How to Fall Read online

He didn’t answer me straight away and I wished he wasn’t silhouetted against the light. I couldn’t see the expression on his face clearly enough to know what he was thinking.

  ‘And what have you found?’

  I shrugged. ‘Different people remember different things. I haven’t put it all together yet.’

  ‘But you’re sure you will.’

  There was a hint of mockery in his voice and I was instantly nettled. ‘Like your dad didn’t?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I gather he’s the top cop around here. It should have been his job to find out what happened to Freya.’

  ‘He looked into it. He didn’t find any evidence of foul play.’ Will’s voice was completely neutral.

  ‘Did you agree with that?’

  ‘There was no evidence.’

  ‘That’s not an answer. Did you agree with him?’

  ‘My opinion doesn’t matter a lot to him.’

  ‘Really? I’d like to know what you thought about it.’ It was my turn to fold my arms. I hoped I looked self-possessed. Determined. Not how I felt, anyway. ‘I’d like to know why you warned me to mind my own business when I asked you about Freya. Why would you bother with that if her death was an accident?’

  ‘I didn’t say it was.’

  ‘So you think it wasn’t? Where’s your money – suicide or murder?’ I was meanly pleased to see him flinch, glad that I could get a reaction from him. ‘I don’t know why she’d have wanted to kill herself, but you might have a better idea.’

  It was almost reluctant, the way he moved away from the door. His stride was slow and measured as he came towards me. The look in his eyes was anything but friendly. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘A shot in the dark?’ I could have left it there. I probably should have left it there. ‘Look, I don’t know you but you seem awfully tense about what happened to Freya. And you keep turning up. You really want to find out what I know, don’t you? That just sounds like guilt to me.’

  He seemed to consider it for a moment. ‘Why would I be guilty?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  He was still coming towards me and I took a step back, wanting to put some distance between us. The house was a long way from the studio. Too far to expect anyone to notice that I was no longer alone.

  Too far for anyone to rescue me.

  What had I got myself into now?

  Panic was just starting to flutter beneath my ribs when Will stopped a metre away from me and squatted down to flip through the canvases. He paused on a swirling painting in apricot and yellow tones. I turned my head sideways to look at it. The painting was an abstract but I couldn’t help trying to make it into something real, literal-minded as I was. It could have been a sunrise, or a sunset. Or leftover mustard on a plate.

  ‘Not my favourites, these, but she was pleased with them,’ Will remarked. Art criticism. I was grateful enough for a neutral topic of conversation to join in.

  ‘Darcy said Freya was trying new things out.’

  ‘Darcy? When did you meet her?’

  ‘Yesterday. She was really helpful.’ In a way that you aren’t.

  He frowned. ‘Look, I’m not saying you should stay away from her, but don’t trust her.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Just what I said.’

  ‘You can’t say something like that and not explain it.’

  He shook his head decisively. ‘I’m not saying anything else about her. But don’t believe everything she says.’

  ‘About Freya?’

  ‘About anything.’

  ‘You’re not her biggest fan, are you?’

  ‘It’s completely mutual.’ He turned back to the paintings and something about the set of his jaw told me I’d heard as much as I was going to about Darcy. I would ask her what she thought of him, I decided. Darcy was unlikely to be discreet.

  While Will concentrated on the paintings I was free to stare at him, and stare I did. Up close, I could see that spots of water dappled the shoulders of his grey T-shirt and clung to his hair. I had that slightly giddy feeling you get from standing too close to someone really, truly handsome – I could appreciate that, even if I didn’t like him as a person. After all, I reminded myself, Conrad had taught me a lesson. He’d been good-looking too, but the pretty face was hiding a dismal personality. Look, but don’t even think about touching . . .

  Aware that I had allowed a silence to develop, I tried to think of something sensible to say. ‘Did Freya talk to you about her painting?’

  ‘Sometimes. It was important to her.’

  It had been important to her so she had talked to Will about it. I wondered again about how close they had been. ‘Do you know anything about art?’

  ‘A little.’ He shrugged without looking round at me. ‘I’ve grown up beside the Leonards. I’ve picked up bits and pieces over the years.’

  ‘From what I gather, you’re usually here a lot.’

  ‘Been asking about me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I snapped, feeling my face flame. I really hoped he wouldn’t turn round – at least not until I had de-lobstered. ‘You just happened to be the answer to a question Mum asked.’

  ‘Your mother was asking about me.’ He sounded sceptical, as well he might.

  ‘Not directly.’ One of these days I would stop blushing and saying stupid things. It was just a shame that it was unlikely to happen when Will Henderson was around. I took a deep breath before I went on. ‘Tilly laid a place for you at the table and Mum wanted to know who was supposed to sit there.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘You don’t sound surprised.’

  ‘That Tilly had made sure there was room for me at the table in case I turned up?’ He twisted round to grin at me with a sudden charm that was as dazzling as sunlight on water. ‘She always does.’

