Page 3 of Dead to Me

I’m very aware that you might have stopped reading already, even if you opened the email.And more aware that you might stop at any future point.

I obviously can’t make you read on, but I figure we’re long overdue an actual conversation about what happened.About the night when you suddenly seemed to forget who I was and think something totally different of me.

I could see that something had happened.I know I got things wrong, and I should have stepped forward to comfort you.From your pale, empty-looking face in the hallway light.From the way you came in and started to tidy up the counter and then wipe it down like you always did before you could talk about anything emotional (do you still do that?The little comfort routine before you can access your feelings?), except you got it all in the wrong order, with things not put away and the cloth in a drawer, and then you just stalled.Stopped.Like something in you had stuttered and broken.

I should have been there for you.But the truth is I was frozen in fear.Terrified that someone else was dead.

And in fact what you told me was almost as bad, Reid.

‘Tanya did it to herself.’

Because how could you believe that?How could you accept that your amazing, driven, and above-allcollectedsister would have taken a cocktail of drugs?I can see now that what happened to us that night was the terrible conflict between your grief and mine: yours the burrowing kind of grief that wantedto wrap itself in guilt and responsibility for what happened; and mine the stubborn, furious, fighting kind.

At least, that’s how I’ve come to make sense of the fact that when I tried to argue with you, you turned on me and accused me of heartlessness and virtually whoring myself to get at a story.Things I’d never, ever thought would cross your mind.

I was so angry with you about what you said, Reid.The hurt of that: it felt like the worst possible betrayal.You were supposed to know me.To love me.

But I’ve had to try to make my peace with it, in the absence of a chance to talk to you.And I hope you can make a little peace with it, too.Enough, at least, to listen when I tell you that I’ve stumbled on the death of another young woman and that it’s put me in danger.

It all kicked off three months ago.At a party.

It was one of those charity events at the Victoria and Albert Museum, with tiny little canapés and themed cocktails (which wereuniversallybad) and dozens of Gucci-dressed leaders of the world all scattered amid exhibits they clearly had no interest in.

I mean, a few of them were doing that thing where they’d drop in something obnoxious like, ‘Oh, the Gormley is on loan from the Tate, actually.We sponsored the original exhibition there.’Or maybe some of the guys would look at a seriously ripped version of Achilles and say, ‘I do love classical sculpture.It’s a window back to a time when men could be unashamedlymen.I feel as though few of us really live by their values any more.’I was itching to ask if they spent a lot of time getting naked and singing songs to their boyfriends in tents.A basic education in the classics will get you a long way.

To summarise the party, it was the kind of event that makes me feel uncomfortable, even now that I’ve attended dozensof them in one role or another.So I’d had to put my professional mask on for the night and swallow down all my real feelings.

I was there to help a Crown Court judge condemn himself, which I was doing by pretending to be a very earnest young human rights lawyer named Alexandra.You know the kind: wide-eyed, hanging on his every word, not long graduated from Harvard.And… well, I had to let him flirt with me.But it wasn’t what you’re imagining.Just, you know, laughing at his jokes and letting him put his hand on my arm.

I probably don’t need to tell you that the Right Honourable Mark Taylor was putty in my hands.I don’t know what it is about that kind of man, but they always,alwayswant to shock the innocent young girls.

I’d attached myself to his group a half-hour after arriving.I hadn’t even needed to lean into the part.Mr Taylor had made all the assumptions he wanted to about me instantly.Obviously, the barrister who introduced me to him had no idea that I’d given him a false name and occupation.People at these parties work on the assumption that you’ll exaggerate your achievements a little, not flat-out lie.So it didn’t matter that I knewnoneof the people they were talking about and had never drunk the wines they were into.I just laughed along and let them assume.

Anyway.I was there pumping Mark Taylor for information, and at some point during the rounds I was introduced to a young woman named Cordelia Wynn.She stood out, because she was younger than everyone else there.She’d clearly come with her intimidating mother, who I was also fleetingly introduced to.Cordelia also looked uncomfortable.I could see her shifting and grimacing while Mr Taylor boasted about all the borderline inappropriate things he’d done as a judge.

Sadly, the inappropriate things were what I was here for.I’dhad the nod from a defence barrister that Taylor was known to manipulate juries, and here he was, admitting to it.My microphone was recording every word from inside my clutch bag, and all I needed now were the specifics.

As Cordelia eventually looked nauseous and left, Mark Taylor began to explain in glorious detail how he’d helped a jury to make thecorrectdecision about a defendant who was, and I quote, ‘the scum of the earth’.It was job done for me, and given I was by then sick of trying to pretend I didn’t find the Rt Hon.Mark Taylor repulsive, I pulled my bag onto my shoulder and started to look for my exit.

Mr Taylor seemed to pick up on the signal.He leaned flesh-crawlingly close to me and murmured that we should go to his hotel.This despite his status as a very much married man who boasted online that he put family life above everything.One hundred per cent the cliché.

I told him I was going to find the bathroom, and squeezed between a group of financiers and a statue of a man clubbing another one to death (nice touch).I was within sight of the door, and out of view of the sleazy judge.

But just as I was almost home and free someone touched my arm and said, ‘Sorry, could I– could we talk?’

It wasn’t really surprising that it was Cordelia.For one thing, there weren’t a whole lot of people at that party who would have asked anything hesitantly.For another, there had been an aura of desperation to talk about something coming off her.

What was a little surprising, up close, was how fierce she looked.It was one of those expressions that twanged hard at my instincts for something that needed telling, but also made me feel immediately guilty.At a guess, Cordelia wanted to tell me about a miscarriage of justice.Something she thought a human rights lawyer could help her with.

I think, you know, there might have been other people I wouldhave happily lied to in those circumstances.At least initially.

I’m out to be honest here, Reid, so this is the no-bullshit account of my actions.I’m not going to try to pretend I wasn’t tempted to go along with it to get the story out of her and worry about the truth later.After all, telling her the truth risked blowing my cover and possibly getting me lynched before I could get out.

But I’d seen Cordelia’s face when Mark Taylor was talking.She was a young woman with morals.And I didn’t want to let her down.

‘I’d like to help you,’ I said, as quietly as I could.‘But before you say anything else to me, I need you to know that I’m an undercover journalist and not a lawyer.I deal in injustices, too, but not in the way you might be needing.’

Cordelia blinked at me, something hardening slightly in her eyes.And then she nodded at me, slowly.

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