looked out across the river. She hadn’t thought to draw the curtains the previous night and the whole panorama of London was spread out in front of her in the sullen grey of a Monday morning, the dome of St Paul’s cathedral piercing the sky just to the north east. The river, greyest of all, shone like dull silk under the twinkle of a million lights from cranes, office buildings and vehicles. Although no sound penetrated the triple glazing up here, Lizzie knew she only needed to open the door and step onto the balcony to hear the roar of the city, to smell it and taste it. London was feral and she loved that about it. It helped her feel alive.
The TV remote was lying on the table by the window, next to her computer tablet. Lizzie felt her palms itch with the urge to pick up one or both. She wondered what people were saying about her this morning. None of it could be good, she was sure of that. The compulsion to read the whole, horrible, sickening onslaught of comment felt almost too strong to resist. She didn’t know why she would want to torture herself with it knowing it would make her feel worse than she already did. For some reason she had become almost as much of a focus for public disapproval as Dudley had in the wake of Amelia’s death. People were so fickle. She’d gone from being the sweetheart of children’s TV to being a pariah.
When she gave in to temptation, opened her tablet and clicked on the news app, it was even worse than she had imagined. The story of Amelia’s death and the fact that she and Dudley had been questioned by police led many of the reports. Rumours and conspiracy theories appeared to be rife, suggestions that Amelia had been pushed down the stairs, reports that witnesses had seen someone lurking around the house that afternoon. It was all very sensational and Dudley seemed to be making matters a great deal worse for himself, protesting his innocence of any crime, giving interviews, sounding like an aggrieved child.
Lizzie put the tablet down and turned away from the window. She had rehearsals for Stars of the Dance that morning. The show was going ahead and Lizzie was determined to be there. She was a professional and it was work, whatever Bill’s advice. A car was coming for her at ten. She felt a pang of nerves at the thought of facing everyone. Not that it mattered; she had a horrible feeling that when the time came for the public vote, she would be sent home from the show. The cutesy little dance routines that had played up her fun and wholesome image suddenly seemed to jar horribly with the reality of Amelia’s death.
The shower was hot, refreshing, and yet Lizzie’s mind still felt fuzzy and disconnected in some way. The nightmare lingered, reminding her of Amelia and Dudley’s wedding and the sense of terror as the crystal smashed and she’d felt as though she was falling. Was that how Amelia had felt in those brief few seconds before she broke her neck? Cold sweat broke out over Lizzie’s body and she grabbed a towel and wrapped it tightly around her.
She gathered her stuff together automatically and shoved it into her bag. She needed something to help her focus this morning. She needed to ground herself. She glanced at the drawer in her bedside table but then she hesitated. When she had touched the perfume bottle two nights ago nothing had happened; she had been unable to connect to her mother’s memory or derive any comfort or reassurance from the link to the past. Suppose that happened again? She used her gift of psychometry so rarely. It was secret and precious. If she reached out and failed, she knew she would feel even more empty and alone than she did now.
She slid the drawer open. It was full of a mixture of lip salve, ear plugs, pens, crumpled tissues, a writing pad, headache pills… Her fingers touched a plastic wrapper and she pulled it out from beneath the pile of litter, a programme for an iconic rock concert in the 1980s. Really she should treat it better, but she needed it near her when she slept and somehow it felt appropriate for one of the few mementoes her mother had left her to be tangled up with lipstick and tissues and powder.