  ‘Why’s that? Don’t your parents feed you?’ It was a flippant remark, not meant to provoke, but Will’s eyes darkened and the smile disappeared. He turned back to the paintings, flicking through them without comment. I wondered if I should apologize. Since I didn’t know what I’d said that was so offensive, I decided I didn’t have to. And if he wanted silence, I was more than happy to oblige.

  For the next minute or two, there wasn’t a sound in the studio except for the drumming of the rain on the sodden earth outside and the soft thud of canvases being shifted about. I watched Will’s hands as he worked through the paintings. I was a fool for hands, always, and his were close to ideal – nicely shaped, with long fingers, but strong and capable too. I frowned. They looked oddly familiar.

  ‘Did Freya photograph you?’

  He glanced up at me, surprised into making eye contact again. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘There’s a picture of your hands on her bedroom wall.’

  ‘Just my hands?’ The corner of his mouth slid up in the usual mocking half-smile. I was watching for it now. ‘And you recognized me?’

  ‘It’s a striking image,’ I said stiffly. ‘I’m pretty sure it was you. It was someone with dirty hands.’

  ‘And that made you think of me. Interesting.’

  ‘It looks like engine grease.’ I pointed at his leg, refusing to get flustered. ‘There’s a smudge of something black and oily on the left knee of your jeans, and there’s another black mark on the toe of your right trainer. And you were reading a book about cars yesterday in the bookshop. It looks to me as if you regularly spend quality time with some bit of machinery or other, so I think it was a fair assumption that the hands in the picture belonged to you.’

  Will looked down at himself and grinned. ‘You don’t miss much, do you?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure you don’t either, even if you think it’s clever to pretend to be stupid.’

  ‘That seems a touch harsh.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry. But it’s a simple question and I don’t know why you’re being so difficult about answering it. Did she take your picture or not
?’

  He relented. ‘Yeah. She took lots of pictures of everyone. She liked to experiment with her camera.’

  ‘But she put the picture of you on her wall . . .’ I said slowly. ‘It meant something to her.’

  ‘What was it you said? It’s a striking image. It took her a few goes to get the light the way she wanted it. She stuck up the pictures she liked, the ones she was proud of.’

  ‘The ones that mattered to her.’ I had to ask the question outright; I couldn’t stand not knowing. ‘What was the deal with you and Freya, Will? Did she like you?’

  ‘As a friend.’

  ‘And more than a friend.’

  He stood up, suddenly seeming very tall and very much too close. ‘You’re basing this on a photo.’

  ‘I’m basing it on you not wanting to talk about her but not being able to stay away. I’m basing it on the fact that it’s obvious you used to come to Sandhayes all the time, and then you stopped, around the time that Freya died – a bit before that happened, I gather, but I don’t know why. I’m basing it on how close your relationship with Freya evidently was, because she talked to you about what mattered to her and you don’t do that with your next-door neighbour, no matter how much time you spend with them, unless you feel pretty strongly about them.’

  His eyes were icy. ‘It must be a London thing.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Your rudeness.’

  I glowered. ‘I’m not aware I was being rude.’

  ‘That says it all, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You asked why I thought you’d been in a relationship with Freya. I’m just explaining it to you. If you don’t like the suggestion, tell me the truth.’

  Instead of answering, he went back to the pictures, flipping through another two before he stopped again. I knew what he was looking at before I looked myself; I’d been counting down towards the ones at the back. The ones of Freya in the nude. She hadn’t painted anything too explicit – it was a suggestion of being naked rather than anything more obvious – but I still found myself blushing, yet again, as Will stared at Freya’s body for what felt like an hour. The painting he was holding was of Freya looking away to the left. The fingertips of each hand touched the opposite shoulder so her crossed arms hid her chest from view. She looked like a Degas ballerina in her dressing room, halfway through a costume change, unaware of being watched.

  I should have said nothing, but I’m not very good at keeping quiet.

  ‘Haven’t you seen them before?’

  ‘Seen what?’

  ‘The paintings. The self-portraits.’

  ‘I had seen them. She showed me.’

  I nodded as if that sounded perfectly reasonable.

  ‘You’re jumping to conclusions,’ Will said. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘I didn’t say a word.’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I really doubt that.’

  ‘OK, then.’ He turned the first picture face down and looked at the next one, which was the painting of Freya holding her hair up, her back curved in an elegant swoop. ‘But I suspect you’re thinking I wouldn’t have seen these if Freya and I hadn’t been closer than friends.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me why I’m wrong about that.’

  Will shrugged. ‘Freya didn’t think anything of the nudity. She’d been brought up on great works of art that happened to have naked bodies in them and she didn’t think it was anything to get excited about.’

  I really, really wanted to ask if he’d got excited about it, but I managed not to. He was looking at the painting again, studying it, and I wished I could see more of his face, to get some idea of what he was thinking. I could hear his watch ticking, and the rain beating a steady rhythm on the roof as it gathered strength, and I had the very clear impression he had forgotten I was there. It was almost a shock when he spoke again.

  ‘You never did answer my question. What are you looking for out here?’

  ‘The last things Freya worked on.’

