‘It came up on my Ibiza Live Facebook group. The police are looking for information. Here, I’ll find it.’ I hold my breath as Anette laboriously scrolls through her phone, avoiding both her and Linda’s gaze.
Get a fucking grip, I tell myself. They can’t read your mind. Nobody can.
‘Ah, here it is,’ says Anette, glancing up as if to ensure she has our full attention before sharing an especially juicy piece of gossip. I simultaneously want her to shut up and to continue. ‘Ibiza police today released the identity of the young man who has gone missing after his stay near Port de Sant Miquel in Ibiza. The man is twenty-six-year-old Paris native Maxime Dubois-Joseph, whose parents own an estate on the north coast of Ibiza. His family are increasingly concerned for his well-being and are extremely anxious to get in contact with anyone who may have information about his whereabouts.’
‘God, I wonder if we might have seen him, if he was staying in Port de Sant Miquel,’ says Linda. ‘We could have sat next to him in a restaurant.’ She pulls out her phone and starts tapping away eagerly, and within moments she produces a picture of a smiling Maxime Dubois-Joseph, his perfect white teeth glinting, his hair slicked back and shining.
‘Wow,’ says Anette. ‘I’d definitely remember if we’d seen him. He looks like a young Johnny Depp.’
‘Let’s hope he ages better,’ says Linda, and they both titter.
‘Oh, my God,’ I whisper. ‘That’s my neighbour’s son. The couple at Sa Capricciosa. That’s him.’ I’m confident that I’ve managed to convey both surprise and horror.
‘What, the godawful Parisians suing you?’ asks Anette.
‘Yeah. What does it say about what they think has happened?’
Linda scans the text again. ‘They’re not sure whether he went missing on the island or after leaving. No reason to suspect foul play.’
‘The guy is obviously dead, though,’ says Anette.
‘Why would you think that?’ Linda asks.
‘Hmmm,’ I say. ‘He looks like one of those loaded, troubled types to me. The kind with more money than sense and probably a drug problem. Maybe Daddy’s pulled the plug on the money and he’s run off somewhere.’
‘Yeah, or he’s pissed someone off and they got rid of him,’ says Anette.
‘I don’t really think Ibiza is that kind of place,’ I say, and pick up my glass, draining it.
‘Oh, I do,’ says Anette.
‘How well do you know the parents? And have you met the guy?’ asks Linda.
‘I don’t think I have, no. I’ve met his parents once or twice over the years. My mother was quite friendly with them at one point, but it really soured over the beach access situation.’
‘Well, I imagine they’ll stop hounding you with their pit bull lawyers now they have something else to think about,’ says Anette.
I feel a twinge of anger at her careless comment; as if I’d have wished for the Dubois-Josephs son to die so they wouldn’t sue me. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ I say, and stand up.
I walk out of the living room and upstairs to our bedroom, where I sit down on the bed. Andreas is still out at a work dinner, and I know he won’t rush home when he knows I’ve got the girls over. Oscar is somewhere in the house, on his screens probably, or maybe Ayla has put him to bed by now. I can’t remember whether I said goodnight or not but I must have – it’s past eleven. I pull out my phone and glance at the long list of notifications. Hundreds of questions and furious comments from fans on Instagram about focacciagate. A message from my father saying food delivery never turned up. A message from my son saying Goodnight, Mom, with a confusing smiling emoji with a tear, sent twenty minutes ago. Nothing from Madeleine, but when I send her a text saying You okay? she replies instantly – yep.
There are also four new missed calls from Bianka, one from just moments ago – I keep my phone on silent or I’d never get a moment’s peace. I press Call and she answers almost instantaneously, her voice thick and strange. It sounds like she’s crying and then I realize she definitely is.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you called. We need to talk.’
‘Yeah,’ she whispers, exhaling with an audible shudder. ‘Have you heard the news about Maxime? The police are appealing for information.’
‘Yeah. I heard just now. I don’t think we need to worry, though. They’re saying they don’t suspect foul play.’ Bianka doesn’t answer, but I can tell by her hiccupy breathing that she’s still there. I feel claustrophobic and anxious talking to her. In my mind it’s like I’ve already completely cut myself loose from her and everything that happened in Ibiza. ‘But Bianka. Linda saw you that night. With the weights.’
‘Did she tell you that?’ Bianka’s voice goes from whispered and low to its usual firmness.
‘Yes. And she told me that she randomly bumped into you this morning by her house. In Cobham! That wasn’t a coincidence, I imagine?’
‘I wanted to speak to her, yeah. Since I haven’t been able to speak to you.’
‘But, Bianka, that seems a little extreme. And we need to talk about that picture on Instagram. I’m not sure I can overstate how unbelievably damaging something like this can be.’
‘It wasn’t me.’ Of course it was you, I want to scream. But I don’t. Instead I take a deep breath and remind myself that I have to keep Bianka on my side, no matter what.
‘Okay. I believe you. It just seemed like it was you, considering you’re clearly upset with me.’
‘Charlotte. Why didn’t you invite us to the barbecue?’
I sigh. I knew this was coming. That fucking barbecue. I should have been more careful. I knew even as I was standing there in the garden sipping Pimms, watching Andreas flip burgers, that it was a bigger mistake not to have invited Emil and Bianka than to invite them – it was very noticeable and I knew they’d hear about it, and I wish I’d realized then that it wasn’t the most strategic way to handle things.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was really hurt and confused by that.’
‘Bianka. Look. It wasn’t a planned thing. It just happened like that, last minute. I care about you and our friendship—’
‘Friendship.’ Bianka snorts incredulously. ‘Some friendship.’ I ignore her. ‘I just want to see you,’ she eventually continues, her voice softer now. ‘I feel like you’re trying to get rid of me.’
‘Bianka, that’s not true, okay? I don’t want you to think that. It’s just, I have a full life with lots of work and lots of social stuff going on and I can’t always be with everyone all the time. Why don’t we get a coffee in the diary sometime soon, and sort things out then.’ Sometime soon means never, as we all know.
‘A coffee. Wow. Here’s the thing, Charlotte. I just don’t understand. One minute in Ibiza you’re telling me you regret everything, that it all meant nothing and you need space. And the next, you kiss me out of the blue. That kiss changed everything for me. It made it all worth it. It made me feel as though we have a future.’
‘We’ll talk about all of it and more. I have to go. But I’m worried that Linda could have seen something. Are you sure nobody followed behind you on the way back down to the finca? And how can we know if she wasn’t standing at one of the windows upstairs with binoculars? She could have seen us out there, on the boat.’
