Home > My Best Friend's Murder

My Best Friend's Murder
Author: Polly Phillips

 


One


Saturday 1 December

9.02 a.m.

I stamp my feet and bang on the door again. I wish they’d hurry up and open it. I’m dying for the loo. And it’s Baltic out here. The Porsche Cayenne is parked outside so they’re definitely home. Aren’t people with kids always saying they have to be up before dawn? So why aren’t they answering? The old woman with the dog climbing the steps to one of the tall houses on the opposite side of the road keeps looking over. She probably thinks I’m breaking and entering. To the suspicious mind, my faded black leggings and dark puffa jacket are just what a burglar might wear. I want to call out something reassuring like, ‘Don’t worry, I’m a friend of the Waverlys’, but I suspect that might alarm her further. I inspect my left hand – I was so excited to get over here I didn’t think about getting a much-needed mani – and try to think warm, non loo-related thoughts instead.

It doesn’t work. I shift from one leg to the other, eyeing the potted bay trees on either side of the glossy front door. If I have to wait much longer, I might end up squatting over one of them. Not quite the way I wanted to introduce the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I should have called first.

I jiggle for a few moments, then give up and start rummaging through my bag. I’m digging past the sticker book for Tilly, Ed’s car keys, three lip balms and a bag of dog treats when the door swings open. Standing in a cloud of the Issey Miyake perfume she’s worn since school is Izzy, my best friend. She’s a vision in Lycra. I thrust my left hand behind my back – I want this to be a surprise.

‘Bec? What are you doing here? And why are you standing like a penguin?’

‘Are you going running?’ I feel a little guilty. I was so excited to get over here it slipped my mind that Izzy runs in the mornings. I remind myself that I’d be more than happy for her to turn up on my doorstep any time of the day or night. Though, given the state of my flat, it’s unlikely she would.

‘I was about to head up to the common. It’s my morning to run while Rich watches Tilly. Is everything okay, hon?’

‘More than okay. Just some good news to share. And –’ I rustle the paper bag in my right hand ‘– I brought pastries.’

Izzy hesitates. Her Fitbit blinks like it’s having a seizure. She looks at it longingly, then says, ‘Go on then. I went to the gym while Tilly was at nursery yesterday.’

‘That’s the spirit! Now will you let me in already? I’ve been standing here so long your neighbour thinks I’m a burglar. And I’m dying for the loo.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ She stands aside so I can rush past. ‘Then you can tell me this good news. It must be something big to get you out of bed before lunchtime.’

9.14 a.m.

I’m sitting on the buttercup-coloured Oka sofa next to the breakfast bar. It offsets its Farrow and Ball surrounds perfectly. I brush my fingers along the wall. ‘Lamp Room Gray’ with ‘Elephant’s Breath’ for the feature wall. The Dulux colours of mine and Ed’s two-bed don’t lift the imagination in quite the same way.

She seems to be taking forever to plate the pastries. I play with one of the throw cushions to distract myself. This is exactly the kind of sofa I’d love to have if dog hair and my natural tendency to spill didn’t prevent such a style statement. Not many three-year-olds could be trusted around such a beautiful piece, but naturally Izzy’s daughter, Tilly, is super well-behaved. Not to mention well-policed; half her toys have nanny cameras in them and she’s not allowed to go to the bathroom on her own. As if on cue, I hear her on the landing upstairs, her footsteps punctuated by Rich’s heavier tread. I jump up. I want my news to have Izzy’s complete attention. Apart from texting my brother, Rob, she will be the first person I tell.

‘This is quite a haul.’ Izzy offers me a plate as I come round the bar. ‘Did you win the lottery?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’ I grin as I shoot my left hand across the marble counter splaying my fingers so fast I look like a demented Harry Potter character casting a spell. She can’t miss the huge diamond sitting on my ring finger. ‘Ed proposed.’

Izzy’s so surprised she doesn’t say anything for a second. Then her face breaks into a smile. She sweeps me into a hug.

‘That’s fantastic, Bec. Just what you’ve been waiting for. I’m so thrilled for you.’

She goes over to her double fridge and pulls out a bottle of Moet. She’s so grown up. The only booze in my fridge is the stuff I’m planning to drink that night.

‘Tell me everything.’

‘Don’t you want to see the ring first?’ Izzy loves diamonds. I’m surprised it wasn’t the first thing she asked about.

‘I can see it from over here. It’s massive!’ She’s fiddling with the champagne.

‘What’s massive? Hey, Bec.’ Rich comes in, Tilly looped around his neck so her blonde plait sweeps across his broad chest. His dark hair’s rumpled like he just got up. I concentrate on my cheese straw. I might have known him my whole life – we even had baths together as kids – but I still get tongue-tied when I first see him. Rich Waverly was captain of the rugby team while I was what you might call a ‘late bloomer’. Izzy thinks my feelings are a throwback from when we were at school. She, of all people, should know there’s a bit more to it than that.

‘Ed proposed!’ Izzy practically throws the champagne at Rich. ‘Here, do this. I’m useless this morning.’

‘Bec, that’s great! He’s a lucky man.’ Rich deposits Tilly on the floor and pops the cork in one movement. ‘Where is he?’

‘On the common walking Missy.’ I pull myself together. ‘He thought I might want to tell Izzy on my own so we could – and I quote – “get all the screaming and crying” out of our systems.’

Rich laughs. ‘A man after my own heart. And he walks the dog as well. Why don’t we meet him up there? Take Tilly’s scooter and make a morning of it?

Tilly’s already at the built-in shoe rack, pulling shoes and boots off at random.

‘What about the pastries?’ Izzy’s looking flustered. ‘And the champers?’

‘Bring them. I’ll grab plastic flutes from the pantry.’ Rich starts moving and I picture him at work, executing deals, a stream of minions in his wake. Not that I really know what he does. Something in finance. ‘We’ll bung the pastries in a carrier bag. What’s left of them, anyway…’

He smirks as I blush. Now I’m engaged, I might need to rethink my pastry habit.

‘Come on.’ He grabs Izzy’s hands and swings her arms. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’

‘Okay. But only for an hour or so. You promised you’d get the Christmas tree this weekend and I’ve got to finish the Beef Wellington before your family comes over.’

‘I’ll do that when we get back. I only have to finish the chapter I’m working on then I’m free as a bird.’ Rich starts to chase Tilly up the stairs, their feet clattering against the polished wood as Tilly’s laughter bounces down the stairs.

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