  He straightened up. ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to know how she was feeling before she died. She was a creative person – everyone agrees on that. But so far I’ve been told she could have been depressed, or completely normal, or happier than she’d ever been, and no one seems to be able to decide which is true.’

  ‘And you think you’ll be able to work it out if you see what she was painting.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced. Is that because you think I wouldn’t know the difference?’

  Will frowned. ‘It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t think it’s that easy to tell.’ He turned back to the self-portrait. ‘This could be anything, couldn’t it? She could be feeling depressed or elated and you’d never know.’

  ‘I still think it’s worth a look.’ I hesitated, not sure if I should be honest. ‘I’m not really that interested in the finished paintings. I was looking for her sketchbook. It’s more likely to give me an insight into how she was feeling.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  I pointed at the painting that was nearest me. ‘This would have taken her a long time, wouldn’t it? She’d have been working on it for ages, and here, where anyone who knew her could see it and might ask her about it. From what I saw in her room, her sketchbook would be more like a diary – bits and pieces that occurred to her on the spur of the moment. It would be more private, I suppose.’

  ‘You could be right.’ Will was looking down at me and the expression on his face gave me absolutely no clue as to what he was thinking.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So do you have any idea where it might be?’

  ‘She had hundreds.’ He pointed to a plan chest that stood in the corner of the room. ‘You could have a look in there. That was where Freya kept her work-in-progress.’

  I was there before he’d finished talking, pulling out the shallow drawers one by one. It was neatly arranged, methodically organized, and I did find sketchbooks – lots of them, and all dated on the cover.

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘It was the beginning of August. The fifth.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I was shuffling through sketchbooks. ‘It took her four or five weeks to finish one of these, by the looks of things. That means she probably started the last one in June.’

  ‘Sounds about right.’

  ‘But the last one I’ve found covers May and the start of June.’ I flicked through it: flowers and leaves in botanical detail, homework notes, nothing interesting. I would take it anyway, to check through it later, just in case I’d missed something. ‘The next one isn’t here.’

  Will frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’ve only had a quick look, but they’re all in order.’ I shuffled through them again. ‘If it was here, it should be after this one. And it’s not.’

  He didn’t say anything straight away and when I turned to see what he thought, he was looking amused. ‘You do like your mysteries, don’t you?’

  ‘This isn’t one I’ve invented.’ I pushed the drawer shut. ‘It should be there and it’s not.’

  ‘Maybe Tilly has it.’

  ‘I’ll ask her.’

  His expression changed from mocking amusement to serious, and he reached out to put his hand on my arm, as if to stop me from rushing in to talk to her then and there. ‘Go easy. She’s not coping as well as all that.’

  ‘I had noticed.’ I moved away a little so I was out of his reach. My skin tingled where his fingers had touched me.

  ‘You didn’t know her before, though.’ He shook his head. ‘She used to be so happy. Now it’s as if the light’s gone out.’

  ‘It’s the not knowing.’

  Will’s expression hardened. ‘So you’re going to find out what happened, is that it? Solve all her problems by answering the question: what happened to Freya? And once we all know the truth, we can carry on as we were.’

  ‘You sound like you disagree,’ I said icily.


  ‘I do. Profoundly. I think you should leave it alone and enjoy your holiday. But I know you’re not going to do that and I do want to know what you find out, so I’m planning to stick around.’

  ‘I really don’t need your help.’ Especially when one of the things I really wanted to find out was what he was hiding, because there was definitely something he wasn’t telling me. I just couldn’t tell if it was important or not.

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t get in the way.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘Why were you so curious about what I was doing down here anyway? Afraid of what I might find?’

  ‘Not me.’ He stretched, looking at that moment about as stressed out as a cat in a sunbeam. His T-shirt rode up to reveal a few centimetres of tanned, flat stomach. Come on, Jess, concentrate.

  ‘Like I said,’ Will went on, ‘I was just curious. The same way you’re just curious about what happened to your cousin.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s the same thing at all.’

  ‘Fine.’ He leaned down, his face inches from mine. ‘But you’re not going to get rid of me.’

  I couldn’t come up with an answer to save my life. The air between us was crackling with tension. I thought Will was going to hit me, or kiss me, or say something honest and unguarded for a change. I don’t know what would have happened next if we hadn’t been interrupted, but all of a sudden I became aware of footsteps getting closer and closer, rustling through the grass. Will heard them too and moved back smartly, so when my mother breezed through the door we were a couple of metres apart, and Will was concentrating on rearranging Freya’s paintings.

  ‘Jess, you’ve been down here for ever. It’s time we were going.’ Her eyes fell on Will, who had his back to her. ‘Oh. Hello.’

  Mum wasn’t the strictest of parents but she definitely had views on her one and only daughter having alone time with strange boys, and her tone was not encouraging.

  I hurried to explain. ‘Mum, this is—’

  ‘Will Henderson.’ He turned and smiled at her, putting out his hand to shake hers as he crossed the room. ‘I live over the back wall.’

  ‘Oh.’ I could tell that was all Mum was capable of saying. She was staring at Will. The blood had drained from her face and I thought she actually might faint.