Chapter 4: The Morning Jessamine Came to My Door
She arrived at eight forty-five the next morning, which told me she had planned the visit the night before.
Nobody arrives at eight forty-five by accident.
I heard the knock and looked through the side window before I opened the door.
Jessamine stood on my front step in a pale grey coat with her hair neat and her face arranged into something that was supposed to look like concern.
She was alone.
She had come without Emory, which was the second thing that told me this was planned.
I opened the door and said nothing.
"I think we should talk," she said.
"Come in, then."
She followed me to the kitchen.
I put the kettle on and stayed standing with my back to her.
"I'm not here to fight," she said behind me.
"I want to resolve this before it goes any further."
"Resolve what exactly?"
"What happened at the party." She pulled out a chair.
The sound of it scraping the floor was very deliberate.
"I know you're upset.
I understand you thought you saw something.
But I think if we're honest with each other—"
I turned around.
"You set your champagne glass down," I said.
"With one hand.
Then you looked across the room to make sure Verity was watching.
Then you pushed it."
She didn't flinch.
She held my gaze with an expression of gentle patience, like someone dealing with an elderly person who had confused a dream with a memory.
"I stumbled," she said.
"I'd had a little too much to drink and I lost my footing and I grabbed for the table."
"Simone has a video."
Something moved behind her eyes.
Gone in less than a second.
"A video of what?"
"Of exactly what I just described." I set both hands on the counter behind me.
"Your glass on the table.
You looking at Verity.
Your hands going flat against the fountain.
And your smile, Jessamine.
Two full seconds of it, before you remembered to look horrified."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms loosely in her lap, and the patient expression returned.
"Videos can be misread," she said.
"Angles can be misleading.
I've already spoken to a solicitor about what you did to me at that party, and the photograph that's been going around tells a much clearer story than whatever Simone thinks she filmed."
"You spoke to a solicitor."
"I did.
And unless you issue a formal, written apology to me by five o'clock today, I'll be making a formal complaint." She tilted her head slightly.
"I really don't want it to come to that.
That's why I'm here.
I want to settle this quietly."
"For Emory's sake."
"For everyone's sake."
I looked at her for a moment.
She looked back.
Her hands were relaxed in her lap, her coat straight, her breathing even.
She had done this kind of thing before — walked into a room expecting to leave with what she wanted.
"There's something I've been wondering," I said.
"What's that?"
"The restaurant on Whitmore Street.
The one with the corner booths near the back." I watched her face.
"Do you know it?"
A fraction of a pause.
Barely anything.
But there.
"I don't think so," she said.
"Why?"
"Just wondering." I turned back to the kettle.
"Tea?"
"No." The chair scraped again.
She was standing.
"I came here to offer you a way through this without it becoming ugly.
I hope you'll think carefully about that."
"I will," I said.
"Close the door on your way out."
She left.
I didn't move from the counter for a long time after her car pulled away.
My hands were steady.
That surprised me.
At sixty-nine, after a night with almost no sleep and a morning like that one, I had expected my hands to be shaking.
They weren't.
Because I had seen it — the pause when I mentioned the restaurant.
Not guilt exactly.
Not even fear.
Something more controlled than both.
The look of a person running very fast calculations behind very still eyes.
My phone rang.
Emory.
I answered it this time.
"She came to see you," he said.
Not a question.
"She did."
"She's trying to fix things, Mum.
She's trying to move forward."
"She gave me until five o'clock to apologize in writing or she files a complaint."
A beat of silence.
"She said she was going to offer you—"
"She offered me the chance to say I was wrong and she was not.
That isn't fixing things.
That's asking me to lie."
"Mum—"
"Did you watch the video again, Emory?"
Silence.
"Because I have.
Several times.
And I have a photograph as well now.
Taken three weeks before the party." I paused.
"Did Jessamine ever mention going to the restaurant on Whitmore Street?
Around the time Verity got engaged?"
His voice, when it came back, was slower.
"What photograph?"
"When you're ready to have a real conversation," I said, "call me back."
I hung up.
The kettle had boiled and gone cold without me noticing.
I put it on again and stood there waiting, thinking about the way Jessamine had said *I don't think so* — not *no*, not *never been there*, but *I don't think so* — and the way her hands had stayed perfectly still in her lap even as every calculation behind her eyes ran faster.
Whatever she was planning next, she hadn't finished planning it yet.
May you like
But she would.
And it would come before five o'clock.
