been opening her mouth to yell at him to stop it and back off when the door had opened again and Phoebe had walked into the kitchen. Marshall wheeled abruptly away from Brooke and planted himself against the edge of the kitchen table, trying to act normal.

Phoebe didn’t appear to notice anything was wrong. ‘There you are,’ she’d said brightly. ‘I was wondering where the two of you had vanished off to.’

‘I just came in for a glass of water,’ Brooke explained, heart fluttering, holding up her glass as if somehow she needed to provide evidence. Why the hell did she feel she had to justify herself? She was furious with herself, and even angrier with Marshall for putting her in this situation. The fact that she’d hidden it perfectly only made her feel more absurdly complicit.

Exit Marshall, in a hurry, suddenly in urgent need to attend to the guests. Brooke had swallowed hard and spent a while catching up on things with her sister as though nothing had happened. Twenty minutes later, she’d made her excuses and gone home, upset and confused.

One morning a week after the party, Brooke had been driving to work when Phoebe had called her sounding emotional and asking if they could have coffee that day. They’d met at Richoux in Piccadilly, and taken a small table in the corner of the tearoom. Brooke had known right away that something was up. Her sister looked suddenly much older than her thirty-eight years, gaunt and strung out. Over far more than her usual share of cream scones, she’d come out with it:

‘Marshall’s having an affair.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do. He’s stopped paying me any attention. He comes home late. He’s irritable and restless.’

Jesus. Under the table, Brooke’s toes had been curling. ‘He has a stressful job, Phoebe. It could be work related. Problems at the office. It doesn’t have to mean—’

‘There’s more,’ Phoebe cut in. ‘He bought jewellery. I found a receipt in his pocket. Tiffany’s. Three grand. Who’s that for, eh?’

‘Maybe he wants to surprise you.’

‘A week after our anniversary? Christmas is miles away and my birthday’s not for another seven months. It isn’t for me, Brooke. I know it.’ Phoebe had burst into tears at that point. ‘I couldn’t bear it if he left me. I’d die.’

Brooke had done her best to reassure her sister that nothing was wrong. Everything would soon go back to normal.

She could have murdered Marshall.

Then, two nights after that, the first of the phone calls. ‘It’s me. Are you alone?’

‘Of course I’m alone. I live alone. It’s three in the morning, Marshall. Go to sleep.’

‘I can’t sleep.’

‘Good bye.’

Eleven, twelve, thirteen more times he’d tried to call that night, keeping her from sleep until dawn. The next evening had come the knock on the door that she’d been dreading. Marshall had looked wrecked there on the doorstep, demanding to know why she wouldn’t answer the phone. Worried he was going to make a scene, she’d let him come inside the flat.

Big mistake.

‘The way you talk to me. The way you look at me, the way you laugh when I tell a story. I know you like me. Admit it. You have feelings for me.’ She could smell the alcohol on his breath.

‘You’re crossing the line, Marshall,’ she shouted. ‘I’m not going to let you hurt Phoebe like this.’

‘Not going to let me? This is all your fault!’ Digging in his pocket, he came out with a small packet. ‘Look. Let’s not fight. I bought you a present.’

Brooke had stared in horror, knowing what it was. ‘I don’t want it.’

‘It’s from Tiffany.’

‘Give it to Phoebe. My sister. Your wife, remember?’

‘Phoebe and I are finished.’