Читать книгу Her Sister’s Secret - E. V. Seymour - Страница 17

Dressed in T-shirt and joggers, sweatband banishing her long honey-coloured hair, and with top of the range trainers on her feet, Fliss Fiander had obviously returned from a run or the gym. I could see she was upset. Her make-up wasn’t quite so immaculate or au naturel and her long dark lashes, which I suspected were permanently dyed, looked damp. Having never got the hang of applying foundation and lipstick, my look was more natural meets ‘can’t be arsed.’ There was a difference.

Towering over me, she threw her arms wide, gave me a hug, and invited me in. “You look tired out, Molly.”

“Didn’t get much sleep last night.” Correction: didn’t get any sleep last night and that was before this morning’s incident. On the drive over, self-doubt assailed me. Was I speculating too much about my sister’s trip to London? Could there be a completely innocent reason? Was I making deductions without the evidence to back them up regarding the notes found? In a way, it would be more comforting because then I didn’t need to be scared. Well, not much.

“Samuel’s out with the au pair so we have the house to ourselves. Come on through.”

I removed my flip-flops, my toes sinking into inches of thick oatmeal-coloured carpet and followed Fliss into a house that was the epitome of knockout design. The Fianders were ‘hired help’ folk, with staff for every aspect of their lives. I was as likely to watch Fliss Fiander with a mop and bucket in her hand as see her buy a sweater from the clothes section of the local supermarket. Designer girl. Designer house.

She appraised me in a way that I found faintly intrusive. Had Scarlet confided in her about our row? Did she know about Scarlet’s trip to the Capital?

“I’m about to make tea. Camomile or fruit?”

“Fruit would be fine.” I hated camomile. Like drinking distilled weeds.

From the kitchen, tri-fold doors led out onto a terrace with modernist furniture that matched the slate grey marble paving slabs and probably cost as much as the entire contents of my house. Beyond: a lush garden with ornamental paths, statues, arbours, exotic-looking plants and summerhouse. Outdoor Grand Design meets Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

“Pop outside, make yourself at home. I won’t be a second.”

I slid into a seat, stretched out in the sunshine, abruptly slain by the thought that it should be Scarlet sitting here with her best friend, not me.

“There you go.” With a creamy smile, Fliss handed me a glass that came inside another, presumably to prevent condensation. I thanked her and she viewed me with a sombre expression. “Scarlet really was my very best friend, and me and Louis are totally devastated. I can’t imagine how you must feel. It’s such a shock. Your poor parents and Zach, poor Nate too.”

Grim, I nodded, took a tentative sip, wished I hadn’t. “You’ve spoken to Nate?”

“Briefly.”

“Did he tell you that Scarlet lied about attending a conference and that he suspected her of having an affair?”

Fliss flushed and frowned. “Hang on a sec. I must grab my sunnies. Squinting into the sun is so ageing,” she said. Needlessly, I thought. I stared off into the distance, listened to the birds, thought about a future I couldn’t see, feeling awkward because I had one and my sister didn’t. Feeling rotten because I wasn’t only trawling through my sister’s private life, I was about to trample on it too.

“That’s better.” Cartier sunglasses replaced the sweatband. She beamed an expansive, self-confident smile designed to recalibrate the conversation. Made no difference to me. I picked up right where I left off. “Was she?”

She threw me a ‘mustn’t speak ill of the dead’ stare, although it was difficult to deduce much at all through the impenetrability of graded brown lenses. A slight flare of the nostrils was her only ‘tell.’

I rephrased. “Would she confide in you if she were?” I tamed the jagging sensation underneath my skin.

“I’d like to think so.” Which wasn’t the same as ‘Yes.’ Fliss Fiander was choosing her answers with exquisite care. I needed to push her and I was shameless about it. “I really need you to be completely honest with me. And before you say a word, twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t think my sister capable of drinking vodka neat from the bottle and driving under the influence.”

“What?” she said with a jolt.

“Unconfirmed, but likely.”

She snatched at her drink.

“Please, Fliss. What happened yesterday is so odd, so left-field, any scrap of information that can explain the tragedy, I’d be grateful if you’d tell me.”

She rested her glass delicately on the low table in front of us, adjusted her sunglasses, and flicked both palms up in a defensive gesture. “There’s a saying about not shooting the messenger.”